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I might travel his death a creaking and swaying beneath me stop |
From the true keeps calm biding its story by Rusty Morrison. Copyright © 2008 by Rusty Morrioson. Used by permission of Ahsahta Press.
I repeat “dead” aloud enough times for its meaning to loosen
from sense. Once the word I repeat is no longer comprehensible,
it begins to attack everything else I know.
Giorgio Agamben says devastation is one face of a Genius
that exists inside us. The other face is creation.
The two sounds that begin and end “dead” echo in my ears.
“yes of course” was one speech too many
now you’ve done it exposed your
obsequious emphases
hardly speech if disclosing nothing
thought to stay blameless in a
well-tended hothouse that’s now
out of use beyond wear not in your possession
to break out so lay blame on
ritual pronouncements like
the unitary root of the whole is torn
try knitting cozies to hide
your household aporias
crowded Monday subway its mindlessness botanical
you take the first seat claim it for your age your figural
effaced your t-shirt smelling already like somebody
else’s sweat a toddler is crashing against your leg his
mom gives him a sucker he hasn’t figured out how to
fit inside his mouth you taste the instant’s sumptuous pause