Messenger by Simone White

BOMB 143 Spring 2018
Bomb #143

Discover MFA Programs in Art and Writing

all things are recapitulated in him, things in heaven and things on earth
—Ephesians 1:10

PREPARE no night creature accidental enemy 
encounters return to us in witch cradles, monsters by a hairsbreadth
these our works melted no accident these fires these crashes
capitulate to what is meant by the past as a whole
melt, fall back into accomplishment the grasp of who
prepares to give the message     


The SIDE is excruciating we find him there pained not knowing
and the curt blast come to him as aside, as from the original 
side ripped from the first man eaten by the merciless Blank
I find your cries ridiculous 
the SIDE is all magma it is where we are taken to get
what is coming


in the middle of our conversation the phone rang it was you from the other side I rang through it was you calling from the other side I staggered it was you laughing you were interrupting the progress of our conversation you were laughing there was thus no middle there was the connection which loomed in its oddness being duplicated in all the realities where it was taking place the laughter was warm it reminded me of body heat it was pure energy it was you from the other side ringing through it was you pressing your finger to the hollow of my throat


PROCESSING the summation of all things that transpire
all dust not equally black black rocks  
DIAMONDS whirling afloat synthy-lag
not the organic wave 
that is a thing to resemble absurdly taking the form of what it is not, for it
        is never the water
it is never the sound it is never the light


gruesome Nosferatu spreads its claw over the light, its spine curves
that wave, misshapen jealous curled Saturday
my synths, piteously, not yet messenger
these our works, “now” being merciless 
being crushed as a matter of criticism into nonspecific talk
of waves, the little irresponsible pedals


those snares when trap music got hot 
the illusion of bending the strings, or PROCESSING
at the site of the miraculous the idea was to rebuild that sound on 
the synths
to recapitulate the past happening inside the body of deliverance
pull the field into what’s still what suffers FUTURE arrivals 
This nowness I inhabit is a gift


I AM THE WOMAN OF YOUR FIRST MATURITY
it was a WOMAN it was a child with the sex of a man 
she spoke the words of the dead, gusts, her black lips closed 
he-I crouched: 
we cannot write. your night messages fucked me up 
you arrested discovery of any kind. your body’s nearness interrupts all dreaming


the woman was LOUD, she was impossible to hear without opening
the possibility of hearing at the event of its first uncurling
in the clenched ear of a wet newborn, the form that
instructs us in hearing’s plasticity, sculptural
ear of time, its, her, the WOMAN’s voice
broke over the figure(s), she kept repeating I AM


I AM THE WOMAN
to the figures differentiating digitally in the dark of her making
at once PROJECTIONS of the arch-joke of human dwelling together 
in this nothing and PROVOCATIONS, the messenger seethed,
ARTLESS 
SERVANT of this place


ευαγγελος addresses the mother with no mate the mother who panics the mother who watches the others with dread and wonder the careless pleasure of other mothers in the presence of their children the hours spent in fear the isolation of motherhood the metempsychotic deprivation of sleep nothing you have is yours not even deposits of fat you are the nothing toward which the man nods in acknowledgment of your motherhood which is grand which is prostration which is the deactivation of all known powers which is the evacuation of power your share in the speechless condition of your baby speech rushes you freeze in the weakness of joint potentiality you cannot share yet you share you have no faith yet you must have faith this is a test this is not a test everything that was has been evacuated in your arms someone has fainted someone’s got a mote in her eye someone is pricked by ευαγγελος, hunter  


we cannot write if time stops
all the industrial deviltry
clockwork such as normal
proves nothing 
BARBARIANS 
curatorial possibilities involving depth involving
cutting tools the mighty, 
magic, death’s opposite these our losses
flashing intimately courtside
wealth and black excellence taking place
as a magnitude of economic pornography
ceaseless negro apocalypse
it never comes


yet the despicable enjoy a beautiful invisibility
what rains upon them, dollar bills, shit on tiny wings
her callipygian behind a new economic
edifice
secure in            secure in its statement of miniaturized
state logics


OPEN YOUR MOUTH
whose mother are you, get out of here
the men, the men cannot write
you are not a man
you have never been anything but
this image of the end not the end
there are no saints
there is between us
whisper, night, hunger, indeterminacy
monies
scratch it down I COMMAND you
be or come or don’t


RESIST if you want 
the absolute indeterminacy between inside and outside
LOATHING both earth and sky and everybody else 
getting in on it
this is not your first time
said the WOMAN the light


tread of masculine youth, glide upon his skateboard
a complex organization
threatening to lift itself so, outside physics
dismount the thing 
wielding it in one hand like a weapon 
everybody get in on it 


no, just me, it’s me who wants in on it


not the first time between your selves, down there
imagine, next,
alongside his joy 
[how to listen to the body of a black man 
in flight] he is always
about to knock somebody out


the joy between yourselves [flight, Michael, several decades,
converge with the value of having no body fat]
I, too, have wanted this power
said, the WOMAN,
I, too, invent the mercies of being within and without
the Mahgreb, the Carolinas and the West Coast


PROCESSING, our works 
being births
inseparable from 
desire 
for him
love has no reason


she, I, now
was on her back, she was counting
a penetrating numerical hum through her 
all these churches, sacred music 
was the condition of possibility for sacred music
imagine what was now possible


this with a half-smile, the half-smile of a woman
who commands the silent rock

Simone White’s Dear Angel of Death is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse. She is also the author of House of Envy of All the World, Of Being Dispersed, as well as the chapbooks Unrest and Dolly (with Kim Thomas). Her poetry and prose have been featured in the New York Times, Harper’s, Chicago Review, and Harriet. In 2017, she received the Whiting Award for poetry.

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BOMB 143, Spring 2018

Featuring interviews with LaToya Ruby Frazier and Fred Moten, Sergio De La Pava, Nina Hoss, Barbara Hammer, Joseph Keckler, Lydia Ourahmane, Kaneza Schaal, Hank Willis Thomas and Kambui Olujimi, and Summer Wheat.

Read the issue
Bomb #143