- Climbing
Climb a wall to bring it down
The brickwork mosaic as set as blood
Coursing through the tunnels of time
Beneath the spaces that are not there of the space that makes them disappear
Where even fragmentation must settle with an occupying sense –
The bricks put-together
The wall taking space apart –
Underall, the holding up of a name
The evident multiplication of its every meaning
And the midnight engraving of its life;
All tombstones are misleading
Grounded on a yearly misspelling.
This is the functional.
Climb that wall to turn it upside down
Dream time over from top to bottom
Of something more than familiar
A feeling as extended as the shadow of everything
Shadows as felt as the extendedness of everything
Behind the distances that are not there of the distance that makes them disappear
Sharing the invisible
Meting out the greatest loss of all –
The loss of excuses –
Until it is met
The place where everyone has lived;
All divisions are deceiving
Bounded by lesser story-telling.
This is the funktional.
- Falling
Time,
the anti-clock
worker,
does not stop
but now and then
now to then
dries out
and renews
in waves
does a convergence
back
on the sand
again
continentalising
refertilising
steadying
for a paste of the world
still granular
but stiller
in the iller tempers of the wind[1]
refreshingly ingrained with
the bit-by-bit humility
of finite humidity
fuller
that is, di-stilled
from the sands sunned beyond the touch of the water
this part shingled, mountable
humanised
that one singled, insurmountable
solarised
in contrast
all of it
now
neither here nor there
a
sandcastle possibility
of Empire impossible,
the desert of the Real
either-ended by
latitudes
of
death
a bridge across
into the really Real
everything, undivided
history, “zombies” included
double-crosses itself
drawing on its own breath
rehearses no real death
collapses into abridgement
fallen back sundried against the finitude of reach
arms wide enough
would not be arms
more seaside sitting upon the limits of the embeached,
now, even where sight-and-site alignments find continent lines,
a little more sunbathed, fade into
more or less
beach instead,
not terra firma
not 1
but 1.1
dividing within its own insufficient number
the void ahead
non-sequitur of neither here
nor there
really avoids coming from anywhere
and is
just how nothing could ever transgress.
*
Freedom comes
by per-mission
upon the flattened-by-erosion back of a coast-all some-thing
that now, grain-by-grain hourglass time-lining
never quite was
and never quite will.
- Standing
We come in waves and build according to
the sort of isolation
we want to feel
because exempli non-gratis
is the feeling of us
feeling more than ourselves
but nowhere near as often
as we are left with feelings of ourselves alone.
The isolationism of, which
either way must have its way with us
blowing a-way through us
whether
from across the slippery distance of a reveal-all Origin
or the next-door
non-place
of some catch-all End;
but neither of these two anywhere fully met
except half-way met
misinforming each other –
the only viable path of one-or-the-other any-way
and no True loneliness –
mix as
fudgy as
the summed-up difference of their encounter
sea blue with charcoal hints
is us
walking the tight rope
of our washed up
and so far, unwashed
mean-time.