Doing Undone

It would have to be fragmentary, partial

perhaps pointing, with hope,

like us, living things,

at any given moment:


saying things, not yet said,

ever in the midst of acts,

if there happens to be a real

it must be incomplete and full

of undoing and becoming,

of perhapses and oops


I had started out

at some point,

apparently ‘past,’

taking up this pen

and applying it to this


open screen, unknowable unknown,

had started out toward

an I

in order to write

“I had started out”


but all is different now

and now again,

again, again,


pointing hope

in fragments

assertions and insertions

of possible reals or facts,

some happenings of actuals

be-fore (in face of, in lieu)

words or some expression



It stares out, staring in,

fractured and non-finished,

fetishized with objects

that stand for something else,


always something else

than what “is” or which has been,

unable otherwise,

simply is


unfinished and hardly calculable,


and inexhaustibly exhaustible



seemingly unfinished

and without beginning

(or we would ‘start’)


on a way then, in

midst of,

doing toward undone,