Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Librarian Feature—Issue 44, August 2014)

Jocelyn Saidenberg
Suspensed from Dead letter

We, who have turned our houses into ships, who float and haunt an added open to inwardness to what is oceanlike, like a closed beyond mirroring our traces, now are at ease among shadows. Among shadows I am at ease. I attach to objects, think object, and there it blurs what’s telling what’s thought. And it is mine, endlessly, and this is what exhausts me.

If I could unthought, be the unthinking thought me, nonthinking being me. If I could write me, you or he be my passive. Or if I could breach into the world as your or his failure. For you receive me, bereft of your own experience, floating, hauntingly. Yet I decline to be written, prefer not to be your copy, for inevitably your negligent husbandry abandons me like grass, sea grass, to grow chaotic everywhere, and there I leave the inwardness that is dark.

We who come from mistrust and air, forever losing, lost and losing, because I remain that more unthinkable.

You see me only as your error, or better, an error, but see more now as an atmosphere of error as weather shadow cloud. You resist to think my thinking, refuse my difference, and in this we fail together, our error. It’s neither mine nor yours to expend fully, forgive, please, my absolute. I miss you terribly. That is, your must could only be my last word, your force of necessity assumes your grand, immanent, and insistent, what you’ve called, my weather. Love, gather together in the self-inhabited, suspended, exclusively to itself.

My door is locked to you, and there are no more windows, to say incapable of receiving.

Not yet.

That was me, being occupied, locked from the inside, that is, occupying myself, hardly, poorly. Then, please, read me both ways, as ambiguity, both ways, as unaccounted, for that endangers you and your recording promising whatever pleasure for you, your writing returns you to your own oblivion, not closer to me than ever. Nothing remains? I halt the need, nothing halts nothing but my flowing, stationary but floating, haunting. My error is our alibi. We remain faithful. Enlisted in each other. What do you need, want for me? What I for you? How, love, do we hate being both?

The speed of my pulse, measureless, an aspiration of blood circulating. Blood sharing. Addicted to our pulsations, aspiring for blood for measure and erasure. We do not write but addict, we will through repetition, involuntary need, for we desire desires addicted to their own attachments.

Not storming but a blankness onwards with no colors as if soluble, you would like for me to figure, as if a blankness that is classed as that which escapes classification. You like me, not willed, unrushed and involuntary, bewildered, when you’re that will that cannot be hence a nothing to be read, nothing to be written, no color to be painted. We fall outside, an insoluble nothing, for we have fallen, are felled in our orchard. Love, could it be that what we prefer is nothing itself? Itself doing nothing?

You like me. In a pathless place for want of a road, muted and plain.

For you and I are suspended suspense and then finally what leads to love you said a suspended will suspends thinking, you followed, as if to suggest, I am your returned, everlasting ruin, absolute error, in a world that can’t clothe me, yet fits not at all. Why are you trying to bury me living? Try, try. Our temple’s assembled of ruins.

But when do I need them, do I not need emptied into empty? I figure to myself, bewildering thought returns self-thought, from circumference to center. You write stones and I retrieve myself, if never. I might have fallen save for summoning a path with no signs, a disaster of traces and pasts erased behind me. I am something you don’t know. Get it? Not you, not yours.

But please do not think me insensitive, though indifferent to body, food, mind and even to you. I am not that I feel no pain, for it appears that my thought wishes this thought. Stone thought. Dream you.