Armillary Clock, c. 1550, Spring-Driven With Fusee, Verge Escapement
Said baby boy, you’re only funky as your last cut
You focus on the past, your ass’ll be a has-what
—André 3000, “Rosa Parks”
I
There the empress sits, within the glass case,
Untarnished by time. Or,
Wrinkled by time —
Rancid with it.
Through the smudged barrier,
Her golden rings wrap around her body like a perfect O,
Like she has been tilted port to starboard
By a white-monstrous squall
And folded her head into her chest,
Where her regal limbs hardened, grew bark,
And cradled Her Majesty in a silent, eternal hug.
II
I press my knobby nose against the display
And see two planetary faces.
I yearn across the exhibit in my yellow raincoat,
Earbuds blasting Aquemini,
Green boots threatening to step through verbs,
Through Jean De La Garde’s masterwork.
What can be beautiful whose creator is ugly?
What stomps through golden rings & becomes one with time,
Drowns in sterile placard lettering,
Watches you watching me,
Hears “Chonkyfire” penetrate my escapement,
Begins to spin faster & faster,
Shudder under widening, crackling thunderbolt rhythms,
Lose control of the hard vinyl’s
Groove and rock its astral body
Through the display window.
III
We do not know the shape of the clockmaker La Garde’s footprints,
Which were outlived by his wife,
The shapeless widow Marguerite,
And his empress — also widowed.
She has survived him four hundred and seventy years,
Though neither has ever tarnished.
With each passerby that sulks past her throne, she sighs,
Throws her royal hands into the atmosphere, and says,
“What fades away? What falls, dies, turns to dust?”
She has been waiting for an answer
Since the planets twirled into motion
Like so many colorful dreidels.
IV
And there’s a fine line between love and hate, you see,
Can’t wait too late, but baby, I’m on it.
Shake that load off, shake that load off, shake that load off.
V
Take this hammer in case the dust accumulates
On top of these pages.
Well, the verbs are glass,
Stained by musicians
And cobbled together like a kiln.
When the mosaic has shattered
And turned to footprints,
Fix its stained verbs to the bottom of your boots,
Draw new lines in the sand,
And rewrite :: rewire what has been
Stained, destroyed, tarnished.
Dissertation
Versatile, my style switches like a faggot
But not bisexual, I’m an intellectual of rap
I’m a professional, and that’s no question, yo
—Nas, “Halftime”
1. because we have to throw punches
2. i can say “faggot” because i like boys
3. it juts out from your molars & gums up your teeth
4. because we are all numb
5. i saw it in the nursery hanging from the mobile
6. i heard it crawl out of the radio
7. i felt it pace in my chest like a lion in heat
8. just kidding about #7 — we are all numb
9. because a bruise heals
10. when Nas raps “faggot,” i clench my fist
11. The world is yours, the world is yours
12. i felt it twist through my knuckles
13. i heard my amygdala explode
14. i saw it curl into an uppercut
15. One love, one love, one love
16. because i rap the word right alongside him
17. because me & him can take any fuckface
18. because Nas taught me boxing
19. because he’s the right hook
20. & i’m the leftonehundred&five decibels
After “Plunging Asymptote” by Analemma — For Sophie Xeon (1986-2021)
1.
so that a red discoloration pocks my ear
pads: this morning i take out the stink&scrap&stench &
it echoes into the dusk, spins electric sound&spool&string &
thunders&thunders&dies, says,
“remember&remember&remember me & spare me,
spare&save&shield your attention span, & the blasting &
the blasting & — save it, save yourself from &
the dross &, & the dross.”
2.
semantic satiation &.
i write&rewrite&breathe in the dust&dust&dust &
compression :: & :: i dull&deafen&deaden &
scream&slice&scrape & the top of my lungs are &,
filled with & more &, more &, more & i
crave the & i crave the every&every&everything &and i
choke&cough&crush :: & :: compress&compress &. i am dead, sterile, dead&sterile without &.
3.
bass&key&key&line&flash&flash&flash&flash, flash :: & :: feed me&and&and&i.
my hunger&hunger is & the pounding&and& & compression :: BPM :: &.
speakers bleed&gush&trickle&spill&and.
ear & to mouth &: let me tell you a secret.
“before & & pounding & keys&and&flash&dust&dust was a limit&limit&limit.”
mouth &: “limit&hell have become & :: merged :: become limit&hell, limit & hell & &.”
ear&wet&soft&lips &: let me tell you a secret.
“&flash&flash&flash&flash&flash&flash.
&bang&bang&bang&bang&bang&bang.”
4.
When the lights sputter out, dawn strikes the rave floor.
Sun pours through our fishnets, punctured now like chicken wire,
& arcs from tear to bloody nylon tear.
Gunshots, bodies, pills — all popped like red plastic balloons,
Smiley faces stretched across latex, plastered everywhere.
She fell from a ladder, she
Flew too close to the sun, she
Approached infinity.
5.
Plunging asymptote
Against a white noise more torturous than silence
Plunging asymptote
Against a white noise more torturous than silence
Plunging asymptote
Against a white noise more torturous than silence
6.
&silence is torture
&silence is torture
&silence is torture
