CALAMITY

The truth has a fictional structure.

 

An excess of historically appropriate mediation.

 

Has one not lived until one has lived in excess

of a dying seaside town

 

she asks

 

as is the custom.

Praxis, man. We’re talking about praxis:

 

two handfuls of a marlin’s heart, skull

entered like a casket. Axed.

 

Satori on the boardwalk, once.

 

The truth has a fictional structure:

 

the past has got to reappear

 

for the Market is swift, annihilating

time and space

 

retracting like a shadow one can never catch.

 

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?

 

Empiricism’s subject position, likewise historicized.

 

America’s thesis-driven, overdetermined. It’s not worth it.

Ax anyone:

 

we are playing a game.

 

We are playing with our idea of us, our calling.

 

If we show us

we hold us in contempt

 

if one’s stance while working has dignity, I hope

sweeping chum off the lip of the pier.

 

Not calling out, not, not seeing.

 

But I see you