The Lease

No one alive knows what my body is feeling right now but 



there’s a way of working it out, and there’s someone who 



knows how to do that, except first we need to wait for the



right conditions, and in the meantime send our strength out



into the disabling humidity to sweat itself into as many drops



as required for oversight of the metropolis called nowhere. 



(When I say my body I refer to the one I had been renting



for many years until recently.) In the past everything was



divisible by two. People would wait behind a wooden fence



while a river of grass swept by. It was either noon or night,



never in between, and most objects tended to be either blue



or green. The sky was a huge lens through which the sun and



planets and stars were magnified. Stone towers would 



perpetually deteriorate, and streets would trail off aimlessly



to the south and east, into the sea. My concern back then 



was the amount of paperwork required to document all this. 



Each day I would create a small chart where I would insert



certain private symbols whose meanings I would guess at.



The sun would tilt on its head, trains would travel 



backwards, and I’d return home to my perch on the hillside,



beside an easel. Sitting up there, I often saw ships laden with



pine cones and red leaves to be applied to skulls of thinkers



in the grass, and these visions lent elasticity to my



temperament, allowing me to handle new events by calmly



outfoxing them. Complications did not fail to ensue. For



example, once as I was writing a poem similar to this one,



a small animal darted across the page. I say animal but note



 a human animal. Despite my training, these were my



immediate feelings: aggravation, annoyance, discomfort,



disgrace, a sense of oppression, destroyed happiness, 



inconvenience, indignation, insult, mortification, outrage,



vexation, wounded pride, mental anguish, humiliation &c.



Well, I think so then and I thought so still. Yet as of today



my eyes have learned to avoid what they project, and so I



follow their lead, focusing on an absent center, so to speak, 



taking that center to be the thing that one day will envelop



me, save that I know this to be false––a false idealization–– 



like a pen or pencil gripped tightly in the fist, stabbing the air



with signs that know no pretense outside of that which



makes them intelligible. Lights flash east of Opportunity



Rocks. Most of what remains gazes up at the hazy patch atop



the night sky, until certain spells leak down like assistants 



sent to make a task more difficult, plucking out spines of



light for dark illumination. Is this what I came here to see,



this thing that once lay beneath my feet, in vaults of 



equanimity, its soil exchanged for what I’d occupy, 



instinctively, in a drone of disappointment? Imagine that 



I’m speaking of the pain I’m feeling in such a way that you



feel it too; and yet I don’t feel anything. I’d love to be part of



what you’re part of, to enjoy some poignant dream as it sighs



in your ear. But I only feel a transcript of real pain. And yet. 



Try not to put it in words. Eventually I’ll know when



something has been left out. Is what necessary? I take a 



short trip through time to find someone whose wings have



grown sheer or at least impressively faint. I listen to dead



voices argue beyond what I can make out, their sentences



rolling to no other purpose than to coax remote things into



view, even though they fail to maintain interest, and serve



simply to punctuate the long night. Yes, amazing. For here



on earth seasons are careless of speech. And there’s no



recompense without injury. Nobody knows where they



stand.