. . . & how, o spirits, shall I invoke you, who cannot count himself among the chosen? My writings & keenings are interior & treated by appropriate prescription drugs, to whom my conversion is incomplete, for some days I devote myself solely to my dead & in my error I do seek them & do wail. From the wire mesh I glimpse the chalk marks, aflicker on a kind of slate. Here is the glyph of patchouli-smell, graven on a scarf or silken dress. & here the character for a chin nicked while shaving, stubble edging a dime-sized birthmark, . . .
Web Prayer for Milosz
From euphoria at the blossom's destruction * in time-lapse, save us. We quicken & hiss like serpents, * our tongues flick us forward. We are studies of peritonitis * at the U.S. Forensic Death Farm in Tennessee. From the stunned * half-smiles of the decomposed, we rise. A dwarf inflates * to a giant, bloated like a Macy's float. The corpse * is arranged in Holding Area 232a: the effects * of assault rifle fire have been digitally photographed * for the muse to download for this page, an aggregate of signs * that I have fashioned with her aid. Tell me * to what end, o master. Without you words are pure convention. * Show me where the soul clings on, the Ineffable Name. * The language of the old belief, has it perished? * Keystroke, rictus, click, contusion: the apparitions gather like breath.