I am here.
The house is singing. I have not one other desire.
The words fill the corridors in waves. The oceans of sound rush through the portals in the walls. I have a tearing of the real and out of desultory –I enter—imaginary.
Singing makes a knife.
You hurl it forth. The collapsing language yields to your force.
You do this over and over again –as if you were a warrior ---as if you were brave.
This is the only way.
You must be shameful.
I have no other skill.
This slit that I make in the line, this wound that I open in the body of words—this surgical trespassing I do in the hollow organs of meaning—they take me out of the room—the theater of life---and into the other place—where I am able to whir the way an insect does—towards some infinity that I am certain lurks there—that pulls me inexhaustibly forward.
Insect poets are always chasing light.
And burning to cinders.
What –after all----is a life for?
We are to whir like scimitars thrown by the Muse ---to the body of the reader---and kill him dead.
We are to rebirth from the corpse of that reader---a new vivid human being who will also throw daggers and swords at another.
We are to winnow the field of the standing corn.
We are to make a plentiful harvest.