Jake Syersak

*

ON WHAT TO BASE THE BASSDRUM OF A BULL-LULL

Whose nostrils so algebraic bassoon a proof of life in math, and at the same
time sing asthmatically to singe? You, bull—the one I’m inventing from a
bass of its bronchial archives. Clarity is death, mystique, disappearance, a
trance of rain explaining color to Saran Wrap. So bear with me. I want none
of it. Rouge-bull, wherefrom how you purr like a carburetor. Rouge-bull,
when you exhale I see all the Corvette your face is, all the cursive
horsepower a horse’s face is, paint the wild organ of your snout’s
machinery. But you, rouge-bull are bull, twice removed. You are gears &
pulleys intertwined with mine. Sinews of organ. Skin. Liver. Brain. Kidney
& tendon. Cartilage. Spleen & Vein—intestines & arteries simply because
this beast bursts breath to converge on me. Alive, anon, & on & on, you
amount to a simile about air on air. Mine. I never understood lungs—the
function, yes. The gyration of balloonery specter-injects a life into the
motion of a flexed fistful of bovine muscle? No. I don’t care anymore, and
that’s half the battle. To live as an eye superimposed on another eye is the
real sexy of geometry. I need to trust this hot-wiring job, I think. I need to
be building a bull, I think. Attentive to hiccups, sparks, lolling will-o-wisps,
along a highway that’s asthmatic to the math I’ve arranged of this etch-a-
sketch, this wildthing, this heiroglyph of a shoelace highway peel-out
rubber-burned debris animal-boning its way backwards into a vehicle
drawn by a skeletal diagram of my own hooves and error.

*

UM’S ASYLUM

It is easier for a bull to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for one to
actually see a bull. How I see a bull is how I see a bull I see: through the um
asylum—the only architecture my body ever said yes to. That I am a
transparent eyeball, in a sea of Visine, oozing zoos of its own chemistry to
excavate its long lost contact lens. That my um asylum’s a silo. That I am
the scythe discovered as Ariadne’s best loved comb design. That I am that
type-key labeled insert that is the ever-ready apocalypse of the next line. I
am the perfect absence. A pause, a caesura, the wrote comes after the writ.
The angel that wrestled Jacob in a religious battle-royale kick-fit. The
alarum of the King of kings, of whose men & all of their angels wrestled
poor Jacob and, try as they might, couldn’t put Jacob together again. This
is how I do the bull in different voices. A photograph trying to explain a kilo
by taking a picture of a scale to show the weight of a ghost is the most
perfect ghost. Think about that. Which, historically, has been more
powerful: a ghost or the metaphor thereof? Or I might ask you this: in
which do you most believe?

*

Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: