The Lichtenberg Figures. Ben Lerner

      §

      The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays.

      Did you mean “this could go on forever” in a good way?

      Up in the fragrant rafters, moths seek out a finer dust.

      Please feel free to cue or cut

      the lights. Along the order of magnitudes, a glyph,

      portable, narrow—Damn. I’ve lost it. But its shadow. Cast

      in the long run. As the dark touches us up.

      Earlier you asked if I would enter the data like a room, well,

      either the sun has begun to burn

      its manuscripts or I’m an idiot, an idiot

      with my eleven semiprecious rings. Real snow

      on the stage. Fake blood on the snow. Could this go

      on forever in a good way? A brain left lace from age or lightning.

      The chicken is a little dry and/or you’ve ruined my life.

      §

      I had meant to apologize in advance.

      I had meant to jettison all dogmatism in theory and all sclerosis in organization.

      I had meant to place my hand in a position to receive the sun.

      I imagined such a gesture would amount to batter, battery. A cookie

      is not the only substance that receives the shape

      of the instrument with which it’s cut. The man-child tucks

      a flare gun into his sweatpants and sets out

      for a bench of great beauty and peacefulness.

      Like the girl my neighbors sent to Catholic school, tonight

      the moon lies down with any boy who talks of leaving town.

      My cowardice may or may not have a concrete economic foundation.

      I beat Orlando Duran with a ratchet till he bled from his eye.

      I like it when you cut the crust off my sandwiches.

      The name of our state flower changes as it dries.

      §

      In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly,

      to renounce the body’s seven claims to buoyancy. In my day,

      our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained so beautifully

      that cause began to shed its calories

      like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With great ostentation,

      I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day,

      we were reasonable men. Even you women and children

      were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure in every question

      we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were left undone.

      Now I am the only one who knows

      the story of the baleful forms

      our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not

      horrified of how these verbs decline—

      their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?

      §

      What am I the antecedent of?

      When I shave I feel like a Russian.

      When I drink I’m the last Jew in Kansas.

      I sit in my hammock and whittle my rebus.

      I feel disease spread through me like a theory.

      I take a sip from Death’s black daiquiri.

      Darling, my favorite natural abstraction is a tree

      so every time you see one from the highway

      remember the ablative case in which I keep

      your tilde. (A scythe of moon divides

      the cloud. The story regains its upward sweep.)

      O slender spadix projecting from a narrow spathe,

      you are thinner than spaghetti but not as thin as vermicelli.

      You are the first and last indigenous Nintendo.

      §

      We must retract our offerings, burnt as they are.

      We must recall our lines of verse like faulty tires.