The Near Daily Reel Reading Week 4

Click here to go directly to the Week 4 Read-Thru.




Lo grasses—no guessing needed here—we are poet. Standard

issue, one per household, we are probably disconnected, one of a thousand

which belong in a museum made of thick paperback we are (every-

thing we have used and set aside still lies

somewhere) after-

image, responsible for ten thousand un-broadcasted channels, each of us

a thin reservoir of skin ruptured by lens

light like a plum squeezed in a fist.




A split plum—everything spills over with beauty—even this sink


the time you cut yourself thumb deep with the letter


and had no one else to turn to, to overflow

this red omission

of love within you captured unsaid

in this wash basin of spit and resurrection

the strewn hair, clasped hands

in the birth

water, the red charge of calyx of coccyx.




Like a bruise calyx, bruised coccyx

my feelings for my parents are

nested: interstitial

this ferocious

love that will never be


even with resistance

that I give to them that

they gave to me—what endures—is







Yes, I endured you screaming

at me from another car to get off


my cell phone, you, with your follow-too-close your

slalom un-signaled to further-faster


you must have thought I was taking

selfies, and were angry


by my long following

distance—slowing you down fractionally


unaware as you are, I

was watching the world in real


time through the lens

facing forward over the wheel


to capture this: photograph

of you burning.





this wolves, this burn

behind a fence left in the frost


of the coarse

sand, each movement of the furry

pack an echo and projection of all other


movement, each being’s right to thrive

assured to be an enemy, when so

restrained, foodless, made dog


of yard and empty belly,

we assure the chain-link-wildness: this dog

become again wolves, this barren


tree, become again

us blooded

on our own crosses.







This is the new blood, the new tap-root, which crosses

the horizon, brings images from the celestial body to

the branches, to the leaves

with their chlorophyll memories, none of them individual—they are more

like the refractions of this seemingly unmoved

being seen here in the window, a multiplicity

held in the memory of light, no perfect form but in forms.




The memory of light, each transformation of object the loss

of rigidity—this permeability of heaven

of hell, these movements in relation to all other

movements, this is the anti-

padlock, the cessation of fear

we wolve the chainlink

fences, seek out a language to sustain us.



I cannot believe that language is an unbreachable

wall around a nothing—at

some point—after I had long-walked the soles

off of my feet—and the blisters crept between my toes

and my gym socks

attached by coagulate had torn them away

some new and painful awareness remained

in the absence of skin I realized that language was doing

something that I wasn’t in control

of: every statement that I wrote down would

wing a multitude of quills—furious

that scribed the inverse

arguments of everything I have wanted

to say—I was

in fact writing myself

a thousand deaths fully fleshed

in the spreading ink

my self palimpsest.






Is this stain unbearable, this saturation

of the ink, the projected self as seen

by the people around you—this self

seen in the lowest light threshold—reflected skin in the passing

brake lights or a life seen in the rear-view—nothing

lays claim like the past, that

we are what we do.


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