Lesson 01
Let’s see. You map a thing out, slice through T & A, C, G, any
four n for your marker; curiously enough, the Chinese may believe
you a necromancer, a Bermuda square. You lie down inside of it,
though I have always reject parallelisms in favor of the blood
flowing one direction, the Moebius highway patter of our mouths
together. We are denser than we frequently believe, my lambda just
shy of the green light guiding you home, slightly more aquatic, your
oceanographer. I chart your terrain. Filaments on the face
of the waters. I the fascia cushioning your strength, tensile &
in wait—at times also the microtome your self requires in looking.
::
Lesson 02
A sharp of gesture. Smooth through your elision the contract
& release of hamstring percusses. A sudden, from the periphery
that flare they hunt after in pictures to cull an essence of
stark Hollywood thralldom, or of ghosts. The same it is odd, even,
the photo-finish curiosity of our meeting, grapple&curve. There must
be an equation for—; sympatrically speciated, by some line out
of true the pattern trace(r)s back to the collision of axes at—
the temperature fluctuates here, in among this alert atmosphere,
tentative &cross. Wires tangled in the trees: I of the sun no
coffin-ship fantasy, a sidewise stain on some old microscope.
::
Lesson 03
You push, fulcrum against me. But only in the looking, the rush
of electrons in/ the cathode ray tube’s vacuum. An insularity
as explosive as any, the artificial states we maintain, abhorrent
as nature listening in on: its own silences. As suspicious as
Boyle groping blindly through after/ something one disturbs but
in feeling only names. The sought-for magic is that in such making
one generates acetylcholine, initiates an exponential series, rocket-
flare: Brenschluss: that we, providential& held, do no harm but wait
in the rush&shudder of tunnel-vision, each to each an effector neuron
shuttling the treatise on which our keys flip, & lock, & change.
::
Lesson 04
Between us is the middle third, that which makes of us a series.
The thought is of being nowhere dense: the mathesis to counteract
our tendency to gravity, the hot levity of unified song. Without that
our numbers indistinguish &lack. Without lack no propulsion for
hypotaxis, our reasoning—insofar as it can be called—stayed, caught
below the horizon of. & how will we build, Babel, in our wordless
bed? How our compression requires more memory, the professional’s
sheen& flare. We do better this, here with the air between us
as dense as/ that which we pretend lacking. The surface of our
math: could fry eggs as easily as retinas. Theory is a fever.
::
Lesson 05
As parallax, we are in the obstruct interference, the illusion
of static that is our winter. At nights we call to other, each
dialysis a slow-drip, expertly timed. We simmer in the data—just
off the bell curve’s planing twinned stars—a dangerous statistic.
I am the shattered fourth tooth of the psi-wheel that lends
your machine identity; that habit is fatal. A skip in the pulse
of your arithmetic, the bruise you tender in memory. That gift
already charred in immanence: consumption’s catch-22: to what end
will we have built our machines if turning we light each other’s
cigarettes? Filtration is only fit in times of violence, or of war.
::
Lesson 06
The flexible lens of our vision: tilt-shift, vertiginous: the eye
planing skitters & catch. Data-loss is focus’s obverse, the awkward
transition. such that, here, an event of particular note sands
us, creeping-of, obliterate. You are cross-wise from: at either end
of a random epicenter, you blur as metal/leather—the chevron of
my scarf trailing. In time we: event-horizon: toward the moment
in which, hot & without sound we cross. Here where there is no light:
the felt shift only, the hand of the novelist guiding: to know
always that even in blood& dissolve, there is no refuge from
the economy of bodies that has freeze this moment:—& presses play.
::
Lesson 07
Between the countable &—where you are. They find us gravely
diseased, transfinite commitment to the thing well-called &
yet, out in this thin air we bijective &grasp, it no longer
mattering for precision or pantheism. For how long can one
call before—if & only if—we cleaving each to each cleave from
&. Along some curve between here & solipsism. Nondenumerable as
blood or information. In that wide plain between one
and zero one finds the retreating paradise of probabilities.
It is here that we meet, as in along the x-axis at the outer
reaches of our looking—your pale of iris, flecks of complement.
