tenuous

In that horror of impurity, defeat, I have died
rejecting the promise with the premise.
In the horror of purity, deciept, i have died
chocking on one of my own bones.
In this impunity, horror, like a sheet
of whiteness comes with its fresh scent
of death where i wait like a child in a corner
punished to death.
I am more
than you imagined. Where the word
broke with the finger you stepped on, i am alive
beneath the crack; living a death you never
foresaw.
When you feel me under you boot, you slip.
Who do you think i am talking to. About. Certainly not with.
Talking with does not happen in accusations, which
are a last .



Once there was a promise of fit in a white dress.
I hung it
on
a blue hanger tighter than a noose it seemed.
The swan neck of the hanger promised great sorrow. I saw it
pass me under over against and through like a woman speared, through the
back
of her legs.
I waited under the train where the music had passed. They say
there is no thread between paganism and religion, mysticism and philosophy
judaism and communism, they say there is no coinsedense between
quantum and structure, but

I am that dream that enters
you like a death
without ...
I am
existence without certainty
I am the crossed limit, the boundary
blurred at the edges
the script erasing itself, the
page crumbling like dry leaf—
what is dry has once been sweat
and all the other fluids
painstakingly washed away
but never with full success,
without a trace,
I am the face you had lost
in the moments before the mirror
when the person there was no longer
comparable, almost identifiable,
except by its singularity, or what
vulgarity calls uniqueness.
I am the moment
outside of cessation, I am
the break of the pause I am
who you await each day like
a faithful dog (have you begun
do be insulted,
or were you so already marked?)
I am the force you resist
I am the dirt gathering war
under my fingers nail biting
promise of failure I am the life
you refuse.

i have examined these intersecting lines perennially
like an obsessed accountant checking the figures unable
to stop knowing the transaction has passed.

this cheap simile runs like a hamster in a wheel because
it is the only way to move, although no change of position
comes of it. hanging in this place with no ropes i am a piñata;
come and burst me open with a stick.

every day the same argument: is this enough? one may be for
every seven no’s; and then the same train: so what if it isn’t,
this is all there is. this is all there is. my work is to erase

the traces i have made of this conversation. you laugh to
yourself, over me, you say, well, clearly this is why you
repeat yourself: due to forgetting. my friend, how easy it is
for you to say.

you see, i keep the record, as i’ve already said. Stop
being so vague! Ah, but the details are worn through
like all the boundaries i have worked to undo. Again,
you say: you see, you have made it so.

You are a lying…but i hate all the insults. None are good
enough, none bad…i am kind, it is the world that isn’t;
and if it is the last thing i do, i will not leave my kindness
as a gone-by childhood. And I am NOT a masochist,

do you hear me? I didn’t ask for this pain, awareness
is not always complicity.