YOU’RE BEARING: 1619-2016
The concept of human races began during the Spanish Inquisition (around 1480)
—Eliza Sankar-Gorton, Huffington Post
What language are you now? Blood-fuck blanco-made
on the leaves, (brother was blood in the ears) blood
bitter crop, body-doubt, the poplar rain falling grape-grey
in this cricket-eating fury again, from someone else’s tantrum-madness, the limb
tree, berries rolling under the dining table, the untied city rope
hanging, scraping (I dragged myself from yard to yard) knee. Kneel, & elbow-
first on concrete, tire marks on the skin (they skin animals fur-first)
not mine, but however, mine: inherited & ashamed
& born ass-asleep white with itch root and rot, that (Men) will work to hate
each other a day in their hate toward someone they don’t know, having
their way beneath steeplechase hours, beneath breath to color
(sister slow asleep there) & in the leaves of these eaten crops
made all, of concrete body, little mouthfuls of south song, dead salt thrown overboard,
that by word origin, tongue out & heat-wasted, such sass, such now, such shame
rises in the outcrop god cotton mouth & sweat wheat life fire,
me-given against my will, blood genes apple-split in the subtitle in the peach head knot
of history, sick in the instrument stomach.
THE HAT WE CANNOT PUT ON IS FULL OF HONEY
After artist Ann Hamilton
She is trapped in the chair, her hands knitting amber
glue that is honey, that is primordial language trapped in the body
and in the felt hat in her lap. The body head is one wild sagebrush,
tumbleweed uprooted from its hillside desert floorboards
the father once hammered down. Down came the mother, unable to sleep.
In sleep, the fisticuffs’ minor scuffles and bee soufflés,
sex made for the music of spheres inside the chest won’t rest. The imprisoned
heart there yawns though it is never tired of this excess. Cast wax votive heads
are trapped in a glass attic vitrine there. The sleeping daughter
(where 3 carrier pigeons fly freely) comes to know her body, to
know the mother and father this way. With the hat,
she is word-trapped in the chair at a nosebleed height
and it is a private matter.
“I AM A TRANSPARENT CLOCK”
Ann Hamilton & Ann Lauterbach/ whitecloth
Double am, double Ann.
Before being banished. That
the rain sweeps past the face, sweeps and sweeps
the moving mica chipped table top of the ocean,
sweeps city landscape scaffolding like whale ribs.
This liver’s labor clocks out every day past midnight. One
pore, one freckle begins the counting down, all follicles following close
behind. Face (time-phrase)
it: The room’s historical accident has it
in for us, a time-slot circumference bringing you back
in the room, as far back as where
you have already rehearsed the story.
You can tell:
Insects tick and birds drop from the mouth,
a language of getting there. All Time
is nothing you can say to yourself alone in the will of the rain
repeated … Each drop, a thrown mirror, above the head keeping time.
There’s this premonition of too many people
sitting, a gun
pressed to the ear. Hear it?
One blue bicycle bell rings and rings under the bed
I’ve always wanted to know if I could make/ love to a boy I’ve always known was a woman.
of overnight windows peeled from paper trees, father’s models’ bodies undressed
and charcoal-cornered. Can you see me riding an Indian horse saddle seat, desert-out,
with only oranges to eat, their white waxed DDT skin flakes shining like so many dead
fish scales from my fingers, all caught fish bodies left market home on ice or on the street
against their own dusk stink? See this body float
twenty feet off the ground, middle passage film blood running through both boy and girl,
playing lover to myself and so sex-like unsafe: that dream-first ransom in wrist,
the thigh, ankle
and neck-place, open mouth to kiss, pink water toy of the voice silenced high above
brush-line,—my body, the body
rising in void’s tin can gravity, paint bleeding its tooth sand from caul ocean, child from adult
and reversed, perfect idiomatic, always in the known and known, cat piss from moan, each
dust-green cactus curt below, the far-off smell of fresh blue paint and the careless exhale
of waves as they ravage themselves.