Interrogation 1

I have no tradition

I feel lonely

          I must build and rebuild

my personal everyday

          but the continuity is not here simply quite simply

this personal devolving 

            conscious: lingering

doubt: What do I want?

           As a hetero-white American man without defect, I don’t think 

I’m supposed to even ask. I have

          everything I have.

Right but maybe

          maybe you’ll say I shouldn’t feel guilty

Or maybe you’ll think ill of me for being self-pitying.

          What are you talking about? 

What is the underlying organization?

           That specter

That personal

           expansion that comes with music: poignancy

The central message that appears and fades is stronger unnamed.

The individual plays in a small black room inside a large white space

We reform and deform and the angels and

            the chariots and the empty form 

revolve invisibly about and impose themselves upon us

and we keep sucking this bottle keep trying to get laid

            and the band plays the music and the smell wafts

and there is a lonely reference of the past

            poet riding his horse backwards into the brambles

and the speed increases and everything runs better with grease.

Hello I’m speaking. 

            Not the poet but his work. This

accretion of script that doesn’t really cut it.

           Cut it up put it back together

go on saying this trying to get to some next level, not beyond, simply next,

 Here is how the world ends,

           everything we want but no notion of why or underlying system.

Maybe there is no better way

          beyond the ‘stone’ of a referent

a personal rune: the shaking,

          soft stone rising out of the loam

spitting secretions and

          desecrations with no mind but such force

the hot stone to the touch burns

           our focus wavers but the stone remains