Alexis Orgera



I do this thing, I do and you
and you do too and to wit, to vision,

to share roots with the Sanskrit veda
nothing makes so much

sense on a bleak Sunday and the body
displaced, like physically

displaced, man nor do you know
if you are man

or you are woe-to-man, though you know—
as though in two parts in a last

life—you are whole. What sound makes
ambition, what sound violence.

I do this thing, and I do it
denim vest, pedestal friend, best-in-

the-tearoom. I do it best,
to see: videre. I do it most, to be

quickest to react to pulse
and stardom. The domain of stars,

is my point here. In the heavens,
winners win, and to be one

of them, to achieve one thing most.
Another’s body is the major

infraction. Another’s body what one
wants, a wanting, withered

plant, supplanted against doing.
I do, this thing, and you.

Do too, go to, stained on.
A mess of it invested, yes.



Live in a night-house; live where daylight ain’t gonna
penetrate, windowless but thin-walled so you hear

the breeze outside, and isn’t it the strongest thing
in your life at your desk, sitting, no sun and the sound

of the wind? No, the sound of violins! Music of penitence,
music of crescendo. A woman in this house talks and talks

and you shouldn’t shut her up. A sewn woman,
history proves, equals a hibernating

tongue. Take anger out on winter, the things
you hate a lot. Then you’ll want to say, I like _____ a lot.

Say, and I really fucking love _____. Say so
every day. Liking the _____ when nobody else does.

Ask yourself, What do I want to say about the giving tree?
Imagine yourself as the boy and see yourself

climb. Think of it from the perspective of one
who goes away. One of the prodigal sons

of the Florida humidity. Even amidst your mom’s
tears. Know that you protected someone

from their demonics. Know that you’re kinetic.
Question your otherness, if only to question your own

comforts. Remember and remember that you
were the one who flew the coup. To Boston. To Los

Angeles where you knew nobody would follow.
Take away the present, and you’re left

on a bicycle in the rain. You’re an appleseed
reveler. Okay, so read the book!

and pilot the wayward
episodics, how they soar, how they land.

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