As my poems begin to stir in the fault, the blank [ —— ] recedes and in its place there emerges this phony apparition fragile appearance which seems to sense materialize a fundamental convergence interpenetration of private intimacies and public attitudes pleasure and surveillance, affection and war. Value clings to the soldier like self-preservation a film of cash, relation of no relation betraying my love for the death drive. This is how history succumbs to natural force, which erodes its stable meanings with implacable puissance as they incline toward ruin and waste. My soldier is no match for this, he’s too real, being capital’s proper corpus, extension of its management and concern. Still the soldier has a hard time not exposing himself his member as caricature or parody. As if to parry history’s blow, he appears like an allegory of contemporary decay, dislodging word from meaning, driving a wedge between costume and life, subjecting even the most reliable of all appearances his own to the dissipation it is his function to forestall. This is how a transparent appearance all buxom mass and sterling girth becomes my gross opacity.