I do this thing, I do and you
and you do too and to wit, to vision,
to share roots with the Sanskrit veda—
nothing makes so much
sense on a bleak Sunday and the body
displaced, like physically
displaced, man nor do you know
if you are man
or you are woe-to-man, though you know—
as though in two parts in a last
life—you are whole. What sound makes
ambition, what sound violence.
I do this thing, and I do it
denim vest, pedestal friend, best-in-
the-tearoom. I do it best,
to see: videre. I do it most, to be
quickest to react to pulse
and stardom. The domain of stars,
is my point here. In the heavens,
winners win, and to be one
of them, to achieve one thing most.
Another’s body is the major
infraction. Another’s body what one
wants, a wanting, withered
plant, supplanted against doing.
I do, this thing, and you.
Do too, go to, stained on.
A mess of it invested, yes.
Live in a night-house; live where daylight ain’t gonna
penetrate, windowless but thin-walled so you hear
the breeze outside, and isn’t it the strongest thing
in your life at your desk, sitting, no sun and the sound
of the wind? No, the sound of violins! Music of penitence,
music of crescendo. A woman in this house talks and talks
and you shouldn’t shut her up. A sewn woman,
history proves, equals a hibernating
tongue. Take anger out on winter, the things
you hate a lot. Then you’ll want to say, I like _____ a lot.
Say, and I really fucking love _____. Say so
every day. Liking the _____ when nobody else does.
Ask yourself, What do I want to say about the giving tree?
Imagine yourself as the boy and see yourself
climb. Think of it from the perspective of one
who goes away. One of the prodigal sons
of the Florida humidity. Even amidst your mom’s
tears. Know that you protected someone
from their demonics. Know that you’re kinetic.
Question your otherness, if only to question your own
comforts. Remember and remember that you
were the one who flew the coup. To Boston. To Los
Angeles where you knew nobody would follow.
Take away the present, and you’re left
on a bicycle in the rain. You’re an appleseed
reveler. Okay, so read the book!
and pilot the wayward
episodics, how they soar, how they land.