[i]

 

always something, a reed

broken or slim, erect

from marshland, in clumps

like acne, kaposi’s

sarcoma—already

a wave, the unbraiding

of breeze.

in

breezeless sweltering

 

of motels. yellow

walls—light—

of sweat—

reflective…

it’s not ugly.

the attendant vowel.

the careful choice

 

of what repugnant consonants

to ascribe meaning to, precious

gymnast shapes

 

of the temporalis, accepting—

swallowing—

swallow-like—

that i am sick, sieged, dis-ordered,

the park in the wind or the wind in the park,

bending

 

[ii]

 

breaking the cast

 

on my back, uni avenue potholes

all come suddenly—

flesh comes suddenly, cooldowns

 

past each spinous

 

process—little bridges

can drive you wild, we know this

& have always known this

 

for & from & because

of the waters, every one

 

of them—the pus of ngamoeyeik

& pazundaung the yielding

brown & dizzy saline blue

of pyidaungsu road public pool—

 

ah, invitingness, old cage!

naming sets them free

 

[iii]

 

-bleeding, the pagescreen is red

from squiggles, micro-soft

 

hums… do you hear the ripples,

numerous, small as you read?

 

there is life

& are bodies, far as your eyes

decide to take

 

you

 

[iv]

 

i’ve got a body

; i’ve got a body spilling

vaseline, sap on crunched-up

tardy leaves—well it’s may

& april & march & such

 

—i say i need a kiss as here i am

the front lawn in untimed siesta—

can it say yes? it doesn’t, anyhow

 

i go back to the master

who is not a master—no one—no

one’s—not once did i

enjoy this power

to scare myself this badly

 

; a sturdy, darling edge

 

of poems keeps rewiring

me & i let them—it feels

good, maybe

 

because everything is blue for birds

& blues are rather sepia, i know

 

[v]

 

i have known

since inside or from

a time—

the tongue needs

only to title, say it

it says

 

[vi]

 

back to the assembly line, rooftop,

under that which i was born

under, the very same.

 

it is translation to color

the thing made singular

 

out to be

“the sky”—no house is

a painting, i’m sure

 

the evening pigeons

aren’t autovoyeurs, perfect as they are

 

in their vector queues /

neat & lined up /

on the way /

home /

 

turns out too they aren’t housed in the sky

nor have they, will-less & unpapered,

ever named anything

“a “home””

 

nor will they ever look

down in choir of you

 

—emphatic you—vector

 

of infection…

(softly) & many other things,

whatever else

 

it means (names are semiotic

 

[vii]

 

& language is

 

& the body, as body

 

in vector, is)