3 March 2020
p0sthuman: the evening before p.109
another late de Kooning
the fact that I didn’t want any of it
except for an endless John Adams riff
folded into a thousand paper planes one
for each day of grief and you
didn’t want any of it either being
post mortem and beyond
need or memory the fact that
the family only wanted bits
and all our bright plain days were
out of sight and undermined
while in my hand I gripped
a wand
ready to ignite all
that moved or should have shone
the fact that now the truth would
never tell itself because
no story needs itself to sing
…
or I’m post mortem too
which casts a different light on things