Max Reyher. Nirwana, 1928. Oil on wood.
for Robert Kelly
1961 . Malcolm X on TV but he looks hungry .
signal fades . angles project a head to
watch it snow thick analog fuzz over
let my arm forget let me be all the people
in this city
the faucet’s running
language vibrate off into permanent
luminous pools .
walls of VHS wobble rise up .
a voice bleeds from a sequence of rectangular
lights that impersonates a tree .
it is our
pleasure to serve you .
it is already late
our sense of what is happening absconds
embarrassed at not
at naming our parents
after the little house on that mountain
the music stops .
a rock falls
from the sky and we just go crazy
for it .
faces coalescing from the high-speed
ambient flicker of medium grid and dissipating
back into it
which the city does, too
arriving as brief rushes of language
& then cubing back off into
& as for the ones who
brought us here
let knives tear their
let it rot
the mouths of
while speech, depolarized
as a matter of sovereignty
against the contours of absence
“oxen wild like bellowed land”
after most things have happened, Chaon appears.
he’s filth, a mishmash theophage guzzling chaos
out of the city, draining it to linearity. doors become
invisible, alphabets realign their orders under the
meshes of our speech. I will mutely scowl says the sun.
I will turn the Chrysler Building inside out.
he drank so much chaos they called him Chaon,
of course. he took all but two of every household
(as though walls even existed, or remembered light)
and lived in the sky with them. open air pivoting,
invisible embouchure into a body of contradictions.
or into nobody if that’s who we are. I was righteous
out of my age, says Chaon. I soldered together
the seams of the sky, I blew breath into the city’s
gridded syntax. weeks without rain. flesh in no
number. recombinant grammars flash in the
skyline. the doorway. a language all breath
conspires in. bandwidths enlacing to form noise.
“dug they as fast as”
the city destroyed in a starfall of multiplicities.
we speak without lips. we count spheres of
pale blue light that float up over the ruins. number
sufficient fix indecipherable afterbirth. cubes
invert and all that is solid. boil absence and see
if it melts. let’s dig into the ground a mold of
everything we remember since it was never here
anyway, found abyss, each thing speaking
in the voice of another. and then the tape flakes.
memory’s surfaces craze. we reach our arms
into an indescribably blank space that seems
to go on forever. the city was what lived and so
we’d built a tower to dream we had bodies there.
now we aggregate in the combinatorial negation
where a park used to be. inchoate usses float
down the index. a mouth we can share. our
chances suffuse a surging amalgam light as
iridescent grammars cycle down to a unison.
modus & aroma
“children his of fate the father”
we breathe to abide the implausibility of matter .
a desert beach blooms into a frost made of salt .
our participation in particles . no promises but .
time is what meaning is made of and knows it ,
in its climates
what now ? lightbulbs weep
over this landscape . all are uplifted .
sake therefore place . the cone of
potentialities widening over bare red cliffs .
the land has unseen daughters here , they
comb the valley’s mind
and hide pockets
of breath in the stone .
then a change .
the kind of equilibrium solidity is , or
persevering memory , enacting itself as
the weather . the desert opens . beaches
soften and lines of semantic connection
grow elastic and torque themselves around
little suburban houses that spring up overnight .
time passes and architecture cycles endlessly .
in the static that resists all perception , a little
red light flickers
and besides we still have the breath
turning to salt in our mouths , lyric chimneys ,
a past that melts the minute it sees us