Poetry
The Rate At Which
“...to explode sentimentality and reveal in unappeasable truth the shivering (shimmering)
lone moments of human suffering.”
I cannot assume
to posit myself in position of
pain — wherein contemporaneity meets distraction, I made a mistake1 —
I cannot assume
to posit myself in position of
pity
or be making of a sinister wind
to say of
martyrdom
is not the scenario
I might tinker
the thing I must find rigidity in, is the act.
Here, the enemy rears itself in it,
such being that the doings of fates becomes
satiated into alchemical veiling.
Fate co-opted. The body of the oppressed.
Might I blame the act as an act of the enemy, yes.
One lying in consequential perpetuity—
if, then, & if, then & & &
all the cuts of her, I cease any analogous rendering.
Yet, all the cuts, the many agape infringements
resemble
where the skin bears witness where the borders of truth find defection
where the openings break open.
1Wishing almost of a disappearance is like summoning oneself.
Like on the street,
two youngins call a laughter they are sharing
to my attention
yo bro look - they sound like me when I am not poeting.
A large man sits
plastered to the glass encasement of the bus stop
his ass-crack showing
and smudges of deep brown
slide
a liquid feces melt between him and the public-benefit corporate barrier
there is no separation of him & his shit, spewing out
I mince
Nah deadass right
and they are correct to agree
with my agreement
of their laughter
received as disgust on me
It is the vulgar agitational
that interests me.
We are living within
the viscous nature of synthesis. We might say
that can’t happen or
never again,
but they are a scale of boundless happenings
a proposition is that we must see it
time & time & time
until it wills itself—more openly—into a force worth
choosing a tactic of elimination
she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying
& she is dying & she is dying
& she is dying
A sweeping engulfment
dangerous cacophonous burling
sad, at some juncture of
bereavement
I wished I could kill him
how the shackles of air above shoulders
& at the inguen make of non-feelings
what silly pronouncements
a man & she
is dying
I see not enough
indignation
sure,
a sentence
of concrete whiff
of metal
sometimes
against exile of territory mechanics
when will we teach away the persisting?
& she is dying
falsely demonstrative
upon an entirety of us
parotid leakages
we ailing
thrive from her death
dribbling over
thrillers of her dead body
a tongue we share
dressing her
corpses
as pretty things
shames of
youth & fatality’s false romantic scent
the water we float within is clear
a liquid
of posturing
control
one should not sit at atrocity’s feet
to know it is amongst the
spiral orb cartography of our delicate flesh
look how it has gripped love’s nature
I cannot say it any other way
I refuse to let him live in a mystery
he is small & not worthy of veils
he is the problem
he is the he
demonstrative pronoun
he murdered my sister & unborn nephew
he murdered Jasmine & Riley
he murdered my sister & her unborn baby
a man murdered a woman & her unborn baby
he murdered her & her unborn baby
he murdered her & a baby
her & a baby
a baby
a baby
a baby
her
a baby
her
a baby
&
her &
a baby
her & a baby
her
a baby
her
a baby
&
her &
a baby her & a baby
her
a baby
her
a baby
&
her &
a baby
her & a baby
her
a baby
&
her &
a baby
her & a baby
her &
a baby
her & a
baby
her
a baby
her
What can make us a mess?
There is shit on the streets.
And an incalculable grammar of shit
building its mucosity
over our livelihoods
What can make us a mess?
and we afraid to show it.
We should not sit at atrocity’s feet
& wonder if it walks
there is a scent
of an imprint
& many trails
some of us have known labyrinths
others have known a spill that never
dries
