E v a F u C h a n g —

I heard the intonation without the religion. just the way I wanted it. I would draw floor plans
and make programs. I would conduct without a clock. one more click and this can be erased. one
more hour we push out hair and skin and shed.

her pale eyes from window upon window. framed her lips in time. she left backward. pulling away
down the road. where he would stare for the rest of his later life. lands are gone. towns of
hills in distance are connected by foot in circle. many sounds have no agreement with the
throats. Splenditello speaks and there is no more work. don’t even bleed for credibility. make
love through him. and burn the circuit.

the irrational’s immortality. protects swans. folds napkins. draws maps. and long live her
philosophy. short and composed. she would always wait. worthy of trust. owns a huge past to
fall back on. expose little. know the hunters. keep the line. but we are on our own with no
past. there isn’t a playbook drawing diagrams. we would exhibit all sorts of things. kind and
inappropriate. short of beats. that might need an end.

we are impatient for the death to by prayed. she is in bed. dropping her tepid head. we see the
light that is dirty. dirty fills our mouths and eyes. we can’t say anything we want. but the
texture of the sweet and the dust. of the smell. of compensating for our body. of being taken
hold of by presence. presence could be an attack. or a new sign of time. I wasn’t sure it was
bad. I wasn’t sure what that was. if only I were alone. I would let it last.

I am a little dizzy. tight. the guard stared at Father State towering over him. ready to be
destroyed. ready to work in natural lights and be cold. ready to be lost in the country.
melodies, gravities, mercuries. ocean could break the simulation. future and hope. we marched
quietly on the platform. I would be the only person thinking about this. I wouldn’t be any
different if I lived their lives.

I stood before a publishing house now turned apartment. thinking of history. of the thoughts
that get me again and again into a failed track of bubbles. sunscrubbed and liquidy. what if I
can’t go there. what if the ceiling height is crowded with chimp voices in language.

that is her. the strangest and the sexual. that’s all very detached from the image. the world.
a coiled strange under-common being. whose strangeness has a cover. she is loyal and so her
desires leave marks. consolidation is her salvation. gather in these pieces. and be one strange
person.

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