I
THE YOKE

Days of
Repetitions
New earnings
And divisions.

The cut in the continuum.
The word I will keep writing,

Peeked pink lesion,
howling out smooth
Phrases from five or seven years ago
Upright falter round,
drowning in the margin,
Spit delicate foam,
self-crystallizing nonsense.
From all sides, bending.
A plasticizing surgery.

The forms close their weeping shapes.

II
THE FIRE

Positioning herself as authority.
Lightening bolts course
through the burrow's caving walls.
A blanking out of the signifying objects.

Smiling, like that'd make me eat it.

Spending as catharsis
reads a fine line squinting.
Axes shattering sheets of slate;
Hot tears, tufts, then cooling.
We conceal the impotence
of words yellow squirming;

One sight inflicts a rupture,
It tears jagged through the hard brow.
Slices thrashed steaming in the dark.

The wait.

Waking stripped in the revelation,
our bones cooked rare under new skin.
The white morning brightly quiet,
the plaster tunnels recast as tombs.

The exactness of the fissure compounding.

I am recording.

Reading your actions aloud.

III
SOCIALIZING ON SLANTED ROOFTOPS

Attention pulls on different heads.
The deaf resistance is screaming.
Short tales in full pails of rainwater,
Collected from the smooth tarred rooftops.
Too many double-crossed t's,
Mist off the distorted skyline.
The foretelling tracks backwards,
Drawn in this state of exile's mainstay.
Zipping eyeballs bear weighting,
Dawn like sharp teeth.
Shattered in a delirium burnt beauty,
Of giving order over to hoarding
Or the wanton expulsion of objects.
I call, call out, recall catastrophe.
These pasts yoked resonance round our necks,
I listen:
The acute strike of one wobbling thread
slips beneath the sheets.

Efficiency and neurosis intertwine their fingers around the shovel.

IV
THE STAGE

In constant flux.
In public space.
The cameraman is looking through the lens.
He is being watched by the passersby.
A testament to the time between takes.
The taking is highlighted.

Potential, beginning, cut short, or realization.

In constant flux.
In public space.
The cameraman is looking through the lens.
He is being watched by the passersby.
A testament to the time between takes.
The taking is highlighted.

Potential, beginning, cut short, or realization.

In constant flux.
In public space.
A testament to the time between takes.
The taking is highlighted.

Potential, beginning, cut short, or realization.

V
STACKING

The braggadocio fixed mortality.
One sits and watches the words
Chip forging into consciousness,
Through repetition,
He fixes his actions
with an epoxy dam to the frontal lobe,
He sees that:
These attentions must not be forgotten.
That the joy be thrust down,
And the suffering take precedence.
All of the dissonance falls off in pretense.
For language must be disused and disserviced
By its attempt at folding the content.

The heart races,
A cavity circumvent to eyes.
Locked down sentimental,
We push on as resentment ties
Our arms up in cold holes
Bore through the ever slipping time.
I tried to study your movements,
To map the footing of your flight.
What less does it mean
how far we have gleamed?

The surface is still horizontal,
our bodies yet squeezed.
Contorted assumptions the vision still sees.

VI
ROUTINE

What happens to our remains here?
Laboring on iron sheets.
The no is in knowing.
The processes worth unfolding.
Their infinite gazing perplexes the stutters.

Pressed to the ceiling.
Lie listless.
I half-listen.
Disoriented by my sudden interest.
To be looking.
Straight forward.
To speak.
Forwardly.
To act.
Straight.
Open to the point I was making.
Your head was elsewhere.

When you speak.
I half-listen.
Lie listless.
Disoriented by my sudden disinterest.

VII
SLIPPING AND SOLID STATES

He laughs, she fades,
the flames hold sway
Roll lines of ash across red legs.
In eyelids draped in spring's warm dew,
The hulk of arms lain half askew.
They keep together to keep the time.
Rubbing fingers and stones
to slippery the mind.
To rushings and standstills
And states I can't get through.

The next desire is lapping.
Already up, the charred heels.
Recurring currents coax admissions
Body is led, a diverging arched slurry.

VIII
PROLOGUE

The vanity of words,
high strung in all the folds of their meanings.
We were paralyzed by the pull of determinacy, The self-distancing like speaking,
is already a hesitation.
I sit at this machine to recall the disorder I give shape to. I lace this trick skin backwards,
his voice is spoken through me,
The teenage grave digger I left suspended
inside that narrow trench,
The sky is breaking bodies whole,
and I remember now,
Just how one breathes through wet earth.