Benjamin Biesek workshopped with the poet Christopher Soto in 2018 and resides in coastal California.
My Sense of Self Floods the System
Hushed in the rift, the fountainhead of the codices
Obliterated; & generation is kept sideways as if dreamt.
As if imagination could ever manifest daylight, remnants
Of blight linger in complicated days, coma of
Those who asphyxiate: who await time between summers,
Muted chaos, all their violence. The intricate practices & means;
The edges of days, the tumult & unsighted faith in our registers,
Our automobiles, those who tell life wise & sideways
Glances approve-of. In the source ciphers,
In relics caged, some alternative way, try confidence
& Blind yourself with avarice, this day.
My sense of self deluges the system. I consider it,
The barren page or the child who swam away,
To surface the Moon, paint it brilliant in hue,
Enough of this masquerade, this doubloon-as-pandemic
Infidelity I am removing. In stellular glances
Lancets cleaving night; O the flame,
Remembrance of paucity, the plague all around you
Gathering rice in tides to forge a unique infestation,
Once of governance, of dignity, of false registers
& Hitting high notes.
My sun is yours, my fantasy yours, too.
We plunge to pieces, sew stitches & time as
A continuum is a mirrored obelisk in a cloudy forest,
A dwelling we recall now set to cairn, once set aflame,
A half-way-domicile man dreaming of sparks to elide,
To catch cancer as it dwells, where it lives is not
My gesture of sanction; this rent divide, the gone
All his life tablets set, manners, wept-for, bled so much
That in obsolescence the kneel is forgotten, is lobbed
& Lodged for approval — dapper don, dawn of the night,
Soldiering on, fighting a good altercation.
My rear end between my legs, I litter seeds
& Gum saplings tote weight, the brutality of which
Is voracious men in between marriages, bent on
High pressure, neutered visions of grain in a pan
& Dwindling stock. & though I fend off these who
Defend against, I know the boards can turn in an instant!
I know that postponement is mine! That suffocation is scheduled
In unpaid time. I think of all the junctures left &.
& I conjecture what plumbs the depths for me,
Insists I rig the elevated lens for satisfaction.
Is nothing chaotic? Is the world a sickness?
I, wonder! I, fascination!
In destroyed dreams concave rooms with hollow-tipped
Viscera, the fiction of fantasy or horror.
In the darkness the earth emerges desolate as night
& What’s dun is a Sacrament, a hallway towards our heart.
Great number, few go on; in chance we criticize
& Compile avarice, disdain; crippled wheat in a meadow
Nearby to flame, to take upon oneself the weight, to carry off
Into new borderlines, the disquietude as it unfolds,
Not ever growing old, just sprouting hours in a glass jar,
A bell & whistle, some caviar upon a disk of germ.
When learning matters, when I am lapsed, that will be
The discontinuance I seek & the candidates will urge it.
The magpies who profit, seers awe-inspiring
In the rearview & all those planetoids bred
Compunction perfectly. So say goodnight,
Bite down hard on hollow lips; ravage the petty, the noble,
Those who at no time had it beginning with…
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