My practice of erasure is a form of meditation wherein I reduce the given vocabulary of a page to an utterance that attempts to function separately from the source text. I accept the inevitable failure of the gesture before I begin. (Even a page completely coated in white out is a conversation with the text buried beneath it.) I find the resignation useful as I carry out a process of generative negation. And then I wonder how different this is from writing without a source text. We don’t own our vocabularies. What isn’t a source text? Everything is. And so I proceed, one way or another, writing.
This is a request or command
This is a salutation or expression
This is an instruction or bit of advice
What’s all this juice and all this joy,
bounding spirit in the bone-house?
If you try to describe the sensation
Of diminishing will
You not arrive at the horizon?
Will you fold a map of these signs and
Positions into a brief moment
Once upon a time—the year I turned
twenty—a man impressed upon me
Jesus is Lord.
Persons of Interest:
Boys in the alley.
The glass of my inventory broke away dead
and there you were, my young moss king,
your face on the dog’s neck, my legend lover of red
on the asylum lawn, walking.
MuslimsThe sun reaches
the middle of its journeyGlossy-starlings
proclaim the radiance
Early in the morning
I ask my mother to sing
braiding from blossoms,
visions and interpretations
Valley hillside provided
speed for the modeling
team, four well-trained
residents tasked to slide
into the coast for photos.
At night, putting your ear to the ground
you can sometimes hear a door slam.
At that moment, all spaces change,
all heights, distances.
The melancholy fiction exchange
sent me a vivid unfinished tale
about a man living in a bird cage
We both got on
the 2 Train at 42nd
street this morning
around 6 am
we chatted about
the dads of Whole