Born of silence, sound entangles everything. We open our mouths & tones become words, become worlds sprung intimate, drifting amidst bodies. Air opens, swallows voices back to quietude & the whole earth shifts. If i should say to you i am this or i am that, to what or whom are the words, once spoken, bound? You’ll feel them drifting, but how did we learn them? What is their weight in this gravitational world?
Perhaps all structures rise from dubious foundations. The earth moves endlessly; so weave & stumble all things upon it. Destiny play, this immutable shift. Was it Lincoln who suggested a house divided against itself cannot stand? Is irony a symptom of colonialism, or just another part of the virus? Maybe both. Ironic that instability should be among the prices of privilege, of all things
illusory. Structures & forms.
Here in america, years after Lincoln, deficits wear different masks, yet you walk outside & sense your place, aware of who owns everything, whether or not you can speak names or answer questions like when or why.
Liberty, it turns out, is as loose a thing as I. Loose, yet strong as gravity.Desire floods all borders, bodies, maps, de-territorializes the Whole, longingly, before stitching the pieces back together, only differently. Differently. Pushes vertigo like it was the cleanest drug, the most euphorically, rapturous high. You might need it to survive, or at least, so you think, cutting lines staccato across a mirror. Is irony a side affect of jouissance, fermenting like surplus grain?What about abundance dreams waste? Is one fantasy, one waking life? In the 21st century, how will we judge something inherently wasteful? Will we come to see hysteria as becoming abundant? as wastefulness? as both? Every desire, after all, a line of flight— where to, black coffee? digitized economy?Slowly, everything becomes a dream against my body, until i’m uncertain what a body is, or if I have one, or who any of us are.Yet here is the body, awake.This world, dis-eased & assembled that way. i see the terror flint smudge, the ancestral pelts; beauty, ochre macabre, spray flung & graven clean dashes of color language feels absent to describe. Skull bog roped in the rising seas, sepulcher leveled a flat, forgotten seam: turquoise blind. Rope & chance. i behold myself fractured, see pieces scattered, haphazardly it seems, as all things are, or were, or may become: done & undone in pattern sewn chaos, with & beyond lexicons & syntax. Cave wall, street sweep,anthropocene:
flotsam plastic, neon bright & psycho active.
Under the moonlight as beneath the sun, you try conjuring essences, re-imagine affairs. Fucks & tender kisses honey suckle against your lips. Histories, revelations, banalities & scars without genesis. Libraries reduced to cinder & ash.So much to remember. So many things forgotten.The Baptist cried desire throughout the desert, spent all day on Jordan’s bank condemning the wicked & preparing a way. John’s tongue-lyre sang for his Love; one of spilt light emergent from shadow fold. Oh! this world, all honey tar & brittle wet. The Baptist: so smooth his skin, so striated, his garments of camel hide. John waited by the river all day for god to come down, become-human. Re-territorialize.Desire. John waited patiently while the river flowed on.
Failure, starvation, Eros, laughter. Waking up on the asphalt of the real.
Capitalism renders patience unnecessary. Alienation & fracture follow close behind.
Queerness is possibility & possibilities are non-binary, by nature always generative, twisting at tangles, rapturously fluid. The multiverse unfolds in Queer simultaneity.___________ will destroy capitalism. (Possibilities)
Motions, embodiments, thoughts; radical, revolutionary, ordinary: existences labeled as such for the structures within which they fight for breath—which is to say, representation, which is to say, for life. Absent of imperialist capitalist white supremacist cis-hetero-patriarchy, what might we begin to imagine? How far will our bodies speculate, in & beyond these dermal walls? What do we find, cruising out there?Cruising liminal. Are you certain you’re doing what you think you’re doing?
Won’t you feel the strangeness, the inconsistency of time in your body? Feel it. Try to feel it. Tongue trace, leather elastic. Dirty nails natural & all.
You are discontinuity. Self is other. i, a flowing mystery. These aren’t stories of presidents or prophets, paradigms or absent gods, though i am asking you how we might know what we do not yet know. i have many questions for your oracles, whoever you say they are.Break.
My faith, my hope, my spilling spilt about, reams stained, the hip stretched skin, hills of bone molt with heartbeat spark & flint. In darkness i recall fragments, sicknesses handed down, generationally. My hands can’t smooth it out, this coarse world wove & tangled, this world blown broke for cure. Someone snaps, says transform.
Trans-. In darkness, everything a slow dream held rose close, craving fire flash in ember.
Becoming dismembered, fragmented, torn, allows for passage of light. Tokens.We simply never figured the cost.