4 poems from the sequence "test—flux"

Friday, January 15, 2021

jughea d potted s hell  he ad precious po tted jug pot she rd  shard pitch   er   she ll woven s he l l            it was multiple
and my head was a joke   my head was a joke?   my head became a small vessel and a precious metal was put in there
s he l l    jughea d potted s hell  precious po tted   he ad   jug   shell  pot   po  tted   she rd shard pitch   er woven   she ll



The jug and the shell tried to become precious as rock as metal tried to become dear
as babies held as twig of well weave. The jug and the shell decided to settle inside
of a mound. The mound was fired of bone. This was compositional, analysis. Sharding
happens by imposed force or under the weight of time, but either way, sharding happens.

There was a jug and there was a shell. There was a jug a shell and then there was my head.

What happens when the dead refuse analysis, or analysis unrests the dead?
This worries me, a lot, Katherine said.

There was a jug a shell a rock and my head. There was bone shell rock jug head. There was my head.



Force bled—cast out the body—flux to loose off flux: it’s all abnormal
here——eight—give me vinegar—a drench of vinegar——contact——expulsion—
a cover up stench—a cover of oil—unformed, like, undone——the flux the flesh the feel
—rejecting—and then they were thrown off——it was stagnant——eight—eight fly
—it’s—saline lemon failure—it’s—breaking a tension and reforming it—sour failing—sipping—
internal failure—throwing up, throwing in—pushing out a flimsy shard—trying to have pores—
blood-bottomed—it’s—tension that regathers, resigned—it’s—nude without desire——it
was——its portrait does not belie—it does not then become a hand—it bobs then falls



Compressed skin on skin, all that skin feeling, which then
reduced itself to contact: it could not be anything else—
it could have been—a finger could have been a mouth

I did not want fusion I wanted touch, then break down, and then to pull apart

I wanted to be, with something, to live in that,
but something always happened—I was cut from a womb
perhaps, and then born; my limb forgot my limb
and I was split—I worked with a blade and then twitched

When wounds open up, a part and portion pursue something,
like in-feeling, and brown red purple violet blue
brim over, hold pressure at the sides of and beneath a surface.
Pressure speaks of inward touch. What means dead if I

Run the portion under a stream—disrupt its flow

Friday, January 15, 2021