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…
*
ISACOUSTIC* 
Reblogged this on kingsoftrain.
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