Nate Pritts

             This consciousness I inhabit
is not a sentence I can write
             no way to replicate this activity
             the various intuitive processes
that define me and conspire
to fill out my frame
all of it     unfolding in layers
             flashes of a momentary face
                          that are not traceable
using whatever array
             are not locations or a hierarchy
of intellectual certainty
             not an intentional motion
but is the residue of a field
that I am
                open to     the moment itself
an opening.
                          I am my disposition
fueled by the experiences I retain
             and those I do not
in equal measure
             am a measure 
                                       of interaction
a shaping        an inclination
slanting toward a perfect insurrection
                                       an uprising
projected from the interior
of the apparatus I have assembled
which is the support structure
for my continuance
                          as a site of apprehension
and is also the consequence of it
             the predictable outcome
of unpredictable methodology.
There is a room at the center of my silence
             a necessary shelter.
I go into it
and eat up all the words that follow me down
                          every sound
until it is deep night all around
             a darkness so bright
the way evening makes us feel the fading light.
The entire system trends toward failure
             a series of flaws
fractured elements that fracture further
             a codestring
that         again and again
returns a field of errors.
             The substance of my soul 
is not something I can say
                                       in language
though it is a tool
is one operational aesthetic
             a spire erected on the plains of a desolate planet
             drawing others to it
so as to encourage sharing
our inarticulate catastrophe mechanisms
                                                    an organic bloom
placed indiscriminately
within vehicles that degrade
             moment by moment
a rose in the chest    an endless unfolding
which fades as we hold it.
My thinking about the dawn
fades to nothing.
My individual memories
disappear        are gone.
It is only a stream
                          a constant burn
that sears a flare across the retina of the heart
             deep visual stain
the emotional optics of our progression
through a torrent of experience
             of leavings and loss
             of what we choose to build ourselves out of
                          and what chooses us despite our efforts 
the result of productive accidents.
I imagine myself accelerated
beyond this talking and beyond
             the violence of intention
toward some bliss
                          an opening of perception.
I am not myself in this private space
but am instead a swell of chaos
because there is no name for this location
which is everything to me
             and useless against the brutal weather.
But art is the ground you find
                          the place you stand
when you come back and spread
your radiant infective protocols.
I am a terminal grasping posture
in love with this human project
             and all the people I see
                                       the ten thousand things
                          everything you can point to
and the connections between them all 
the patterns of rhythmic thinking 
                          and perception
barreling ahead of our simple animal living
and animal death.
I am invested in this landscape
its continuance
                          my invisible nature
so as to ensure persistence
a more durable harmonics.
The brain wants to populate the poetry
with specific images
moments from time 
or the physical renderings of spiritual energy
but this poetry won’t let the intellect in
wants to remain a dialogue
                                       with the invisible
             a call
one powerful and concussive utterance
since we are already too infested
with the visible
             are overcome with objects
which are themselves a distraction
             are powerful only in their fading
There is no name for what we hear:
a cluster of stems held tight
by the neck of the vase
which prevents them from descending
into the water contained out of reach.