Of white the
Wait, the weightless—
Of black the blank.
Rung long, wrong writing—
Tone-blown row that rose to rays
To raze all saying.
O, unbidden eye I bind Abandon by!
—one to more
Nation, shadow, duende
shall dwell under shell
& end &
(O, blow below
governance of the
From state to statement
the referent is afraid:
So no, & no alone
Is polar to all pull.
I strike, nowhere, the name of
my rose-prosaic, my
& that thought
that respires spires.
Thread through throat, through
Threat, through throne—
Here is my hero, & here
of his jeweled, jailed
But, I have only ever seen The Person––my counterpart––against the grammatical background of interstellar night.
He stands at my door, little realizing the zero of predicate is one, while the prey of predicate is two. He will say only the errata: red, at war with itself; blue, always the last instance of blue.
The Person wears a headdress, a dress of thought.
The Person is male with female characteristics, fallen into autumns of stain & substance. His sin is a cinema of seeming, a body-sign of both & neither meeting, teeming.
The Person wears what is: a “melancholy cloud.” My closed system.
His signs point backward. His eye wants what it cannot have.
Taste waste, the One without mouth, the Eye ever over I.
Icon of the blackness of Blankness, icon of the whiteness of Witness.
Cite I, seer: O deafened hour, defend ear.
My, my, cold, cold, pyre a poor evaluator, & “alive” a lottery of lit particulars.
Because the sun dies in eyes, day is all Idea: a phosphorescent nightscape of skin & bone.
The start of art is always too soon or too late. My statement corrected, as sonically connected, gives only what cannot not be given: the empty set, once pieced together; the ware of whereness once aware.
Depart, part: pay per sun; pay per perishing, shadow––