In it I found that the political discourse would love its ethical moon.
A wonderment. A one sum.
Bewitching affinities built upon antinomies.
Abstract, an expression, a wool cap
of ornament for the sake of weather.
Loving him helpless anew helped. Loving her helplessly anew helped.
Leaving it all behind helplessly helped.
Building around the moribund became a kind of blessing.
I left constituents around the number one, and I won,
and I felt simple or glad,
or finally, incandescent, and comfortably large in my honesty, a kind of hanging of the rituals,
the clothes, the sense of living in them upright.
I felt trouble pinging from my thumb muscles but I ignored the throb.
I looked out and out into a dense and driven fog and said goodbye to its flavor.
I said goodbye to more than ten years of saying Will you please love me?
I wanted to birth a kind of abstract expressionism of the merely objective
and the racialized lover of things.
Onement or ornament or I won an ornament or I loved an ornament
and the onement of myself resolved. I resolved and thus I became into myself a one
that I thought would never be allowed.
And I moved outside of the fog into a place that signified art.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.