kingsoftrain

when people see what you have been hallucinating, and say so, well, thanks to Jacques Andervilliers for the below

“I seashell myself into the
Wreckage of the angel’s elbow.
Death’s memory and god’s memory
Are switched at birth. I lie to my
Mom. There’s a pill that makes me
Not take pills.” (Barton D. Smock).

The statement of any word is also a statement of its absence. We need a distance to see whatever the word signifies. This very distance is a separation. We associate it as proximity, but it is an original distance, a void. Even when we hug the beloved there is a distance.

Tautology: when one equals one. The levelling, the sometimes brutal sterility of that. It is what it is. There’s a pill to keep me from having to take a pill. The equivalence of pill and pill.

The pill as part of the materialist breakdown of the body. The new age psychic body I suppose can do whatever it wants. But the physical body needs pills. With its valves and ducts it’s partly like an SUV that needs parts. With its ultimate fatality it is the site where death trespasses, either now or in the future, which is transported back to the now through prophecy and foresight and prediction and threat recognition just as much as death is transported by memory to the present from the past.

Death’s memory. Death as a word. The word is already a stigma. It’s already vaguely indecent, even to say it. So there is shame right next to it. Shame is a door to death. “I lie to my mom” as shame.

Although the original initial baby-dreams of seashells and angels are not quite extirpated, they are instantly countered, as if to balance things out, like the other side of a swing-set, by negatives, e.g., “wreckage” of the “elbow,” elbow being a non-idealized, non-fetishized feature.

Each statement is atemporal. Something about it wants to stop time, while another part wants time to be over with, while yet another part knows it is already over, this is already void.

But for better or for worse, the text is being written from the site of life, and it above all wants to be honest, even balefully so, and, lyric, at the same time. There is a torturous beauty growing through the concrete cracks.

shadow with its shadowless knife

A church a church can be in. A star your father hasn’t made it to. For my children who are not dying, I also have love. Singing is a skin that time uses to deepen god’s attendance to the toothache of a snake. Cry for your mother without it sounding like language.

Loneliness is the fast food of paradise. I’ve eaten snow to prove I have a car to policemen who piss themselves in church. In every iteration of my longing for immediacy, my son dies. Or is cared for by an eternal stranger. Water is made of the mourning that knows it can’t take bread anywhere. The day the writers left me in Ohio I was mid sentence mid sick son mid cigarette ( star 

to a ghost

) The blue remote oh hidden in the watching of its angel's waist-high mirror)

There are two ways to be invisible to god. 
Learn the second.

I died
in a dream
but was injured
here

Right
now

Pain measures distance by the closeness you alienate

A rabbit with a bloody nose nudges in a weak world a cross to surrender its math to the slack call of collapse. My brothers paint my body in a dream where a coat’s amnesia is a crime that snow blames on an Ohio addict whose mirrors belong, belong, belong. Oh golden fetus your undug eye. Your sightseeing as surgery on the predictably sick. What would you become if it were the last creature running that your parents would see in a field at the same time? Existence reached us. Then stopped. 

Soon
our wait
a baby
to autopsy
god

Soon a doll worrying over its attractions
soon its souvenir a nicotine
patch
from its father’s
arm

Soon a perfect face
shrinking touch
in the smuggled
stomach
of a shy
ocean

Soon my atrocious renderings
of nude
animals, soon

a beetle
on its back
is a flower

The mirror has family
Look, we are
in the garden
of brevity

(by very little, separated

)

No forgiven intimacy creates a star fast enough to keep memory in the kissed forehead of a burning child

Ohio deer
practice
freezing

Right, left
I hear my wife saying
to my son’s
wrist
in a dream, The last

church to hear of god’s death
sends an angel
to the first