from: While Marie

Spoon it better out into this light. Large and then larger sounds. After aclumsy drink or two. Bellies and horns, Chinese deities filling up withanother ordinary language. Cannibal and yet highly self-awareprogenitors. Rear-ended, blind-sided, retrieved. And then swiftly de-sexed. What would I do otherwise? The fires are intermittent, at best.Something calmly erotic humming in the distance. Its relation to powerand my own unlimited paranoia is still to be determined. By the hand thatput something blue and raw up inside of me.When everything under the sun is unrecorded preexisting condition. Anexercise in walking straight down the middle of downtown Manhattanlooking for a completely different version of medieval Spanish history.Without which, I would be the same person I am today. So manyrectangles. Violet sun on my face. This is the fallen shape of linguisticintention. Where the weather's perfect, coffee's weak, but the mouth dryas a doorframe. And the man who whispers to you from the other side ofthe sauna. Girls who covet hanging around steel-reinforced walls. Whengiven the choice, I'll take the pile of discarded sheets. The sexual leisureof spinal column. Your jars of salmon fat and brisket. Come early. Rubsome of whatever just came out of you on the taffeta underside of myhideous dress. Trap the lyric in a glass tube. Hold it up. Know theplushness of fluorescence.But not quite. That's only prelude to thetemperature of the thing. Left enormously unsung. An unfolding drama offield horse and cologne. I want to beg you for it but they won't let me.They've given me this cellophane instead. Three horse heads on a fineporcelain plate. My brilliant mirror. Tell me, how long, exactly, will I feelthis way? As is the case with all strictly hellenized land acts. Speech acts.Cabaret acts. Unpleasant acts. Memory acts. Fungal acts. Child brideacts. Dental acts. Subprime acts. Delusional acts. Penile acts. Forgivenacts. Spatial acts. Of which there are always far too many doilies andother missing rubber hoses. Maxi pad gone seriously blue and sour. Iwant its memory and all of its faux sexual consent. I want its misguidedgender arguments and hot glue gun stash. Don't swim past it. I'm soaesthetic. I pay for everything in cash. A classic Proto Indo-European/OPEC state of mind. Five or six anchovies left on his plate.Cell phone a brand-new shade of turpentine pink. Into myself dissected.Bronzed. Refrigerated. I'll be waiting on the far side of your propertyline. Calling out in the last working language we share. The recordingwill continue. So be a dear and turn the sound up.These once and particular growing seasons I'm inventing a new systemof day commerce. Drainage tubes and low-level fussing. Of which thereare so many nonsexual opposites. Eating in the cafeteria. Trouble breast-feeding. Fuzz. Every concept is washed until song. It's the thin meat ofhistory she wants. Which some big-bellied animals are able to doeffortlessly.A man goes to sleep and dreams of flood lights, the one true and purereligion, projected population growth in the Suez. What his train ticketreveals is that his lover is in the kitchen. Meeting the last linguisticmilestone. He wants to appeal. She wants a better mechanics ofsound. Pockmarked or otherwise. Staring up inside the vaginal canal.Noticing her slightly tremoring hands. Hunger as dominance. I could say,take the A-train, but then what would come of the goats up on themountain, the ones who still refused to be inseminated? Drank himselfpolysyllabic. If there were a cure for go, go, gone, I would give you somebread. An anvil. An invitation to my aunt's wedding. And thisimpossibility of linguistic escape. It keeps me up at night. Makes mysmall craft hover. Just as the waves endlessly spoken. Golden ticket.Golden roster. Golden rod. Out of fear he forgets the sound of eachfootstep. And since one minute of sighing is the most sexual of animals.Part smokescreen. Part hummingbird. Part talcum powder dream. Lift meup into my miles of days. For each month, another trapdoor, for eachyear, another empty bed the sad novelist has to describe. And then thecamera stops. On the knees of a woman who has stopped for a coffee.She doesn't speak the language. She's twenty or fifty years old. Onceagain, her check has bounced. Her white uniform is out to dry. Themessage carved on every stone in her collection. “Things get pretty clearwhen you have your hands in your pockets.” It's a drowning. Or it mightsimply be an indication of an unpredictable glowing. The morning of it. Iwant to eat it.You think of this person. He is your own. A yolk gently falling to thebottom of a bottle of scotch. Afterward or before you carry him in yourmouth for nine months. Gently. Godly. The cold rain meets all of yourexpectations.It leaks out all over your beautiful face. Scares the neighbors. Wants tomeet your daughter. It's made of netting and bronze and sea bream. Itssperm covers the entire building and the sky. Against my left leg. Up tothe rafters. Aroused as four starlings left behind in the nest. Two menwho fuck in an architecturally important building. Afterwards they willzip up their pants and drive out to the next county. Enter their best keylime pie for first prize. Today my goats hatched all over the sidewalk. Iam breastfeeding one of them as we speak.