There is no permanence for
the standards of design.
We can push analysis into a circle.
We live outside of reimbursements
or the possibilities of language.
There exists a belief that the doing
is reason enough. We think we are
trying when we make a trying face.
I need you to know: I support your
badness—your residue of meanness;
I support your faith in the endurance of force.
I am a superficial reader of emptiness.
I tend to deregulate reason in the context
of text, or in the context of speaking. We
can't get any closer to a superior coding
system for evidence. We have a sonic system—
a code of rules. You listen through me. We
repartition our sounds—long long and short.
We invite the encore
where the holorhythms unravel. Simple echoes eschew the texture. We're being lectured about. Your beats. We are everyday rhythmically completed. Part of me gives and part of you bifurcates. We are queens arriving around the same time. My eggs are heavy-handed and we give ourselves to these offenses—our enfances.