10.
Say “epistle.” Then “stel-.” The proto-Indo-European appendix of my American Heritage Dictionary gives to put, stand, set object, send or place. Gives quiet, fixed, still; apostle, diastole, peristalsis, put in order, prepare; gives standing place: stable, pedestal, or gestalt; gives stallion, stale and stall; gives branch or shoot, stolon and stolid, stalk, stilt and stick; strut and stout. And stele. These induce pungent forays into shreds of unconnected narrative, core-cuts into social and psychological strata, plus the jerky vectors of uneven suggestiveness. Precisely the gift. Sensations multiply, and no one can put them all “into” words. Although they are words. And words is where they come from. This exists and undermines; it affirms and negates. For you are a collect of their socio-twisty selves; you are a splinter of their sharded conditions. Yet you are their rhetor. This is not passivity and binding, but pleasure and entitlement from the loss of much—but not all—adjudicating will, as the pulse of language tries its visceral routes through your own engorgement and resistance. Language with its ferocious, elegant flood of desire and demands is rising toward you, through you, while you are startlingly enraptured just at the point of coming, to at least partial understanding.

11.
Descant, to thread thru rant
Briga wire. Cannot hear them, what we are marked by
Brigcannot see the the we are marked by
Brigcannot touch them, that we are marked by.
Know them only
inside this futurial netting.
White noise
(still speaks)
words blacked out
(still speak)
It
(still
speaking)
is still, speaking.
Language
wishes to be spoken.
It’s just its listeners
are bereft.

12.
I had wanted to write just small, though hungry, sentences,
small.
But so much wells up at once it is like
externalizing a gigantic wall.

13.
The talismans of this or that are handed round.
Their “folds come to contain the flow of time.”
Fold to flow, come to con-, tain to time.
Beautiful. Really.
And this is also a theory of debris.
Not ironic, but saturated in irony.

14
is missing.
One of those lost things.
Have no sense of where it got to.
Maybe misplaced into another folder,
misnamed, misfiled, miscast,
an accident, that coiled machine,
its malicious caprice, its twittering
in the face of—tragedy.
There’s nothing (therefore)
(so to speak) in this spot.

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