as history – so my life
goes around again , irreversibly . it spirals
upward like newspaper , celluloid . the stakes
rise and sink – but the ceiling’s so low
I can hardly dream straight . this is the mystery
of art , it seems to wither
to death before you , conceptually ,
when a head is separated
from a shared plane or they find
someone else’s teeth
in a leg on the gravel . of another era ,
this kind of speech . your inclination
to speak – from another time . now ,
all that love for objects . nothing works .
even rain . depleted uranium .
you put a wedge inside the thought
of ganging up on space and –

can’t sing about it either . the counter-
revolution of property , the shoot-to-kill
quadcopter , the meaning
of the world , the heart and lung
and liver . sometimes I feel it
around me , naturally , a new
attitude . with water in it . I go back
and forth , without exception ,
to the very first womb . ergonomics .
bushmasters , alchemy . the ghetto ,
the difference . I go back to the original split .
I choose to go back .
it’s like I’m still swallowing formula
and wondering how to move