Dear Unica,
I thought it'd be important to tell you about two things. The first
thing is a betta fish. A betta fish is a labyrinth fish known for its
sheen of frills and bones laced with white and taupe rimmed
wounds that pull into thick, metabolic amplifications. Hewn. Just
unfortunate. The other thing I thought might be important to tell you
about is a betta fish, another betta fish. There are two betta fish
wrapped in the same oceanic ifs of delirium, Unica; ontologically
they are incomplete like flinging bolas. Ifs vivaed! They have half-
moons of Death Drive in an octal pattern under the fleshy shadow
of a partially eaten mountainside. You don't want to know but the
air they breathe is the water they suck and vice-versa.
Here the anima,
there the cinema, the Simone Weils of white, flat water, the Althussers
of ossification and Other, the wissenschaft, the geist, the regular type of
oneiric knowledge, the irregularities of infinitesimal polygons, here
the misplaced sound, there the misplaced sounds, the locked here
of an affect split and the effect after aftereffect, the never
ending, the never stop rustling, rustling. They eat dried
bloodworms and brine shrimp and daphnia. Take them out at night
and their bowls will look like they're filled with a low-glowing jelly.
Divine one dimension, like calculus, they want to eat the fat ices
through folds of bicuspid compost and gluey silages where bubbles
form and harden into the deceitful appurtenances of violence.
A shattered eye
floats toward recognition but only in a search for final mutations,
doesn't it? I don't need to tell you that, do I---or the Greek
anthologist in the progress of your individual and isolated, double
regeneration, the one like a traveler who foot and foot, unsprung
organization modularizations into passing without successor maps
and frieze suspension of Diogenes Laertius with zenith sound modes
off for the regulatory substance splayed toward an osmosis grind
on a crystal bit into the solid substance of living. In the glass-mix
swimming toward the torn fangs of reduction. Into she-bang
horticultural death lineage from the lost plink of a musically boxed thus
spake and tortured wind chime sonata on seasonal replay, the time Aunt-garde
brought everything misspelled to the fair for a couple hours and all you can remember
is whizzz whizzzz (STOP) in the autonomous pinwheel of plumb and thistle in
which knowledge became the single grammatical intention for grooming. You can't
fault me for doing this; you've always been there in the way. You're not the first
contraction of assembled design. I'd rather rip your fluted fruits right fucking through
the acquiescence of modernism. With my feathered tips, I want to tear the face-side
(STOP). An orange plumage face-fucks the zeromode. No! That is not for any
lost calibers of retention. The Siamese trope of capitalism is a woman with 3 perfect
breasts and a penis. I will not tolerate your arms anymore. I'm going to tear
both of you in front of your Aunt. I'm going to watch winter turn to spring and
sip shitty ginger-ale. Another one coming. Right-curve in a zinc-box with pink
frills out of nowhere from above then give the golden crest immediate, relational
noogies. Pawnbroker index of "cranium" through "coccyx" "ribald" My Uncle-
SOLD!: the slow motion of paper fans in the sea, the dissipating organization
of communication and everything. Back and forth with the substance swaying
around my exterior and angry ruffles! I'm in the mix now! Your head and torn
organs extend families of dissociation into container targets. The zip tones of horn
of which the sound is distressing
for the male voice. A silver curve
of filth on the skin. A sudden place for
commas. This is how the mouth with
air is reconciled. The mouth of teeth
and libidinal tongue. The female tongue
and wet pockets of history. Reconciliation
and the dictionary. A sudden place for
the symbolic gesture, painting a boat
full of Greek men, another full of
smaller boats and another without
the possibility for conception. Sailing
into each other like fists, scrape along
the inside of your cranium, at the back
of your throat, through your mouth
and then piercing with its inimical
and glinting, worm stained dart
that half that will eventually
and then always long to die.
Sincerely yours,
Dodo
DREAM OF MYSELF
1.
The dream grew from my face like a beard
and lodged in the dream was a hazel eye
I had sucked from the left side of my son's face
which had just before been loaded into a Sig Sauer pistol.
I talked to the dream state, I said
"What is going on with this whole thing and my son's eye!?"
something, somethingit is the end of times
here have a chemical
shit storm
But then I aimed the gun into its tangled and gnarly devices.
It appears I'm having an experience
in relation to my son in relation to the market
in the dream state in which
my daughter's white hair grows into the peripheral
and something or otherit looks like my friends
are pissed off about a window.
Oh my friends. Oh my white, white friends.
Oh song of myself and my white, white friends
I dreamed a dream of myself
it was an experience and a shit storm
in relation to my son
in relation to fundamental dialectical laws
about childhood and form.
Sometimes all the prophets are right.
Sometimes movement is detected to the right
and it turns out to be people shifting
not floaters
not the poem and not its end
not the hallucinated worldnot physics and not tasers
around a solid space
a thick, twined mass
below the speaking curve of its mouth
insulating its profit.
"Black bodies matter
in this way"
says the market. And if I was the market's mother
I'd cut the crusts off his sandwich and let him do all the talking
because I would love him like any mother would love
all the designs of her hope
for what can and cannot be realized.
2.
All the thoughts in all the world
every rearrangement of spaces and letters
every evolving possibility in Borges' libraries
can now be completely found on facebook.
One day, in this eternal return
of The Book of Face
one of the many possibilities of people thinking occurred.
The fascinating chute of ideas heaved
and from it came a "friend's" comment
of which I can't remember but contained
the phrase "white people"
as it's seen here, put in quotes.
I thought they must have meant to put wings
around the agile and soundless object
so it could fly around in the heavens
like words that suggest their untruths often do
and just like my "friends" on facebook
my poem also knows which things are words
and meant to just fly around
and which things are not
since my poem, like facebook
is also so in love
with the market
the market that loves my son's launched eye even more than it loves
my Sig Sauer pistol, the market that loves even just
the political idea of it, and it does so love its political idea
with an unusual kind of love, a true and poetic love
and all we need is love
because the market loves love
and my son's hazel eye
and my Sig Sauer pistol
and the "counter-ideational."
I just used a post-term
so my head came off
and now no one can look away
"which was not how that was supposed to go"
says my multifaceted and unaligned concepts
of grieving, black mothers.
The reality is this:
I could not love my son and my daughter any more
than I am able to understand the word
as it floats down the river
waiting for my body to cross it
with all the coins and all the eyes
and metonymic disjunction
like a prophet waits for his green crease
if even ambiguously
if even eternally
or just like any mother who's children
aren't white, "white," < white > or /white/
has to wait for all the returns
differently than mothers who's are.
