Language is the first casualty
there is enough now to print a planet, it will share most aspects but not be subject to urge
do you speak language? He both writes the poem and dances
the kingfisher is an affront to concrete until the sky rolls away its blueprint
time, by which means we recall lost sentences, is narrated by the sun
remember your mother printing her lips on you
we are the language of instrumentality. The sand made us do it
the sun is necessary so we don’t see stars fucking
historicize the elements back into their sleeps
history, the loops of a signature in which are ideograms for each repercussion
derange the orange, the water whispering in the drain
stir the stars: our children are messages we can’t finish
each mouth adds a whole to the language. The moon will hide behind the museum
a mirror is stronger than a self, a poem is unprotected intercourse
let’s start building the planet under our feet
leave the weather out in the weather
knock through the party-wall to find a family. We do not recognize the faces but they are watching the same TV
arriving at work, the screen fills like a pool
the revolution has been capitalized
at the end of your street a door has your number, you push through and never cease to fall
you look down at your wrist to see that you are a field
in the musculature of a spider there is no room for expression
without the capacity to dream we settle into our cars and drive towards sleep
we are laid out like it was time to start eating except we are also the food
tap the sediments of the multitudes, harvest the organs of the predeceased
a single blackbird transmits the scrupulous unscrewing of the moon
the car alarms are calm tonight, a puddle on the path is a window to different worlds
those thoughts watch out! or they will never be recovered
the traffic accelerates the evening’s dream, take me to the cemetery which contains James Joyce
driven by sleep, clouds stagnate the stars
you contain many rivers, not all of them named
there is a train waiting at a station that bears your name
against the newspaper army, its columns
the stars function in a way similar to advertisements
the history of forgetting includes a footnote on how things stand at this instant
God lifted his face from the mirror. The stars that were his eyes came loose
there are cities under the roots and mullions of earth, still to be opened
after my thoughts have made love to each other, sometimes there may be a poem
language would be incomprehensible if it could speak
time sounds like this, the severed tongue is severe
the words undid and came out as if language clumps and thickens here
as I have had occasion to note previously, my ears sing