Melissa Buzzeo

 
 from Face
 

 

This is as I mail you. This is as I stuff you in a box and leave you.    This. Which is too careful to go. And too careful to stay. This in front of your face. If it were a face that could face. Could separate: here.   Every street is attached to another.    There are flyers that blow across every face against every street. We are against each other and careful with ourselves reading in reach the overturning of street. The overwhelming of this reach to street. As we are already there. Our feet on the ground and our hands in our pockets. Pockets that are unattached.    That are let. Lent. Leavened.  Missing from before.   A place that acts as arrival. That would want to preface arrival. To make introductory remarks. To measure. To be calm. To offer up all its blueprints for street.   As though mail could be a thing that could be caught.   As though speed could be a thing that could be walked.   As though walk. As though through.   And into this thing.    Again.   I hold you as I walk you. I place you in: introduction.   This thing of the past is not a city of the past because it is in no way met. Because it is sectioned into parts that I can’t memorize. Can’t begin to memorize.   As I implore you. In someone else’s memory.   Grid against grid against grid. As though some blood would drain. As though some bottles would be broken but not at our feet (and where, then?).   I hold you up to bottle.   I imagine the words that go with street. Away from here and into the future. Into some imagined mess of papers. That is already done molting. That is already done with street.    As though reach could be a way of walking.   We are drained in our beginning. We are drained in our becoming. I hold you up: bottle.   And feel the smother of  lying down.    The constant rubbing.    The blue that bleeds. Printless, faceless. Forgotten. Of a code that is for someone else.   To believe that at bottom we are bottom.   To resist the many charitable positions. The many assumed relations. Remembered, a reach back to paper. A single paper.  One single paper in front of your face.   On the ground. Before the tree. West north. Toward some point of entry.    A single paper that’s left behind.    To recuperate. To retaliate itself into being.   This is our way of draining; this is our way of doing walking. Of doing nothing. Of bleeding in front of street because we’ve already been forgotten.   Because this is a paper that lets. As it has let other papers. Because it has already become other papers.   To hold. To feel. To be. Face down and paper.    To mail. Way off.  To walk. Way off.   I hold myself away and into face. How is this possible.    It is not the ground that moves. It is not that the drains have been purchased and repurchased, the grids perfected. It is not that you draw a circle around my face.    There is this constant. There is this belief. There is this purchase.   I lay down and was still. I blew away and faced hoping a street outside of hold. I put my hand to the paper. I faced away hold. Separating. Letting my hands get dirty. Describing street from the inside from the internal the insipid.   Letting the street lie down and be still. This is before: mail and drain and arrest.   This is before every call or car or movement of body.    A mess that became someone else’s hands. A mess that contained. That alerted. That tried to make of marks a body. Points of a precision.    This is as I leave you and forget you and place you in a box.   As every point crumbles before it is announced. Recorded. And how to record: point to line. Delineated from the beginning.    And there with every point on your hands. Before point. How to make a correspondence that won’t contaminate. That will remember without having already forgot. Without already making a grid of memory.   From which side of street?   A passage a passion a reconstitution that would partake. Slowly and with ease. Of itself.   There are too many ideas of street. But don’t we want many ideas. Many ways in many ways out. It’s all been scripted. To outweigh itself.   But not to last.    This is as I mail you and leave you. And face you in a box.

  (c)Buzeo 2006