subsection from: we force-effect the oubliette
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We needed to name and

name again

the diversities. The color of the trees

before we left

and the color of the trees when we returned. It was as if they unintentionally binged

on their

own


estrus


which rushed them toward encounter with their next. We wished that the forms


could hang back a bit


and feast on the sustenance


of what was mating within them.



Spring shoved toward summer. Summer, which was a forthcoming, unknown, loss.



We wished they could torch spring (their own embodiment) like a jazz singer torches the love song

or the ballad

of grief.  



Crèches evoking


by way of experimental


crescendos. Cymbals heard


as provocation in the


flitting garden. The garden that surrounds

produces wishbones

         as its blooms and fruits.



Oh the dramatic misuses that bring us in proximity to new muses which lead us to new uses.



When Maxima takes one of these wishbones in hand

and violently shakes and

mutters,

we know that boi must be howling as boi pushes.


When we sleep we see visions of boi dragging a hoe or a pitchfork over the seism.


Extracting bits of beveled glass that still have in them the sounds of a father’s voice. We reminisce 

on

what it felt like to have an active father.


Now, in place of him or man: The empty whiskey.
An archive with no new exertions.


Do all fathers gobble up their virgin children? Do all Virgin de Guadalupe heroines

discharge in our displaced name?  


We are trying to unleash the urges through these honest, unguent, nudges,

toward merge.


We,

as non-frail succinctness.


As the place and pace where bulls turn into bullion. What happened

next to what happened,

in the barn

when we were so much younger.


To reverse carcasses

by way of

great tumefaction activisms.  


Scraps becoming harp strings

that get bloated

as we continually try to return. So much far

blue rotary

like an ocean’s

rolling. Vitriol and ache can become awe.







In an attempt to re-rise we travel to the anonymous lake

where the Virgin de Guadalupe statues lay,

congregated.






We decide we will re-submerge them. Subsume them, in.







You swore to know me by sound first.







The same as Satie playing cello

in the curves

of an always upcoming, cubist, flower. Instances of responsible, responsive, glistening.






We made the scene by becoming 

the scene. The tones of the scene’s occurrence.





j/j hastain is the author of several cross-genre books including riding the lace barometer (ISMs Press), trans-genre book libertine monk (Scrambler Press), treoOA (Marsh Hawk Press (with Eileen Tabios)), approximating diapason (Spuyten Duyvil Press (with tod thilleman)) and anti-memoir a vigorous (Black Coffee Press/ Eight Ball Press (forthcoming)). j/j’s writing has most recently appeared in Caketrain, Trickhouse, Housefire, Bombay Gin and Aufgabe.