THE MANIFEST

I see wind because it ruffles the trees. I don't see
music. It
burns on the door at night while I'm trying to bury
myself.
Dreaming of the ruins of her life, she climbs
hand over heel
over blocks and blocks of devastation. The trees here
have been
wrenched into contortions that fling shadows too
gnarled to
breathe in over her face. In the hotel, he drapes a
red silk
scarf over the endtablelamp and waits. Swimming in so
many
contexts is funny or shaped like intrusion; their
bodies slip
through their bodies slipping through nothing solid
but the edge
of the manifest, carefully cut with a pair of scissors
from the
box and scrutinized while the vendor waits. The scarf
stains the
light the same color that ruin would be if he could
dream of the
devastation she sifts through. She finds a human leg.
Kivunjo is a Bantu language with sixteen gender
classes.
That's free. I could fall into several at once,
releasing tufts
of dust because gender is so seldom used. It wouldn't
hurt. Here
there are two, and our case-markers have dissolved. I
only know
what I'm doing by the traces of these opening and
closing the
door all night. To step over the threshold.
The vendor is always late; he doesn't enjoy
waiting for her
to go over the contents of the box with the manifest
in hand.
There are other shops along the wide road that sell
narrowness
constricted to bright colors and smooth music. These
he must get
to, before his day's end. He doesn't enjoy watching
her sift
through the box with the manifest in hand.


=====

http://www.lewislacook.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html
meditation, net art, poeisis: blog http://lewislacook.blogspot.com/


__________________________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
New DSL Internet Access from SBC & Yahoo!
http://sbc.yahoo.com