roundabout

-->

Is poetry also

like young babies and regressed patients

preverbal?

There are mix-ups

like subject matters

about which externality

and internality

cannot be decided

Is it called white privilege

these clean sheets:

|a horrid empty space|?

|a friendly expanse|?

|harmonious mix-up|?

Your white is not my white

pro/intro-jection is its mechanism

seeming already to decide

about privilege it has nothing to say

about race

projection of bad | object

introjection of good | subject

these aggressive renderings

sub/ob-ject leave

no space

for mix-ups

and silence becomes something to

include in conversations

it’s not enough to want to talk

about race

that’s what

being

preverbal means

not enough to want

to talk

enough to want

want

you were a lithe wingless bird,
and beloved, it's been three years of
unincorporated tundra
on the streets Sunset
always littered with
people pushing carts
and strollers. It was
not short of business
either and things were
worn on sleeves
so that's a loss
here there's
far fewer objects
for the psyche to sit in
and the violet skies have blown off

lately everything about the business of life
and life has the feeling of having
already happened to some not me
and the feeling that everything has
changed is the feeling
of wanting something else and everywhere
this is but in me

 8.

the line
a measure of
the distance from A
point zero
B is
the ontological divide
branches cross |volutions| of sky
blech blech blech blech blech blech
take (the absolute value
of) that
revolution, white noise

7.

why, Leben? And after that,
it snowed
translucent middle night
the margins of the page
absorb color,
icicle snow | fantasize that
clarity

it's the construction of the battlefield,
too | in all the elsewhere
guilt, the palpable emotion

the child |is| the revolutionary spectator
above all, this is what
being |a parent|
implies, and yet, we close it off
there are "real, active men" out there
setting out

lost in all the drifts

6.

what a |lovely| day
the spring
already up
with sun
the outside
world again
--you have a fantasay
that you have
a job--so robbing,
again
polarized,
the indigo bunting
migrates by night.
this is enough.

5.

the glance backwards
within is read
as unbecoming
look down, to look up
I wouldn't say otherwise
but it's forgotten, forgone,
becomes depressed, sunk
returns as
coin|cidence

4.

sucking is infantile
pleasure and aggression
the primordial all in one
in the figure of
the child

3.

before depletion
when the fibers were more luminous
fantasy of maternal imaginary
the oceanic, of plethora
the thinness now
not wear

2.

The world spools around us,
this enclosure, wringing out
incessant clicking around
filtering, the new
mechanism for administration--
but how to enclose the content
of the world? It's not the
word's inadequacy, but
marginalia--

1.

Imagination monsters in
the end also incognito
it's far easier to draw
the beginning, blackness--
the zero force out of which

but it's not that darkness
that stills, of necessity--

and speaks of loss
tiny and circumspect,
small harbor
indigo drift.