Corporeal Order. Why Disequilibrium.

Why I keep knocking: body, body,

body on the door

of abstraction. Why

else would they (the trees) be

there? Why ears if

not to know how the cave

feels? Why heart

if not to know the mountain’s

slow gold pulse? Still dancing

we each wreathe

need with garish

and garlic-like

felicities. Unnh. Like Biggie said.

Mouth like a mountain, chock

with gold. Or in Ye’s case ice. White

cloud, blue streak. The way Nietzsche

asked, “Can I live?” How Cage

said, “It’s like that.” To pray

for something so unlike

peace that it might

slow war to

amble, stumble, and then