When the Dead Sing Out

The morning is regular, a little fog
lingers at the foot of the pool: and that’s when
you know. Your friends have forgotten you.
In the time
it took to dig yourself out from under the
mound of ciphered sunflowers, they’ve crossed
the aqueduct. In wreaths, laughing & dancing—and there’s
no trace of you in
that people’s colony of sweetness. … I always thought
I would end up with them among the cypresses. But the only
way to get there at this point is
revolution. She wants pearls and she wants the revolution—
how can she have both? Let’s throw on
our McQueen hooves & rush to the barricade
in a pearlspray of bubble and light—what
charges us there? Nothing.
Nothing come out of the belly of a
great white oven. Just as fogs spread to
the four corners, carrying the virus of all-forgetting—
dead hands, friends, dentals—in the belly, in
that great floating fogmine, breathes
fashion, transfather of fog. And you always did
love to don fog. … Meantime, on Wall Street, three protesters
in flannel pajamas
thin it out. They’re running a kind of machine—
a beak on one end, exchange ticker on the other—
feed the fog into ticker side, and
the beak sings out:
Oh never to have met you
never to have shacked up, never
made your bed, your food, not
to have born you kids and then
lost my living, not to have leapt that jump, not
died… Out of one regular never-death, life. And in this
new life, we encounter: pearls.
It is the end of thought, welcome to
the temple of the ubiquity of thing! I don’t
care about the works of
Dostoevsky, I
just want to kiss this chair he
sat on. See? I’m so free. Why are you even
fighting for me? Over time, as I snuggle up to objects, even they
must cry out: this heart is inanimate. And is the world
your world, peace and war yours, and are
you leaving some building arc as
an up-combed lady into a fated date night,
like it was the time for keening,
magic string, like the divide
between word and thing just up
and flew, and you just knew to live? … I got all this from
that brief break in the clouds.
On the Christmas of my death when
I swam by myself in the peeling
blue of the pool, and
the pines addressed me, saying:
take me to the riot