This morning in an alleyway I was startled by a face I seemed to recognize, in a dormer above a garage and so slunk up to him, who was ranting quietly, mauling the mind of some imagined ear out the pane as if maligned, or high, like one moony and almost witless in a poppy ditch, or one waking ill and supine in a wet bed of opening mullein: "I have no desire to theorize language-- I was raised modestly and have sinned unspeakably. I would rather waylay and destroy whose voice molests me." On his desk a thin book I knew, a tragedy whose residue was a Sentry's couplet I half-knew and began to recite--startling him who turning was outwardly unknown to me--, "'Does it hurt in your ears--'" "Fuck Antigone--I detest language, I detest artifice, I would rather waylay and molest the beast that has imagined and pent me here."
Missing Is a Stimulant
a circuit, bled memory a séance of the veins, a liquid hinge Deceit, the tones of dreamed sceneries defaced by a single face and yet the day itself is more marred by these traces of fragrance chances to fathom her absence or collapse with the sap of plants and sleep, and demand of a jasmine-scented face How are you still so fragrant? An object at a morgue or an organ