This being an account of or reckoning under the weight of a true fact that there are states only known through their being abandoned. There is no being without the generosity of limits. Bernadette Mayer is combing my hair. The world is a navel again. This being an account of shelter’s turning point. I do not have the language for the violence of personhood, she said as she unknotted me. Had I known then how to see the field of unknotting figuration, I might have also seen the unknotting evening dipping into the unknotted and knowable eardrum, tuning in and out collapsed, combed through, the distance from each instrument bodily begun.










I am indebted to trash. I am indebted to the speech act. I am lodged in my debts to my no name body.




I shouldn’t admit to it




I was supposed to become an artist




the music in the room was an instrument too




I am indebted to the illegal middle. borrowing from the outskirts I can say with certainty there is a center.



I wanted to be a writer detecting changes




narrative barraging what is and is not available to us




directly on tape you see I am doing this consciously




I present precious immobile dimensions




being sometimes called sex




finally I get to write my own




full of sloppy knots




being indebted I pierce the no name courtship in the wake of the no name spirit’s death




I have something to sell




there was never anything to sell




even when I thought it wouldn’t be meaningful




hear a vibration pattern




I put it all in




indebted to the concept of the walk I go for a walk, what else would you have me do?




I couldn’t bear to put it in, all of it




I see a hand pointing towards a door




I see as if these images were a story




this is a reply




I would like to speak to you now of the sacred contested walk




I was just trying to do this impossible thing




bypass all the others




experience performance and rest at the same time




being indebted to the umbilicus, I saw this is how you flourish, bait and catch, this is how the dirty aesthetic calls on you. there we were acting out the eclipse, performing the moon, and discussing how the divine would always and forever be contested




basically I couldn’t cure myself of writing in space and time close up




and if the pen would just run out already





in other words this is an excerpt pulsating




enlightened reach I delight in idiocy in my own stupidity for I am truly and gloriously indebted




I am working on naked listening masked




also there were these people who used to be in cages




whatever the human limit is a carnival is laced with




I found myself using that phrase ‘the human limit’ and pictured brackets around my experience, but more of that later, history as a cage




because being indebted I saw our own vessels were not lost enough




what am I doing here? I had to write what my intentions were




perform this process of an ordinary phrase




but then I didn’t




I gave up in despair because when you study you generate all ways of thinking




the idea of being indebted to the no name free falls down my shoulders. no name is caressing me.




what would you think about someone who is in a cage? you see, I had claimed the individual was a thing that exists




the first to conceive of the bond and separation in the unwork of work




you have to try to remember your frustration




impossible intimacies hovering




borrowing from joy I could say with certainty I had my private research




what should we do next with desire? I want to read this poem




and by doing so I could ignore the abstraction of endings




seeing you free fall I could say there was gratitude



I know it came from me




I was able to be accurate, I own that it had more to do with my own shape




there is nothing logical or meaningful thank god I am devoted to walking
out




except in the way I’m speaking about drifting and associations I own that I am a recurrence




I had been wanting for a long time to associate this image of the cage with a kind of defiance the performance which speaks as a form of payment




then suddenly it was pointed out to me a cage is anything but




so I ask, should you throw this away? what I previously called splendor




it’s no more than anything that is written on paper




an explanation of my own education




can’t something be made of all of that?



I shuffled and amassed and it was incredibly raw I never overcame the no name spirit that I once saw on display in the no name garden the no name inhalation closing against the suckled fiendish and raw there is nothing left to know




I tried to make something of what I had learned




all of a sudden there is an equation a shape of logic a spectrum




as sound I found it interesting




to put things next to each other that’s how you encounter the folds




these are my horrible notes otherwise where do ideas come from?




all gone somehow




before it’s even talked about




lists of dates of battles, the warring consciousness restored




what do you do with that whatever speaking is




as a writer as someone who deals in variation




I don’t know exactly




I felt in the end I had to say this is what happened and who even am I?




being indebted suddenly this day was lost, remainderless, toss it




there is a problem in writing




I expect something




murmurs backlogs in a fictive stupor and being in debt as the solitary figure




to be alerted to levels of meaning




when I understand better this bug




all speak or else someone speaks for it, myself becoming the world





this final page of my notes is about indifference




the adorned face of the confusion of having been taken by storm




the face of my education upon me




and I do, I walk out and I expect something