3:
A hole in the sky
is what it looks like. Something that will be replaced
by color, which is a kind of false answer,
and yet the only real truth
in this world. The only “real truth”
by which I mean
forgiving. Fog is made virtually
by light, like all
existence. Except what owes life
to what is without.
Deep
and ancient shrimps.
Vacuums. Wormholes to travel
Jodie Foster. Other bricks
of night. In the hour of my birth, each minute is its own dead moon,
rebirthing time in a loop of moon,
which is no loop.
You want to lecture an hour? to know form
and color in the chasm
of art history? within which
there are negated histories and too many arts.
Dreams have been lost
over lesser legal battles; battles
shatter. Here is my world
beyond
your legalities. How terrible for you
to learn of freedom
in my eyes, and be without it. You must
try to crush me.
I: born
when the moon was night. Was
at its apex of invisibility, its nightest. You
tried, pretended to. I believed,
I thought.
2:
A hole in the sky is always
real, always
really there. You buy a cement plant
to prove you are beyond artistry, and I walk naked into the sea
like a ridiculous polarization
of your significance.
Like I’m remembering myself as a character
who dressed up as Nicole
when she nosed up as
Virginia. Then I distress my skin.
As though that scene could still be seen,
extending my body to a travel
unmade mine—
as though I’m trying on a
filmic presentation of myself as dead
data—a romance unto myself
in my beyond-earth, Act 2
body.
Better to say:
I wanted to go and I did,
where no cameras could take me
or follow. You drove to punk shows
in green bogs. I surfaced in the piney brown
jewels of sap
alone in my wealth for
bottomless years:
a meadow.
1:
A hole in the sky is a real problem.
We get to a stage of life where we think
of procreation; “Biology wins again,”
says a friend,
when he is married; the birds on the river we grew up on
already the descendants
of the birds we saw when we were young.
We were young!
or still nothing. I tell a friend
this story:
2 animals were witnessed
by themselves, were walked a long time by air that slept
in worlds beyond
“the long ago;”
and nothing happens but something changes
forever; and the story holds back
the hole, though the 2 have no longer even a question mark
between their armpits. Friendship
is not biology./ (Though) friendship decays,
. the memory of the walk longer
than the walk itself. And your knees,
who cares.
You forgot
your canined fingers and clawed teeth, though
you more or less still eat
that trouble. If you didn’t think of me,
I wouldn’t dream of you. Lucid, one asks
the other—
which who is a bird,
and what a cat:
A Cat: Get
gone. Asleep,
the other deforms
No
—We walked until
your knees, who cares,
in the beginning
of the war (before we knew
what war could be or that we had 1—
Before a loss of
us or
speciation.) Of
characters? who has
opinions.
The old sky bleeds into the new hole,
which you made. Or I made it,
who cares. Or it could be The Water who drowns us up
from the bottom, due to a reticent
performance, ours—
So we buy a houseboat, what
anyone would do—
the same one we had then, and built in secret
from the other,
which adds to our collections
of unwanted narratives, most volumes of which
have disappeared.
The only really crucial one exists
in the form of an aging creature,
its feline agency
swings
carnal in the dark,—
it is an animal who is the text.
—
(We feel a rope tug
our stupid bottomless
shared soul), who asks, What is
the silver cord between?
Someone
we’ve never heard of who is not even alive
keeps the book on the floor.
of the house
demolished, maybe not,
who cares.
You paint the houseboat yellow on your days off,
and your spouse feels/ Alarm:
a sense of unrealized
irrationality.
I paint it blue, all my days
are days on, where it blends into the water
and cannot be found.