Street Sweeper (Me, We)


He don’t know where the future should take him, or he might

(I don’t),

but he definitely don’t know where the future will take him. “Do he need to give credit?” they ask.

(Private property is next…)

Do he need to right write for a future of meaning?

(Pretentiousness rests…)

Do he need anything ‘cept for a hope for meaning?

(There will not be a test.)

What more could he hope for beyond a shared space to mean in?

(And not for the meditations by a fire but just for existing beyond the real or the now, just for human)

And he have that because he are we, because even before language he’ve never been able to communicate instantly—less indirectly probably, but instantly isn’t a possibility, wasn’t, and never could be because even he alone cannot think things in the moment—making sense, as he do, as an afterthought that presumes foresight—and inverting that inevitable order would be the first step

(highly complicated by the second and following steps in which we other minds must intermix and make senses…)

Things are crumbling

(as ever)

and that means that his innards are going to be exposed and the lines of as and is will come crashing together like a pang of the heart that plucks him into pleasure

(And not as figuratively, but as the actual sensation of a short burst of chest pain that leaves the body in a full lull of full calms upon calms)

These words do not penetrate—are perhaps even meaningless—if even a body woven warmly with another—inside the other—does not become one.

May 27th, 2013 - Vancouver