& every click's
a step away, a slip away, a shaved-off chip away
was there before. The world & its every machination
is a process
of reduction. Every page I read is one page less
left in the book
one fewer moment remaining
in the sermon, collection of whatever
& that sudden, unprompted ringing in your ears
alienspeak, maybe, light from space perhaps
cell phone dissolving cartilage that you'll never feel,
you'll never hear again. Maybe it's okay, Kenneth.
Even though you didn't make
my reading in Ann Arbor,
my voice go up a notch, my heart
flatline. Each door
in your advent calendar
one more surprise you can't get back,
each broken rule, taboo
a step toward the end of sense, sensation,
of the blood. So if everything mounts toward some final sum
is one click closer, a dimmed
availability's erosion. It is a modern crisis & complaint,
too much choice
& failing time, our lives spent whiningly in supermarkets,
sudokus in reverse, an unIcarian rising up
toward bliss of maximum
attention, intuition, imagination, prestidigitation,
R. Kelly's "Ignition (remix)"
hardly hot & fresh out the kitchen, & now even the kitchen
is beginning to disappear.
Let me say this now: it's impossible not to
& hemmorhage muchness
& the vast space of America & American
conceptions of outer space as seen in 3 dimensions
on your growing screen of choice
your choice of screens, your preferred streakers, tweakers,
hackers, phone phreakers,
David Bakers and those wronged by David Bakers
late nights out at the breakers
surrounded by what looks a lot like nothingness
but is actually the Compleat
History of Lights, like new, first edition, readable only
at night, in water, forever.
These operations, if repeated often enough,
or what passes for it (pressure,
sense's attenuation; as you know
perception's weak, and we are mostly weaker),
not infinity but its opposite.
Until our bones are resounding
dial tones of telephones,
our lights finally gone, wind-blown candles,
like Elton John, like G. I. Jane,
extinguished or at least permanently
on the lam or on the wane,
our lives are leaks, unsalvagable sieves.
Wanly, I say, see you next week
if either of us lives.