Lay People

I.

we are no longer

allowed to breathe

through our bodies

space is rejected as void

and the way 

– the open

foreclosed 

like our aspirations

by arrhythmia

and dejecta, 

onus of social somatics

breed 

peddlers of lack

where there is plenum,

they profit on your pain

ever poised to strangle, 

infinity

in pablum epoch

lay people

stranded 

localized respiration

palpitation half sleep 

of hostage,

it’s just noise… thoughts

Machinations of the supra-clock

the body abjected

to fetter

subject to stain,

trial of Being

in the sacking of spaciousness

they want to render us coherent

inspire catatonic crawls

defilements

in the marketplace

we are bought and sold

ad infinitum

the migrants carry tents

The vulgarians mock emanation

commit us all to the silos 

of this supra-clinic 

tame

and maul becomings

II.

there can be no body breath

when the glorious pores

of the primal face 

are smothered by personae

Prana extinguished

so too ganglia and plexus

along with all that is indestructible and kind

cut

over and over again

by purveyors of taxonomy and classification

blind

clinging to Being

they posit that the cosmos is a closed system

And nobody on Earth

knows what to do about it

everybody should do something 

about their selves

something is missing

disavowed by wishful countenance

not worth nothing

when the world is on fire

burning in the lungs

the nostrils

many bodies play dead

on the beaches in the hot season

pores suffocated by lotion

arrogant crowds

shills for bourgeois reason

bothered by the saltiness of the mouth,

steadfast harbinger

it is,

teacher of expanse

III.

What is the body of the breath?

longing

curved

circular¹

settling around

sui generis

it serves no one

does not need to pray

like primal ethereal 

sacrifice itself

for creation and the elements

above the flailing frays 

of being born

creation depends on dissipation

and the body breath 

and children who play

who never sigh

turning the wheel

experts in becoming 

mutable

IV.

But I cannot find a quiet place. In the west, the groves are gone.

I am reduced to nose mouth throat bronchi

mammal

no body

tragedy of the precipice

of knowing and practice

the translucence

little drops of radiance 

ordinary grace

rationed

so rare

trammeled by the condition of being born,

lay people

manhandled

- pushed off the path

Where is the diamond diaphanous 

that once cared for this quotidian? 

parrying the strain 

of living in society

where we are all,

tenacity broke

spiritus compromised

laboring bodies

hyper tensions,

some carry mattresses on their backs

all are weaned on teat of howler

- laissez-faire

suckled on werewolf

- scarcity and debt

no more tarrying with creations fecund

burning for full breath

breathing only under duress

grieving

loneliness is an epidemic too,

loss of intrepid grace

trampled,

along with the safety,

the fairness,

of a lifeworld

V.

The inhale is life. The exhale is death. What happens when the inhale is death too?

VI.

In the interim, and until then, you are not absolved of your obligations. You must toil for this and also explain death to a child.

What dies?

All death

not just friends and family 

Explain All Death.

without speculation

VII.

We blow white balloons

release them by the lake

abode of the ancient sturgeon

the dead

buoyed and transposed above

soft eyes

we squint the white dot

till it enters into full repose

of original self-regulating system

breath pushing our breath pushing their breath

Prana assemblage

tint and timbre of consoling vitalism

wisdom of wafting spheres

purging the traumatic kernel of its...

It is not uncommon to find exhausted  

white balloons 

floating on the water above the sturgeon

perched on backyard branches

resting

swaying on unmowed lawns

comingling mana 

in the raked leaves of

the fall

fodder for Pachamama

fate

of ether stowaways

costs nothing

to look for any home,

the commons

Was it a birthday party?

Was it the sigh of a tired clown?

Was it a mother 

or father,

with a child by the water 

blowing balloons?

dying to explain it away

no matter,

soon,

it is all around us

¹ In 1993, at the Hothouse in Chicago, the saxophonist, Charles Gayle -“Streets” - the homeless clown, told me that “circular breathing was unnatural.” He then played variations on Repent.