I shall gather you here today to praise a man lost to us, a man patent with flies and full of shit in his mouth dripping shit out his eyes and ears and pumping shit from his guts out his shoes and the coffin spilling with shit and black flies coming from the mouth of the pallbearers and shit stewing below everyone's feet, all fleeing, a shit lake that deepens with each passing word of the preacher himself a passing word of shit falling into himself in a lake of shit and bubbling up from his eyes shit and the coffin sinking—
HOLD
Hold now
Hold, please.
Did you catch them? In the space there? Like fireflies.
Let's—
Holding patterns. Are best left. Off. Of.
Theres a family down there!
An anesthesia of purpose. They take you into a chair — no, it's comfortable — and let you look at magazines and wildlife until you slow. It's all administered. Yes, there is steady supply of looks-over-the-shoulder. Negligence is left at school. Now you're dead. And wise enough to take that figuratively. And sleeping. And the sleep they place in you so carefully is the most deliberate and wonderful sleep; it's as if floating isn't an idea anymore. Then comes the check. They firmly displace your clothing, rub once over large sections of your arms, legs, chest — it's all very routine. Once over with the gloves to make sure nothing attaches and starts to go. No, no, not morbid if it saves… Yes. So, once they've roughly gone — AND SAFELY — gone over everything, the other three are brought in to watch while the other two are dismissed. Break. The local slowdown — mine, not theirs — takes awhile. Then the three administer certain utilities. And the three — NO — they come back, and take care of you once it's done. You're done then. So calmly they bring you back to life. They let you look at yourself with the room full. Mmhmm. No… The time will come.
Debriefed in line. Taken into an office and led out, a simultaneous flow of new individuals needing to be briefed and debriefed. As they file, one notices a nick in the fabric of the right cuff of his white shirt. To check his watch, he sees the nick. To raise his arm to straighten his tie, he sees the nick. The nick is all he sees. As a steady flow, the line of yet debriefed lessens and lessens. One once said there is no pace in this place, the one that once told the him who led the her to a date, once both briefed. On the date the two discussed the nature of the brief, the information he had been given, uncut information, kempt, neat and understandable like a wooden diving platform on a small lake. He led himself to her, then he led himself away. Not unlike the line, which now had dissipated to just one who had yet to walk through. He checked his watch and nick. She signaled him and they walked past one another, him on his small way to the door of debriefing and her on her small way to the door out of the holding hall that led to the debriefing room, the little office. They passed. He thought small thoughts and felt clean, but not like he had before. The nick suddenly felt enormous, cutting up his entire sleeve and peering above the lapel of his coat, just obvious enough to signal those who had the information, the debriefers, the information like a diving platform on a small lake, the ones both ready to debrief and ready to dispense with the notion that the information, the clean and kempt information, could never really be taken in and accepted and acted upon, because such information would never be so clean, they were there, and such information was a nick of information, a small cut near the edge of something much more vast and empty.
However long I trade with you is the time it will take to unpack the wares I receive. The expanse rains dust.
The two lovers—
No, not just yet.
There are these waving lights that must flash at you. They do, I can feel the light on your face. Do you feel them? Do you feel it? It must be warm. If it is warm and if you feel it, you have to be moving further. You have to be asking yourself: What bulb is behind these lights? And then: Is there a who behind the bulb? Is there an operative hand?
HAND.
Might a placenta slip through the door in the light of the hand?
By now, you might've guessed: I've abandoned all the paper, the pen. It's okay.
The vital words are now passed from an undercurrent. The belly. The infrapower.
A terrible amount of matrices. Within the legs, do they connect? Or are they more and more flattened versions of the lines before? Can you put them in a flow at all? Can you take them away enough to look at them on the outside? No, the answer is always no. The factoid is a no and a game of throat. You cannot exist in the sphere of spheres. You cannot thrust yourself outside the web that includes multi bodies, bodies everywhere, strung up and flies and open mouths.
Sunshine Hour! (interlude)
A self-referendum on sainthood: Me! Or: Is it proper for the saint to establish himself as saintly while breathing, taking in water? Is it possible? Let the electorate show that I deem myself worthy: But, in want of dual things at once, and in negligent acknowledgement of the the other, third, formally above-all notion of not-wanting, of zero, of hum, then — am I ineligible? Or is the saint known to himself as a heaven holder. Do they confide in snide terms about the light behind their backs and the men and women far below them? Joan mumbles, too. Matrimonial concerns: Do saints have them? Marital strife: Not in a box, that's — hunger? Always. Doomed? Not for long. Please, let me cast myself at your feet and mourn my placeholder image: That man standing up and looking down upon his tangible form, as the man in hologram is the true body and deserves a place in heaven. He is the saint: I am no saint. I am rightly burning myself, only to dissolve and show you, in my ash, the form of all of them behind me. General rapture. Ash pokings. I'm at all the trials, though. I have seats beside the first woman near the back. If no woman rests: I am standing, four feet above the upmost man. I wait like this, in lay, and count the penance stripes on my back. To tie a whip around my feet. Or self-castrate and pool in myself: To leave another form of me in white around red. Self: Cast. The ballot boxes nearly always open, as long as the maw of indexes is still seizing, as long as our voice still sings and heals in nodes.
Divinity in copies.
Never a fair day, in waiting. A knuckle sized up. Held aloft, near the eyes, in a guessing game from the brother fare: How cubic? How round?
That's it. You've seen the heart.
Autonomous union. Marriages in bounds. The most solvent in all imaginable ways: The officiate, the bondsmen. Massive, surflexed influx of capital. Prenatal leanings like: liberal, mathematical, rearing. The simple wit of dumb questions a sport and a hobby, but only feigned in public. Ferried away in carts were the texts of odious origin, the smelling salts. Pleasure was relegated to domes. Answers were given in obsessional, torrential waves. Not a seeking, anymore, but a drowning.
Know me? Saying? Palms, fist, up to eyelids, and: AHHH.
Like the rare occasion when the eyelids try to rise on their own: That lifting? An uprising? Never an event because of the ties to the lower lid, ties to the back lid, ties to the skull. A checklist of pheromones. Yes: Let's relegate it all to locomotive function, duplicate away—
Mucus nervosa.