What Is To Be Done

                            If

I could pick one point in all the constellations of time     It

would not be this one. Or that

glistening shock of gold folded into   some

pocket.   Out of place.             Here: find me levitating

on the corner. Next to the Grand Hotel a man is crouched on the tip of a joke selling the tiniest nightmares. “Where ever can we put them all?” I’m shouting across the sea, to one dead moon, then another.

The captain hasn’t been seen in weeks, and a strange blue light flickers out from under his door.

A structure, enthralled by despair, like a body, like a series of bodies. A push. this body, against that body, against all bodies, until all the light is out…

I am saying this to the room, in slow motion. stitching one piece of time to another and another.

II

Having fled into the Forest…

(All these pale resurrections, folded– one by one, into space.)

The Light of The World, drained until all that remains is amnesia. This. We sing beyond or we dilate into nothing. spun out absences gathered hand over hand to plug the holes.      ”First, let me explain about the blood,” he said. waving his hands nervously .

In Autumn we learned of the disappeared states.

I am forever grateful to live in that black disaster, that brackish water filling the boots, it quickens before it fails. Pulled up out and apart, limb by limb, snapping the cold air, as if it were nothing.

The forest, the path, there is neither. Only deeper into the past, layer stacked upon layer. How it reeks and is full of holes just out of sight.

“Everyone here is so ruthless.” Says our ghost, as it wanders into the frame, it is lonely, and its eyes are nothings.

Describe your rate of decay on a scale of eons  Everything here full one time or another. Who will survive this       Stumble out into  what? The Light?

I’ve not found another way to do it just yet. Here, let me sprinkle some of this blood on the ground

III

If we ever are to arrive at the center of the forest. I’ll start the burning there. Can you imagine it? That pillar of smoke. That bloodied horizon. We can bury the masters there. Just a memory now, a hand full of ash turned out.

Over the horizon: A machine made of birds   listing

Are we moving again, fellow travelers? I cannot tell from this room there is no view and I am reliant on the wheeze of the floorboards.