from Pirke Avot <--> Book of Fathers
by Evan Willner

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The Closed Session

There’s nothing to say that can’t have been said already.
Some nodding. Scattered ahs. Others patch their rebuttal
out of torso and limb: go on, they say, squeeze your fingers in
and sleeve down to the intestine’s peristalsis press and roll
and press until it grapples you, convulses, and testifies, because,
even though it is the very Law being laid down here, or shaken out
of fables or wrung from beards and numbered by ones – Art. 1 on being
sayable; Art. 2 on terms bodied from 1; 3 the combination
of words that waterboards prisoners to keep them from speaking with the voice
of the waterboarded –, which means a room closed so tight not even God
could insert an amicus word, even so, each gurgle must
be introduced into evidence, each throat intubated
and each stomach pumped until all objections are heard.


--

 

Suspended in the hole in your mother with nothing bet
ter to do than diversify, distribute, bend dumb space and
wait, you’ve probably got some acoustic meatus by
now so you’ll hear maybe if I come close to mommy’s stomach
knot and shout. Maybe you’ll feel me too if I push you or
don’t, manually reincorporate you or cut you off,
little parasitic twin. Soon, without even trying,
I’ll teach you to listen, to eat the meat I bring you, to smell
my adult smell in every love’s breath and in the pavement
tbat will pop your big mouth – or you could fuck us all: why not breathe
your own stink into every body like viral God, hi
jack 10, 000, 000,000,000 cells and pull all the triggers? Of course, knowing
us, I’m sure you’ll unfold like you should, meet the benchmarks and
receive all 613 commandments because that’s what
I made you to do and often I’m not sorry I did.


--

 

Something mother born demented
with trisomy so every cell is bulging
hard with perfect wrongness and their wrongness is perfect
ly reproduced 100,000,000,000,000 times 1
00,000,000,000,000 times so everything in it is wrong
may survive, opening and closing its holes for 2

years, tops. There will be parents, too,
who share the pity they made, and if you can
reach them, tell them, “Mom and Dad, while there’s no evidence
to suggest that your doll is thinking of a
desert veined with back and forth caravans, an eco
nomy of salt blocks, arms and medicine under give
away moonlight, there’s nothing to indicate it’s not.”







Habeas Corpus! (Shred the Paper Wittgenstein & Uncover an Ethics in the Grotesque Body)