David Watts and Tim Kahl || Monday, September 18, 7:30 pm || SPC, 1719 25th St

The Delicate Sprigs of Love

He is sitting next to her.
The firmness of her thigh is pressed against his.
There is no light between them.

He listens so heavily
into the heartbeat of her that he hears the murmuring
of aspens on the hillside.

He tells her this.
How could he sit next to her if he didn’t
tell her this?

She is beautiful
in the manner in which there is so much beauty
it almost cancels itself.

I can lie down
in the golden shape of your shadow, he says,
and no longer question myself.

She wonders
if they were just prisoners of the freedom
that brought them there.

Or if to love him
would mean waiting for promises, lying awake,
in the draft of crossing stars.

They kiss
and though he is still alone in the fear that no one will ever kiss him
he is sitting next to her.


The Nervous

There are more nerves between the hand and the brain than between any two

points — dashboard and signal tower, red candle and cello string, earthworm and

solemn hymn. Messages have been spread between the nodes since chemists began

to stain the chromosomes blue. At that point if you weren’t dreaming in code, then

heaven help your culture and its uniform blah, its fake tact, and its genius for playing

hunter-gatherer. In fact, if you are still one of those genuine communist bachelors

with a spin rating of –1/2, go ahead and soak those delphinium seeds in your gout

medication. See the impulse flowering within a bust of Beethoven. Feel the feedback

loop in dogthink. They will skip their feedings if only to sing to their master’s hand

like they are indifferent to their stupid feudal array . . . every damned dog cracking

wise about its status. How indispensable their entanglements. Bring on the knot

theorists to model how the double helix must unwind. Bring on the hardwired

neurons that fashioned bear femurs into flutes. Now even the robots are watching

videos and pondering themselves as mosquitos. Would they know they have a head?

And hands? The thumbs and fingers riff an intricate signal between the brainstem

and a field of hemp, between bonfire and bloodhound, between radio and noodle

soup. Isn’t it finally time for the nervous to abandon realism?

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