Rupture Blake Butler
We'd went through the bruise house lighting candles, hiding fire,
licking bone. We'd could not had found the year gun or the butter.
There was all this murmur matter hammered in the sink beneath sink, the
way I had in every evenings in the light, pressed flat against the wall
there of my father and his wall as well, the wall behind his room where
he had made me with the women and the burnlight and the ream, where in
the flat hull masked up from those rooms I'd had learned to learn a
word, one word for what my coming years were, what would all come in
and out of me. I'd hid there wrapped up in me until in my meat the word
could not be held, until in the rhythm in the lit light in the house
there the word had burst out of me aloud, spoken once there in the wet
room with my father in his wish, his eyes crossed in the stunning. The
word had shook the room. In the shaking, through the ceiling, the rod
had come into the house. The rod dislodged from somewhere aimed above
us always, through and through and down and down. The rod had struck
the cat down in its insert, pilling the carpet around it in a guzz, the
orgasmed cat had crying out there where it had tried hard in the way it
wanted more and more. Please
disregard please in your own house the sound forever also, where would
if you'd had put your head against it rightly you'd would also would
explode. In the house as when the rod went through the cat
the cat had gived off in the house out of its ears and ass, the cat
erupted in clean colors, loaming, the words I'd hid hung from my other
in her rashy rashing racks of meat and swim and saw, the itch of which
there where in splitter and with white hot heat-want hit hard in mass
against my chest, my flat chest where the milk had hadn't and where
still in the nights I felt the mouths. There with the splash gush of
the cat meat through her hot holes came into the air against my lungs:
the rupture with would kissed the roll of ocean in me, light and water,
which where in white nights after I could will lean myself against
myself and hear me there, though
when I hear me in this hearing, I so much can not hear again so long.
As did the rod come into the house there in the house there my father
did not blink. At first the rod, the brunt of tremor, my father, my
father's name I can not name now, though
it is the same name as my name is when I've said it, I will not say it
is how it is now, not for none there in this ignition, do not ask.
My father, he'd had, he'd called it coming, he'd said he'd seen it on
its way for days, such stink; he'd had stood aimed with one arm weeks
straight through the roof there where in the warm day there the rod at
once had cut; the other arm aimed at my head directly, wherever I would
move, unless would I would move against him, there then the arms together
would hold words too. My father in the room there where
the rod had had had truly to him come through and touched the house
there, bursting, the rod sawed straight through my father's leg. My
father bleeding from his leg meat running, sunning open, did not blink.
He put his fork down there against him where from where he'd been
digging through the other cat's black fat, a twin, for fleas that we
would eat. In the room new around the rod my father watched his leg
jump in his ejection warm of sputum hid, where he'd had hid ideas
inside as well and also, in his leg there pilling inward and on against
itself for years, for all those years there coming off, spooling in
color blather axis like a spitter feed set for a seedbed where would
the future stoning forest across our lawn and home and graves would
soon be seated, the same sac'd seed from what he'd made me and from
where when in the night I walked in skeins of light. My father,
skinless, soring, watched his inner matter come cracked and spin up off
into the hue in pigeoned curls, up not as a fountain or percussion but
as the kind of wet that comes from need, the kind of need that comes
from have had having had hid and me too in ways through walls wake in
the no night. Where in the room there, by my father, from his new hole
came the blood plumed, encoiling on the air meat, folding up and out in
tines, calling the other air and ashing hours, the cells of cells of
our upright, calming the house around the rod as well the plume swelled
and wrapped around my father's head, my father named after my father,
and father's father, named after me, the halves of me hid in my owning,
who for who which also I am named, the blood plume coiling
in behind him to wrap the father in one lidless touchless shroud, a
shroud so dense I could had could not fit my hands in, could I could
not find the door. Though
there the rod did not destroy me though there I watched my father fry.
Where the rod touched
me, its swelling, I found that I could move. I found that I could be
the father, the him inside him, the me inside the him inside him, the
weight of all of my unbrothered brothers, the wick of locks, the
halves, the ladder. The black rod swoll there in the house there and me
against it and me in rub where I could rub, where would I could put it
in me in the saying silence and hear the locks at once all come
unclicked.
Blake Butler's Ever,
from Calamari Press, has just been released.
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