Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 20, August 2012)

But my soldier, he’s allegorical by default because whatever language there might be to denote his corpse does not exist in the public sphere, so there’s no other way to sustain a relation with that phantom synthesis over time. Appearance and value are rent asunder in his beauty this chasm in sense, an emptiness that’s killing me. Having cut himself loose from the social relations that make him what he is, his figure stands in for universal profit. His body, my dissipative structure, a temporary life form, or species of provisional order like a poem conditioned by a state of ever increasing disorder, but whose ephemeral aura assumes the function of something secure, something constant, something fixed. Sensing its own decay, value clings with fierce tenacity to the very things bodies that will be sacrificed for it. Just as he disavows the debauchery of capital whose servant he is my soldier becomes evermore debauched sinks below the hemisphere of sense, as I might sink my nose in his ass down along the precipitous fault of old imperialisms. With the militarization financialization of daily life, lyric is caught up in these same abstractions value credit debt as overproduction penetrates the soldier’s body and weds it strangely to my own radical discontinuity of flesh and world that the poem longs to bridge.