Middle Vision

Is it really so surprising? The rock looked like several suites of music from mid- century ebbs of caution and excess, the torso blown out from history and competition, wishes and remission, a suction lasting a little too long to not become language, blood speaking at the surface of skin, limpets parading as oysters in the confusion of youth and risk where sex along the rough edge of Europe may get mistaken for access to freedom. What was that text if not a message, a shibboleth encoding the secret of playtime in a purple granite shadow on the mountain, or the distended scroll from a bottle episode in England. From the window, a beautiful instrument of piss, the eve of a breach which may in fact be a gift, colored tissue ripping apart to spill sweets and certificates, hostage to the vision of a different hospitality, valves reversed so that platelets and flotillas can flow equally fast between homeland and refuge. Something strange got caught in the web, slipping on the surface of Twister, a portrait of injury, a leveling of pleasure, an equestrian kidney stone lodged through causality around the human pubis. What is bird flu but the risk of a truly successful translation, a torch that burns equally bright in every clutch? Embarrassed by accuracy; I wanted too much. This wish is not willed or chosen, the breakdown isn’t scripted, but I remain attached to a certain territorial vision that superficially mimics some of the worst ideas in history. To touch the dirt and sing a song, to begin with a valid animal instead of a house. Intensity returns from the Isles, this time as what is indisputably next, a restless positive quantity, neither omission nor substitute, but the whole of the refrain.