Forthcoming in Vestiges_07: Catachresis
The valuing of the precariousness
Sometimes trees leak on you & your shit
Because invasive insects are slowly killing
Them, & then you get given good conscience
To smash those little fuckers, though they
May look pretty. On one of the other days
A beetle on a sidewalk outside KB Jones’
Abode seemed attracted to me. I didn’t stoop
So low as to wonder about reciprocation of
Some of that affection & hey, you know when
A creature digs you, but jeez, I wasn’t going to
Harm it either. Maybe I was being a temporary
Jain. Are there temp services set up to investigate
Taking on different belief systems without the terrible
Promise of indoctrination? I don’t know.
We’re supposed to suppose all that can be
Passed off as on-a-stair-type experience
But we in fact know each other too well
& the process of knowing is alarming in
Its brevity. That’s the opposite of what
You’re looking for, but why believe so
Particularly in opposition? Because you
Were taught to? The roofs in Sibiu look
Like they have eyes, but it wasn’t the
Roofs hiding in the walls, monitoring kids’
Relationship to color, and clothing, driving
Them to escape a home reduced to terrifying hoax.
I say fulcrum rather than punctum
Because I’m a fucking punk or
At least got punched in the nuts
By a punk once, who didn’t like
Getting hit by a random snowball.
I spent too much time this week
Being talked to – one is sometimes
Surrounded by mouths. Poor choice
Of words. That at least acknowledges
The outskirts of making decisions
At speed. I wish I had less time.
The things we put up to make living
An ownable surface. Apples nestle
Behind a fold of blue & black
Patterned cloth. Which and of which
I can’t find and can’t see. The hand
The arm, the charcoal one, comes
Out of the wall. Or beginning at hand
The arm recedes back into the wall.
Hands are one answer to anguish.
The mistake may be doubling the
Action reduced by camera to act.
No mouth gets to open today.
None. Our moment of safe
Settlement sits out this one.
Arshile
I wonder if I’m the only sucker
On the verge of tears here in soho
I think I figured out you never figured
Out what you were doing & that intensity
Of not knowing but having still to
Present in certainty is a little bit of
What I love. This time I think I
See you seeing out from the paint
& I would say it’s too much, but I’m
Sitting on a street. I have ripped my
Surface into the foreground, so as to
Hopefully, die on terms I at least might
Begin to utter. I got to see your work
Because it’s 100 years since you came
To this town, & somebody decided
To honor your decision. That’s a whole
Lot of bullshit, & bulls every
Where may be puzzled. See again
How we come back to the perspective
Of animals? Feeling the fear of coming
Forward, reduced to being figures.
I love someone nearby but I can’t tell
Them you’re here. The last thing I
Want is to be believed.
—
Anselm Berrigan’s most recent book is Don’t Forget to Love Me, just out recently from Wave Books. He is the current lecturer for The Bagley-Wright Lecture Series.