from Ghost of Intention

I am the stone that kills me
–Kamau Braithwaite

Say there is money but it rusted
–Lorine Niedecker

II.

Susan Howe says
it is from
enclosure that American history
emerges —        then, too
from silence of the border
itself — mutation of the land and
scars upon
it. The bondsman — helial
within the
seismic mediate — the dark
shivered to know the text as hanging
matter, loose and between
the effluorescent missive
The captivity narrative
extends in heresy to
our present
the unfolding of
a deferrent chimera.

Let the names pronounced
by the uncovered datum
be contingent on the idol’s
absented mould,
thirst will emerge
as a means of
deposition. Thirst is
as heresy – by means
banishment and
enclosure – means by which we are built –
by which the historical self
individuates its paraoblic other, from
whence deviance – as one walks the
negotiated first in termed
the pinhole of
mind reveals its
vomitoria.
At the edge of
medieval German
towns, the Ravens Rock
where the border
inscribed
the executed, blood bespoke the
stones – what the executed
by means communicant
dissolved – this border as per
the othered means of — where road stretches
first, there one finds the horror
of body
There arise
examinations of
lymph and blood,
mimetic finitude though
it be but in the
splitting of the body
to rend forth
where the solitary, confined of
desire sallies
to know what voices
to hitch the ear to a whipping
post and force
reflection upon the cruel
and handed

watching: suicide
and implosion,
impulse and
diffuse
consent — permission is, first,
of the body.

Examined of what a
democracy – become as such
is or may be, the road
dissolves. Circulation is become
confession and the birds
pick clean our bones.

 

Where I am, to say with it
uncovered as o’erthrown
I am all o’erthrown
then, eyed by
the intellection of rain
It is a presentiment, place that
hung        within the ground
uncovers itself
stems
to pull from the sensate
drift / of legs
the musculature un
differentiated and indetermined
parsing
what blows there are / in this life
what blows, what islands, furred in copper

joy in
its time of
acknowledgement and nothing more
imagines itself
against the lid
what eye of        comes
into the room
astream in
solicitude– of –
what but finality whereby learned
to speak so        we are      to
uncovering
In-where to – notates
That there is a horror of folding
of what blows there are
in stems and streams
what joy there is in that
its time of
voice
is cloven silence

In time sew          and          sewn
first the center whereby
to migrate
And in time
sew          in sewn to cross and fissure          watching the
pale armature fold
and pale, breakagainst the plastic
dissolution of the orgy
There is night and there is dawn
gulls, stretched open by our hands
peel – do so, active         out of the wheel
turn
back the feather along a strand of breath
There is night and there is dawn
What blows there are in this life                in time, sewn

Dampened — twice
lit into and by
bone        or, what placed
the lymph
conversant – to a tale twice
told

lymph and

spiders over the water
hands
touched upon
machinery

Here is a cage, for
the opulent

damp and clinging
to night
where
I am the
stone that kills me
for whom
hunger abates a
week,
deracinated
imposed out of threat
of millinarian fistula

The sun, itself and its
shadow, its notation and its
health – what matter
it is that breathes
what stone
that speaks
reflecting the
cylindrical earth in its tide
The page become a brighter
animal —cured or cored— the light
harnessed to
broken, leased and lessened,

that one cannot describe the
finite relation
disintegrated

the morpheme and
rib

I am the stone that
Kills me
Come upon in the mountains
Come upon out of the death and dearth
of
Melville’s notation
in Luke, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem
which killest the prophets, and
stonest them that are sent unto
thee; how often would I have gathered thy children together
as a hen doth gather her brood
under her wings, and ye would
not!
Behold your house is left
unto you desolate

 

Death comes upon the land slowly,

resurrected          as within coinage

inbred   in copper and
time
a world burns
against its hemispheric other
churning in the glass of
possibility
the wheat of its belching

sex
Reduced to
the field
where come upon

I am
the stone that kills
me

I, least of all,
I, most, glassine

but
by
the populated
hand

III.

Here and there

I have stripped off the sense of the whole

 

The film, which has dispensed with
itself      likewise, as to the sense of the word
Is taken up again, stopped abruptly
and taken up once more
whatever path rounds the water to its
hiding place is in the
garden rent and pushed
into approbrium

Would that I would die checking
for clinical errors
Sepsus of inscription
having taken
on a more          cohesive
narrative             and become
treated as above the
mind for darkness
canceling notation
in among pastries and fortitude

Would that the site          had become
evidentiary           and the language that stood
covered with the periodic
emblem of its hand

I keep watering the tree in hopes of its
revival

Though the question
begs
Are we listening
because of his
presence
or for
the imminent note of
violence? Do I want to know what’s
in this box?
if we may
conjecture,
longing to bask
in good breeding
asleep beneath
the successive anonymity of
his
beloved poodles
Moreso, in whatever moment it is the
scene dissolved
from within
and all crackling furniture
laid bare

I wish I could say, as
earlier that such
historiography    in its ambiguity
covers the tracks of
condescension to the
coherence of a dialectical space of
meretricious pululation
Or, that line breaks
bear a mark
of morality outside
a circumscribed quietude. I, too,
long for
its ambiguity and openness
to posit the purity of the neophyte
bootlicking over the bookended
pus of the book, so wounded and
mined

It follows that coherence’s
falsity predicates
the mere possibility that a
secondary atrophy of language
conversely posits
a designation of activity
and terror.
It is, therefore
even when broken
or, in disrepair more than
having ruptured or cracked
— it is, rather, that activity is
terror
and leads us forward
into itself by means
those of Bergman’s magician
By means salvo and withdrawal
By means screened within the
eye, roving and falling
against the discord of the act.
Thus, when the cat pisses in the flowerpot
a notational disjunction
predicated on the limbs of those
past or to pass from so to
say there is money but it
rusted – say:
merit in abstraction or
condensation
of image around the chronotope
nursing it back to health
slowly, establishing spur
highways off the newly
forged interstates
notated in a means of directive
running a slow snake of light
through the mountains –
thus, when the cat pisses
in the flowerpot
in its circularity
and absolution
it is done, now—done to death.
One might, then, say, well,
at first it was
though, eventually
a prosody of change was
assumed in the underbrush
discordant and multiplied by
the predictability of it all:
a vague apprehension of character
a tug at a belt or
a cock squirreled away in
the pristine boredom
of formalist application

This, too, is the prosody
of suffering
language of its
disparate other