Reminding a Manifest
What I had wanted to justify was the space of silence that surrounds every couple of seconds. Blinking is not simply that to close your eyes clears them of impurities. Busted enough to know that hunger itself inspires kind brutalities. What this bracket of silence gives each moment, caesuric apostrophes to the mechanic segmentation watch it tick into the furniture. If by differential you mean it transfers torque from transmission to axle then by god what grace. What this hiccough stirrups against the ribs, what this clot knots unto the heartbulb, what this fountain of hematomic blood sets free upon the breeze is a trope turned against a body again, reformalized as “that which reminds manifest.” What the spokes radiate aside from centrifugal resistence. What the pinion gear is desperate for the rack to regulate. What the stump can read of the logger’s saw’s aged blade. What the fingertip feels when the tongue imagines a touch. What a bright light you are, a kindred spirit loosed & stoned. Cloying somata of a deathbed corpse gathering itself to go. How a spillway’s eroded pan slow-forges bayeux tapestries meant for some future debauchniks to lick, fondle & burn. Frequent misgivings about the probability of randomness. Egress frustrated by piles of shit that sticks to feet soles. An inelegant solution to an intricate problem of pronouns. Pronounce the dealbreaker with one foot in the fol-re-rol. Situations determine their own immediacies and histories. You can write it up or write it off, it matters fuck-all which. Still ghosts haunt the meandering paths of the living-in-time. We watch from the staircase, our knuckles grip the balusters. Print the dailies, pore over them with some detachment. We wait for the cameos of the famous actors we know. They never come. Instead, the reel markers catch on fire. You can see them, look, floating across your eyeball there.