No one alive knows what my body is feeling right now but 



there’s a way of working it out, and there’s someone who 



knows how to do that, except first we need to wait for the



right conditions, and in the meantime send our strength out



into the disabling humidity to sweat itself into as many drops



as required for oversight of the metropolis called nowhere. 



(When I say my body I refer to the one I had been renting



for many years until recently.) In the past everything was



divisible by two. People would wait behind a wooden fence



while a river of grass swept by. It was either noon or night,



never in between, and most objects tended to be either blue



or green. The sky was a huge lens through which the sun and



planets and stars were magnified. Stone towers would 



perpetually deteriorate, and streets would trail off aimlessly



to the south and east, into the sea. My concern back then 



was the amount of paperwork required to document all this. 



Each day I would create a small chart where I would insert



certain private symbols whose meanings I would guess at.



The sun would tilt on its head, trains would travel 



backwards, and I’d return home to my perch on the hillside,



beside an easel. Sitting up there, I often saw ships laden with



pine cones and red leaves to be applied to skulls of thinkers



in the grass, and these visions lent elasticity to my



temperament, allowing me to handle new events by calmly



outfoxing them. Complications did not fail to ensue. For



example, once as I was writing a poem similar to this one,



a small animal darted across the page. I say animal but note



 a human animal. Despite my training, these were my



immediate feelings: aggravation, annoyance, discomfort,



disgrace, a sense of oppression, destroyed happiness, 



inconvenience, indignation, insult, mortification, outrage,



vexation, wounded pride, mental anguish, humiliation &c.



Well, I think so then and I thought so still. Yet as of today



my eyes have learned to avoid what they project, and so I



follow their lead, focusing on an absent center, so to speak, 



taking that center to be the thing that one day will envelop



me, save that I know this to be false––a false idealization–– 



like a pen or pencil gripped tightly in the fist, stabbing the air



with signs that know no pretense outside of that which



makes them intelligible. Lights flash east of Opportunity



Rocks. Most of what remains gazes up at the hazy patch atop



the night sky, until certain spells leak down like assistants 



sent to make a task more difficult, plucking out spines of



light for dark illumination. Is this what I came here to see,



this thing that once lay beneath my feet, in vaults of 



equanimity, its soil exchanged for what I’d occupy, 



instinctively, in a drone of disappointment? Imagine that 



I’m speaking of the pain I’m feeling in such a way that you



feel it too; and yet I don’t feel anything. I’d love to be part of



what you’re part of, to enjoy some poignant dream as it sighs



in your ear. But I only feel a transcript of real pain. And yet. 



Try not to put it in words. Eventually I’ll know when



something has been left out. Is what necessary? I take a 



short trip through time to find someone whose wings have



grown sheer or at least impressively faint. I listen to dead



voices argue beyond what I can make out, their sentences



rolling to no other purpose than to coax remote things into



view, even though they fail to maintain interest, and serve



simply to punctuate the long night. Yes, amazing. For here



on earth seasons are careless of speech. And there’s no



recompense without injury. Nobody knows where they



stand.

I have, may it please the court, a few words to say.

In the first place
I deny everything
but water
have all along
I quilted my designs
on a map, all stars
freed slaves
we upended
serpentry. Oh!

to have made
such lean patties
of fat masters
they froze last winter
we shook them down
with the trappings
of a jinn

Boats to either side
MOVE
slow
defend—we said No!
too rough
this country

Hands? Left them in Canada
Eyes? Divined to do the same

They never didn’t
intend murder
art
treason
order
corruption of progeny
or to excite
or incite
the enslaved to rebellion

We freed a mother tongue
abject in their ice and
it is unjust that ICE should sulfur
our ancestral dreams

Had I so interred fear in the path of the rich
the powerful
the intelligent
the so-called “patriot”
on behalf of any of their friends—
father, mother, sister, wife, children, or any of that class—
and suffered
and sacrificed what I have
for this interred fear
it would have been
purest flight

End every man in this court
either hand
punish
vent

On my left knee, there are two fine, slim scars, silver as a grey hair. The skin is rough and textured, mirrored on my right one, a similarly ugly and knobby joint. When I straighten my legs, the pair become an unhappy married couple: folds and creases form like wrinkled faces. I probably see them as old people because of the wisdom I attach to them. My knees are too flimsy to protect me when I fall off a bike and so rigid they snap if I tangle my skis, but the act of kneeling has been, in my experience, a great emotional teacher.