The Confession, or, “I am a thing that breaks” – Laurie Sheck

I’ll map it out for you.

No, I’ll inscribe it.

47 cuts (myopic) in everything.

  1. That’s as far back as the lineage has been traced. A patchwork of stitches, genes, and lines (or lies).

Unfinished.  Inability to understand apparatus.  Has not accomplished death.

Librarian, parent: attempts to track, preserve, and access – things precious, silent, useful.

Pseudo-scholar (any otherwise?), thinker: an inability to avoid pollution when considering or engaging relics of world.

If desired sexually, probably will… it depends.

Begins halfway.

Sometimes only in pieces.

Life is hard to figure.  Mostly illegible, as well.

47 marks on anything.

Read what you can, listen.

Smells are.

Skin-shaped textures.  Walks on land.  Occasionally tree or canyon.  Mountain, river, ravine.

As easy to trace as wind.

Whatever being.

Kiss for kiss.  Breathing.

Something (someone?) called “melody.”

Hurts too.

.

Intimate uncertainty?  Certainly not.  Perhaps.  She would know.

Maybe furry, fuzzy androgyny.

Offspring reveals: “Crow’s a Decomposer.”

.

Decomposer.

.

What is poet?

Said all things grow, cannot hold, to dust and such.  Singing.

Some might remember.

Touch.  Taste.  Trying.

.

Loves deeply.  Expects nothing but passing, passage.

Fabricates patterns.

Dances.  Slowly.  Grasslands.  Prairie.

AND.  OR.  NOT.  (every day. moment) +/-?

What equals?

.

Like erasure.  Accumulation.  Obscurity.

Sometimes.

.

Decomposer.  Lover.  Friend.  Everenemy.

Anonymity.

.

“Love” (used, spoken, felt, lost, wished-for, pondered).

.

Language, landscape, living organism… perhaps that equals.

.

Sing “You Fucking Did It”

When does death arrive?  Why?

.

Glossy haze = language, landscape, living organism.

.

Children.  Music.  Language.  Elements of play.

Emotion.

Sex.

.

Stretched out.  A boy and a girl (E. Whitacre).  A boy and a boy.  Girl upon girl.  They and them.

Exchanging foam.

.

A poet working a way to an underworld.

Death is.  (a “thing”).  Exists.  =.

.

Kansas:  what gives silence for silence.

As easy to trace as wind.

.

Igloo.  Cabin.  Family farm.

DNA.  Bacteria.  Cancer(ous) cellular cell’d activity.

.

The living.  The dying.

.

Unfinished undoing.

.

47 paces toward the dark.

.

Re-membering foam.

.

How life gets made.  A ratchet, a sprocket, an engine and a wheel.  Add water.  Fuel to the fire.  Desiccate.

.

Perhaps it will rain.  A slight ritard.  Some sounding quiet.  Remediate.

.

Take 47:

Watching flowers blooming to dissolve.  A capture.

Sight slated to dim.  Shuffling ensues.  The stoop.

In a chair nearby, another.  More better for company.  When alone.

Exchanging foam.

47 paces in the fog.

Take three, four, and so on.

.

Circle round.  Loop back.  Never again.

Erasure.

Easy to trace as wind.

.

Leaving lights on.

Reading words, far from men.

Lost facilities.  The stakes.

Dwindle toward final.

The effort, the offspring, the progeny.

Prognosis.

.

47 accounts of the night and the wheel-well thickened with road.

Splashes the mill.  Grinds crank.  Pressures to turn,

turning back, away, toward.

Another.

47 gaps in the shawl.  Inconnu.

With something like delight.  How to stand before them.

Poeting down for underworld.

Looking back.

Slows.

Was there ever progress?

Thinks over.

Takes the hand.

Strikes the key.  The 47th.

.

Saturate for stupid.  Loses steps.  Must wake.

A happy mess.  Weighted results, dependencies, accumulation.

As easy to trace as wind.

Utilizes snow too much.  The rain.

Abandoned places.  What removes.  The melt.  What remains.

The unfinished.  Undoing.  Become.

.

For ‘I’ is a thing that breaks.

.

47 footprints from the hands.  The notable.

Swirly ways of working.  Feels like – .

Inspiration hopelessness.  This language.

This living organism.  Landscape.

47 miles to go.  All the cracks and divets.

Bolt after bolt unscrolled as flesh.  Laid out.  Stretched out.  Smoothed.  Sagged.  Ironed.  Smelt.

Felt for quality.  Caressed and examined.

The lonely wonder.  Represent.

47 X x = ?

.

Confusion persuasive.  Revelation / insight.  Chords resolve.  Dissonance.

Language + landscape + living.  47 measures.

Months go by.  Chairs and couches filled by others’ beds.  Warmth weighs.

Waits on wisdom.  Depletion.  Adventure as excited strain.

.

Poison intravenous.  Copulating cells and fluids.

Ends of the guilty.  Interpret unfinished systems.  Dis-ease.

The long whine wail across the prairie.  Animal manual.  Wind wires rain.

What gets whispered and transcribed.

Stumbling toward the underworld.  Looking back.

Eyes up, ocean bottom.

Some things are out of hand.

Like danger.

The grey and black.  The dimming.

47 warnings.  The morning comes.

.

Making it.  Happens.

Diagnoses and analyses.

Shuffles, stumbles, strikes the keys.

Easy to trace as wind.

Chorded coagulation, confounding,

comprehending (very little, almost nothing)

language, landscape, living,

another note tunes the swing on the porch –

inconnu – 

what’s wide open, open wide

.

Shrewd and undiminished.

Minimize = understanding.

A matter of scale,

for I am a thing that breaks.

.

47 slices of nothing.

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2 thoughts on “The Confession, or, “I am a thing that breaks” – Laurie Sheck

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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