Some lines from The Katechon

I'm slowly crafting some new lines for a long poem I've been writing called The Katechon, and I thought to share the short section I read at the Occupy Oakland reading a few weeks back. The blogger editor will certainly break the lines (most are pretty long), so please read each couplet as a single line! This is the first section of the poem I've made public since I started it last year, and while this is still in draft, I'm eager to show what I've been up to!

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This sift bore lard—hist laminar tunc the war way crests fat fast forever
 
hist laminar, sure, remediates incognizable, primal light, cf. sweating plastic sacks of grease grave

vestments of lesser subtlety a vesture of what comes inside throne ((inside throne) (inside throne))

watch me close up the whole face of the ground with the open side of my body—this weepy

maturating show I know I’d peel flame into febrile antecedents how we manifest according to similitude

alone: our breath line according to capacity—press pearls in the open holes in our cheeks can’t shake

the dust off denim—silted lungs—even two-grade-gateways (mercy/grace) cut me back to the world,

come compass me back to this world, strung phylacteries plant quilting points phat corpus,

compliance (little stars) poigned once the guys at the taqueria were shot in the chest,

plugging compulsory quilting points, arms wrapped unwillingly around the waist of resurrection;

I bundle fibrous glands from your midsection, construals, gnostic recidives, these fucking dogs

underfoot around the house or something the surface peels from resurrection—tumid, insolent—

“men” is not wolves, "man" to men arrant, something sacred: men is man’s wolf or something;

availability is also a kind of work or something: “social gelatin” sacrificed as content to survive as form

(Beuys?): the rule (software) is sense-less (the soldier’s body) sense-less “deodand”

(forgetting and/or inventing sense brings rules into existence?) desuetude, finally, to enervate the social gelatin

if ox gore be stoned flaccid, depending on the adjective to live no meat ever came

to her arms, we are abandoned by the meat we know: all this panting young tender saying short