.

non-existessential support

when I say that I am reading Zizek

what I mean is that by incremental mouthfuls

I am flipping newsprint pages through the air

to make a breeze and counting adverbs til they breach

the pesky edges of his dogma-damn-eared paperbacks,

the second hands, the ones with creases

in their cardboard covers that I can't undo

and when I say that I am reading Passolini,

it is a lie because, although I want to like

his literary lures, they take too long to fit together,

to divine each egg-tooth word into a shell

that cracks my surface like an anchor with

each rich-Riemannian space that writes its own rudy rule,

and all this makes me doubt my lack of insight,

all my pencil-migrained hooks that undercut

green flourescent stick-it notes like busy oars that

interupt this oceaned desk, each book a continent

without a compass set adrift in search of semiotically

unlanguaged shores, and when I drown the studied lights

each night, I pray that all the Zizek-Passolini-ed letters

will resort themselves and shuffle into some new text

that waves my desky beaches

out of sight