(or: a Lunch Writing inspired by The Panicked Face of Charles Alexander)
This is how, my Stem
rests upon the subject here, is
the content, that I step on sternly, with
out a morsel of Love in my
heart, I know, that each exit is not
mere—[ily] a sign-----------àof being so
content in
enough to toughen only & all, I lung
you in this
happily at Home or, under the Bridge, you
had met me in order to give our Hands
definition & then all the Questions that arose, as to
how to accept this Procurement of your
face & all the Days we invest to thicken
the grasp of Autumn just around the
Corner, Oh, yes that is just another Body
sobbing or, the horror of always going &
going nowhere & keeping the Nothing always
under your Nails, which I always used to
pick, the Dirt in which you’ll be against
the Discovery that I no longer have any
room in which to spread & come into
my own, this Year, is already inescapable in,
thought only: where have I arrived—[?] In
pants & the ass I found so glorious so
romantic is your Ambiguity is so
European, how this Morning seems
to retard upon us all, up on the Hill,
there is a difficult sweep—[ing]
of the Body to the pow framed in the Sun, halved
here: I’m giving you another passage, another
way in which to envelope you in, this
is my voice----------àyep & I promise to reveal all
inside, you will find a yaelp that will lead you
to the betrayal of my, wow I dreamed I awoke
in another City, last night I was freezing & it was
a Winter, of learning your darling was no
longer mobile, strapped in Traffic, I tend to think
about you Dear & what allows us to be so fundamentally
human, as in, so Vulgar or, what in the end
will remain in these Lines desire the complete
obliteration of the Horizon or, at least our relation
or, either History truly gives us an anti—clarity
of the Catastrophic person we used to be, used
to forget others, nowhere yet having another
day so finely scurrying in the Sun, styling it’s
walk to the womp of Night offers the same
standard Slide under the Wire, but listen, I
was going to build you a Fire, to fable
you in the form of a Flower, singed all
our Belongings or, all of us now together
& torn apart & winnowing in the nature
of our true swagger this, Soup tastes very
weird to index every Kiss, since you’ve grown
with your Hermetic nature & mine with all
these Ghosts, on this very Bluest of Days today
is about places I will never send postcards from
this side of your Face resembles a pillow or, the
wear of an out-dated Wide Tie—[ing] now this
famine on through, to you Squeak—[?] Oh,
just call me tonight & above all, my arms so
thin from missing, the point of stepping on
cadence of this growing Space, growling out
each Atrophy of the lips, blow-up in this
wheeze, itself, smiles alone, from watching
how I stone each Doctrine, each
neighborhood here, keeps changing on the
Surface, as I keep changing on the
Surface but fear not Love, as I am
still the same Man, in the Interior
definition, of a cold
clump & a son-of-a-bitch
