a story about a bruise in light of Lacan’s le sinthome; or, because love rolls in the fifth eye of our homelessness

 

I feel terribly whole tonight because of the nightrain

& the proud No Fireworks sign out there on the street.

I feel terribly dangerous I could let my right hand arm-

 

wrestle the left hand of the clock before midnight

smokes up an illusion of the forgotten ledbetters &

faux romantics. I could smash bricks w/ my silence

& then screw & shout ‘till my bones crow to ask:

 

do you remember your neighbor’s rabbit that fell

in love w/ the rooster because it’s the Year of the Rabbit?

what about rain trees, purple prose, the scattered zines

& rhizomes? don’t they all speak of the symbolic symptom?

 

feel free to say it out loud. panda-eyed, freezing cold,

I know. I know the feeling, the stroke of the bokuseki

brush, the memory on the wall like graffitied genitalia

 

from the ceiling to the floor. I speak my mind free.

i speak it free like when you spill secrets in a public

phone box, insisting that writers send ideas to priso