Citizens of the First World Can’t See You


Since they have different eyes, the kind you have
not much space in or no space at all to
or if the only problem is space you

invisible thing in any space is not in space, etcetera— 

When you came here you were talking

alone, you were talking in a way one would
aptly describe not quite alone,

yet you were quite alone.

Were you not?

Were you not not quite alone?


There are so many good opportunities you have
talked about, talked over, talked out

and they have swallowed you and they are invisible you 

know like the very space you
carved out for years with a man whose little eyes could peculiarly see
you mostly adorable and patient and alone.

Could he not? 

Could he not be here like you? 

Could he not be here like you
and tell you are the hurt of a shadow, the hurt of his that which is indefinite 

and infinite and gone— 

and here the hurt that he could not be, etcetera— 


You talk you invisible thing
to and for the present to have a form, why this day is this day, you
insist is necessary like a hand you
insist that held you once and then was cut you
insist you invisible thing once adorable and too patient 

and ever alone. 

And all day a hand even though departed slips
lightly down and across your invisible face, rounded and brown

and bruised—

You bruised invisible thing are a form,
a bruised form invisible you are made and could be made again 

and have never been made ever since—

Therefore, insist your bruise.  

Say it is invisible and it is here and you
are not quite alone and ever alone.


Talking about the bruise—

Its pigmentation develops years of fever you
insist are central to history of human labor.

Each year has a zoo and every animal
is waiting, being watched. This is purely manual work you
insist a showcase of uselessness
of bones, of being into invisibility, or some numbness to terror.

Invisibility is here because it is doing fear on you, doing you—

a bruise so formed though no one will ever claim. 

What are we going to use you for?


Organized shelters ghost you and organized
crimes ghost you O bruised form forming nothing. 

You are not here and you are not here 

and you are insisting 

your bruise replaces the body—an act
dehumanizing it is synonymous to asserting love
of a made-invisible kind, discreet, redacted from the origin of species—

O how your bruise translates personhood.

What then of personhood that only bruise can say? 

And what kind of language belongs to bruise that
also belongs to us that we may claim

this is bruise and we know how it feels yet we are something else together.


Always, it is important that language of bruise begins with I.

I came here by foot—
[is this you bruised O a thing insistent?]

I remember the love that walked me here, the loss—
[is this you O a thing insistent?]

I already told everyone his name—
[is this a thing?]
Always, the unthinkable is made into a thing
as though no human is behind, believing it.
The unthinkable is invisibility’s identity, nowhere and enormous.
Punch it into a soldier’s training sock, lose
it in a river where death swims with blood and fright and urine,
drain such river, suck all its water and excrement and kindness—
Very soon the acid rain we didn’t and never wanted
to expect waking this haunted purlieu that has for a long time advanced
our memory has no strength to re-enact violence. We forget what
we remember and the basin we all damned is now filled
again, that basin in which someone is floating, insisting he is floating, 

a faggot 

and dead to all, insisting people are watching.


Stay patient, darling

you insist you have heard it before and want that flash nuance said again.  

What makes you want to hear it again? 

The nuance said was you 

almost lifeless, almost—how you, only you, could see your self lifeless,

self bruised again and again, and how it could never stop
spinning and floating across a land where there is so much
of ruination shown, to show, to be shown, 

to never be shown—

What makes you want to hear it again? 


You don’t want fame, you don’t want gala,
to worship you will even make you more questionable, you don’t want
offering of any kind, you are not a hero you insist—

you are just invisible and you are bruised your kidney hurts
and you haven’t peed for quite a long time, you have just been insisting—

you sit, you float, and then you spin, you talk
up the nebula of cracklings and dust and scraps of clothes and
flesh, your atrophy—

If inside a torn-up house, what are you still doing there?

If you are here, what are you doing there

in which a corpse is found holding a world map,
its hands almost not hands, its face completely null a stinking clay.


Those you encountered said bad smell
of decay is an orientation—to let go without restraint.
They said bad smell makes escape possible and even attractive.
They said from anything that rots grows a gracious tale that safes everybody.

According to all this, something good is happening now 

and you are invisible.

A haze, a travel that begins with death, 
the sound of an old bamboo shoot being broken by slow hands
when slow hands are the only thing moving in everyone’s dream—

repetitive encounters that case your bruise O you a thing insistent.

You always give your body. Here you insist
and the gaze so directed reaches you, bullet fierce
to pass through your body as if behind or beyond is the insisted you
intention and focus and response are putting into logical perspective—

Since logical perspective sees no human is possible here,

this is the completion of your invisibility—

shut off, a nugatory fore, spalled fence that was once a hundred 

tender bones, after which though the heart is still climbing, still genuine—you

insist I came here by foot. 

I remember the love that walked me here, the loss.

I already told everyone his name—