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...this insignificant interval between death and dying. One cannot accept or refuse, O death, emptiness, air, sun. The "I" is the miracle of the "You." "This follows from a certain logic," he said: "the 'I' to designate the 'You,' the 'You' to justify the 'I,' and 'He' for disappearing." There is no present. There is a past haunted by the future and a future tormented by the past. The present is the time of writing, both obsessed with and cut off from an out-of-time brimming with life. (Now that all is silent within me, will I, who have hardly known how to talk to myself, still be able to speak? I almost cannot hear myself any more. On this 'almost' I shall rest my words or, rather, what stub- bornly still wants to be words—though they be deaf to the call of the world—an take entire charge of them. Expressing nothing, they will express me all the better.)

(for Douglas, at one) Archaic, his gestures hieratic, just like Caesar or Sappho or Mary’s Jesus or Ann’s Mary or Jane Austen once, or me or your mother’s you the sudden baby surges to his feet and sways, head forward, chin high, arms akimbo, hands dangling idle, elbows up, as if winged. The features of his face stand out amazed, all eyes as his aped posture sustains him aloft a step a step a rush and he walks, Young Anyone, his lifted point of view far beyond the calendar. What time is it? Firm in time he is out of date— like a cellarer for altar wines tasting many summers in one glass, or like a grandmother in whose womb her granddaughter once slept in egg inside grandma’s unborn daughter’s folded ovaries.

I tell you it's a bitch existence some Sundays and it's no good pretending you don't have to pretend, don't have to hitch up those gluefutured nags Hope and Help and whip the sorry chariot of yourself toward whatever hell your heaven is on days like these. I tell you it takes some hunger heaven itself won't slake to be so twitchingly intent on the pretty organist's pedaling, so lizardly alert to the curvelessness of her choir robe. Here it comes, brothers and sisters, the confession of sins, hominy hominy, dipstick doxology, one more churchcurdled hymn we don't so much sing as haunt: grounded altos, gear-grinding tenors, two score and ten gently bewildered men lip-synching along. You're up, Pastor. Bring on the unthunder. Some trickle-piss tangent to reality. Some bit of the Gospel grueling out of you. I tell you sometimes mercy means nothing but release from this homiletic hologram, a little fleshstep sideways, as it were, setting passion on autopilot (as if it weren't!) to gaze out in peace at your peaceless parishioners: boozeglazes and facelifts, bad mortgages, bored marriages, a masonry of faces at once specific and generic, and here and there that rapt famished look that leaps from person to person, year to year, like a holy flu. All these little crevices into which you've crawled like a chubby plumber with useless tools: Here, have a verse for your wife's death. Here, have a death for your life's curse. I tell you some Sundays even the children's sermon — maybe especially this — sharks your gut like a bite of tin some beer-guzzling goat either drunkenly or mistakenly decides to sample. I know what you're thinking. Christ's in this. He'll get to it, the old cunner, somewhere somehow there's the miracle meat, the aurora borealis blood, every last atom compacted to a grave and the one thing that every man must lose to save. Well, friends, I'm here to tell you two things today. First, though this is not, for me, one of those bilious abrading days, though in fact I stand before you in a rage of faith and have all good hope that you will all go help untold souls back into their bodies, ease the annihilating No above which they float, the truth is our only savior is failure. Which brings me to the second thing: that goat. It was real. It is, as is usually the case, the displacement of agency that is the lie. It was long ago, Mexico, my demon days: It was a wager whose stakes I failed to appreciate. He tottered. He flowered. He writhed time to a fraught quiet, and kicked occasionally, and lay there twitching, watching me die.

We drink too much pineapple rum, straight from the bottle, bitch about the red-haired girl, the fetish model, a preacher’s daughter with a thing for unreasonable shoes. From her faded patchwork quilt, bleeding hearts, we watched her mutate into a PVC Alice Liddell. How did she manage in seven-inch patent heels? She was tall as wheat — or the ceiling was low. Cradling a mewing ginger-ball, she kissed the mirror where their confederate-blue eyes matched. Three scars began to scab on her arm, deep big-cat scrawls she told us she cut herself because it’s art and her clients like her that way. We followed her clip-clop down the rabbit hole; me, to hear tales of her running track in those shoes; you, to see her white skin even paler under lights. Back in your dorm room, I am static. You pay to watch her pixelated Snow White online; complain her constant chatter ruined it, or her, for you.

Her first child belongs to the crows and his days go circling the yellow-black fields summers and into the falls. He scans the horizon, mouth in a sticky O, like a spirit caged to infinite space. Winged One, she calls,Winged One, come here. Receding, he pulls off his straw hat and waves, showing his tuft of obsidian hair. He’s not coming back just yet. She remembers how crows are small black rivers like stairways leading to rooms that can’t be rooms, only the hallways of space. And then, how she watched him last night in the ruined farmhouse across the road where only a chimney and staircase are left jutting up to the vacant precincts of moonlight. He was stepping so lightly then, who at sixteen forgets his own name, and shits himself like the mindless, fear-mad prey of barn owls. He belonged to the crows and stood for hours on the stairway’s precipice, weaving a dance like crows in flight, until his brother, with rope and fists, carried him struggling down.

1 Not sweet sixteen not even sweet sixteen and she’s moaning not even sixteen years old and she’s moaning not even sweet sixteen and she’s moaning the words moaning out the words to “Precious Lord” she says “ain’t no harm to moan” and she’s moaning it’s Aretha in the New Bethel Baptist Church in Detroit in 1956 words moaned out so that she becomes denuded no more little black dress she has nothing to hide no more little black dress she has nothing left to hide. Thomas Dorsey wrote the words wrote the words and the music Thomas Dorsey wrote the words and the music for “Precious Lord” Thomas Dorsey aka Georgia Tom wrote other songs one of the other songs “Deep Moaning Blues” Thomas Dorsey: “I like the long moaning groaning tone” Georgia Tom moaned “Deep Moaning Blues” with Ma Rainey Georgia Tom and Ma Rainey moan they moan and groan their moaning and groaning make you see moaning and groaning you’re made to see they have  nothing. 2 The first time Mahalia does it as one interconnected phrase she does it as three in one three words in one phrase three in one: “take-en-n—my-ah-aah—ha-an-nd” Mahalia does it in the same year in 1956 the same year as Aretha same but different the second time it is more aggressive it’s more aggressive: “take-ake my-ah han-and” Mahalia was a big fine woman Mahalia was denuded she sang “Precious Lord” at the funeral of Martin Luther King Aretha sang “Precious Lord” at the funeral of Mahalia. Thomas Dorsey met Mahalia met her for the first time in 1928 it was in 1928 that Georgia Tom moaned with Ma Rainey he moaned with Ma Rainey he moaned and he groaned with Ma Rainey he met Mahalia and he taught her how to moan “you teach them how to say their words in a moanful way” to say their words how to say his words Mahalia was a big fine woman Mahalia was denuded Dorsey knew the heavier the voice the better the singer Dorsey knew as any teacher knows the heavier the better. 3 Al Green has a softened voice he has a voice made softened he was made to sing softened by Willie Mitchell in 1972 softened and softened and softened Al Green became Rev. Al Green of the Full Gospel Tabernacle in 1980 a tabernacle is a fixed or movable habitation habitation where you stay together with the lord Al Green has a softened voice he has a voice made softened he was made to sing softened on “Let’s Stay Together” in 1982 he was made to sing softened on “Precious Lord.” Photograph of Thomas Dorsey photograph of a smooth operator photograph of Georgia Tom photo of a smooth operator the photo smoothed out retouched softened one side of the face completely light one side of the face all dark one side merges into the light smoothed out softened one side merges into the dark smoothed out made softened in the photograph a smooth operator is lighting a cigarette slender fingers hold a matchbox hold a match slender fingers hold a softened flame against the softened dark. 4 “Lead me” sing “lead me” they move with a repetitive rhythm Dom Mocquereau: “rhythm is the ordering of the movement” repetitive rhythm orders them to move on “lead” they move with all their weight on “lead” it sounds like “feed” it’s the Soul Stirrers it’s the most rhythmic music you ever heard repetitive rhythm it sounds like “feed me” S.R. Crain tenor A.L. Johnson baritone J.J. Farley bass Edmond Jabès: “can we be healed by repetition?” the Soul Stirrers move with a repetitive rhythm sing “feed me.” Thomas Dorsey came to Chicago came looking for deliverance Georgia Tom came in 1916 the Soul Stirrers in 1937 to get deliverance you have to wait on the movements of providence he played piano he sang at buffet flats at rent parties he was a smooth player and he sang softly a smooth player they called him “the whispering piano player” the most popular dance at the parties was the slow drag he learned how to drag easy how to sing softly how to drag easy how to wait on the movements of providence. 5 Soul Stirrers move with a repetitive rhythm sing “feed me” repetitive rhythm orders them to sing “feed me” R.H. Harris sings lead he sings the essential word R.H. Harris taught Sam Cooke and Sam Cooke taught Johnny Taylor Johnny Taylor “Who’s Making Love” 1968 R.H. Harris: “they got a touch of me even if they don’t know me” what they got a touch of touch of tongue love R.H. Harris taught them to study the essential word the word brings it to a picture it’s the lord making love. Thomas Dorsey wrote the words wrote the words and the music Thomas Dorsey wrote the words wrote the essential word wrote “precious” not “blessed” the essential word is “precious” this was to be enshrined as a moment of epiphany moment when he wrote the better-sounding word moment of épiphanie epiphania epiphano epiphaneia epiphanies moment of epiphany essential word shining picture Dorsey: “that thing like something hit me and went all over me” that thing must be that same thing went all over him. 6 Clara Ward’s real nasal her nasality makes her a real moaner she moans the three in one three words in one word she moans so that one word becomes three one becomes three: “thru-uuu-uah” double-clutches just like Aretha: “thru-ah thru-uuu-uah the night” sounds just like Aretha because Aretha sounds just like her Aretha followed Clara Ward note for moaning note denuded Aretha followed denuded Clara and did Aretha follow her to the lord to the lord to the light. Thomas Dorsey was invited to Philadelphia by Gertrude Ward Mrs. Gertrude Mae Murphy Ward the mother of Clara in 1931 Mrs. Ward was told in a vision was told to go and to sing Dorsey was invited to teach the Wards how to sing how to say his words in a moanful way Dorsey liked the long moaning groaning tone Mrs. Ward was told in a vision a vision from the lord Dorsey taught Clara and Clara taught Aretha how to say his words in a moanful way all through the night. 7 Sounds like “feed me” doesn’t sound like the Soul Stirrers it’s not the Soul Stirrers it’s the Kings of Harmony the Kings of Harmony with Carey Bradley on lead Carey Bradley was taught by Silas Steele the first hard lead Silas Steele sang lead for the Blue Jay Singers those singers recorded the first quartet version of a Dorsey song Silas Steele sang hard with a repetitive rhythm question is can we be healed by repetition over “feed me” Carey Bradley sings hard: “take-ah my hand.” Blue Jay Singers the first quartet to record a Dorsey song in 1931 those singers recorded “If You See My Saviour” those singers: “if you see my saviour tell him that you saw me” in 1931 Georgia Tom recorded “Please Mr. Blues” Georgia Tom recorded in 1931 with Tampa Red Georgia Tom and Tampa Red recorded a low moaning blues “Please Mr. Blues” is a deep low-down moaning blues those singers: “please be careful handle me like a child” if you saw their saviour you would see Mr. Blues. 8 Brother Joe May has a big voice has a big and loud voice Brother Joe May the thunderbolt of the Middle West the way he sang “pra-aaa-aaa-aaa-shus” is like thunder he was taught to sing “pra-aaa-aaa-aaa-shus” by Mother Smith he was taught to sing by Mother Willie Mae Ford Smith she was called Mother he called her Mother Mother Smith: “the lord just anoints me while I’m singing” when you’re anointed something goes all over you must be that same thng went all over her went all over her son. Mrs. Willie May introduced “If You See My Saviour” in 1930 this was before she was called Mother twenty years before Brother Joe May sang “pra-aaa-aaa-aaa-shus” in 1930 in Chicago at the National Baptist Convention during the morning devotions at the convention she sang “you saw me” during the morning devotions in 1930 in Chicago Georgia Tom recorded “She Can Love So Good” in 1931 in Chicago Georgia Tom recorded “Please Mr. Blues” if you saw her you’d see Mr. Blues loving her so good. 9 Way past sixteen way past sweet sixteen and she’s moaning she says “when I don’t feel like singing I moan” it’s Sister Rosetta Tharpe at The Hot Club de France in 1966 Sister Rosetta had dyed her hair red played a hollow-body jazz guitar Sister Rosetta has a resonating vibrato she moans “ho-oo-oo-oo-meh” with a resonating vibrato she moans out “ho-oo-oo-oo-meh” becomes resonant “when I don’t feel like singing I moan” she becomes completely resonant she has nothing left to hide. Thomas Dorsey wrote the words wrote the words and the music Thomas Dorsey wrote the words and the music for “Precious Lord” the song is an answer song to another song answer to George Nelson Allen’s “Must Jesus Bear the Cross Alone?” George Nelson Allen thought the answer was no a cross for everyone “there’s a cross for everyone” Thomas Dorsey thought the answer was no “see you got to be susceptible for whatever comes in the ear” he got Sister Rosetta to be susceptible got everyone susceptible.

The border of a thing. Its edge or hem. The selvage, the skirt, a perimeter’s trim. The blow of daylight’s end and nighttime’s beginning. A fence or a rim, a margin, a fringe. And this: the grim, stingy doorstep where the lapse of passage happens. That slim lip of land, the liminal verge that slips you past your brink. Where and when you blink.

The predictability of these rooms is, in a word, exquisite. These rooms in a word. The moon is predictably exquisite, as is the view of the moon through the word. Nevertheless, we were hoping for less. Less space, less light. We were hoping to pay more, to be made to pay in public. We desire a flat, affected tone. A beware of dog on keep off grass. The glass ceiling is exquisite. Is it made of glass? No, glass.

I was raised in the company of dolls. My mother, the miniaturist, made pies the size of thumbnails. My father, the shadowboxer, talked only to the dark. No one here remembers the love of a chair for its ottoman or the privacy of a shut door. Windows grieve in their sashes. They burn with interior light, like blood oranges. Imagine: a dollhouse in every room— in every room, another room, in every girl, another girl looking out a tiny window, her face repeated on the glass. As two who could not pretend to love each other, we stared through grief. Pupil,poupée, little doll orphaned by the iris of my eye: what did you see, what did you see but that other girl in me, the door to whose post was nailed the smallest coffin, hiding the name of God inside like the rust in the mouth.

Hand and foot, from head to toe, the body we know like the back of our hands, we say, patting our palms since we don't know back from front, don't know our ass from our elbow. I help Liz find her vagina to use a tampon her first time, Brooke tells me what to expect during a blow job, Jeff says to let the funneled force of Coors hold open my throat, a stranger gives me Valium when I reach for her hand on a plane. Now Depo, condoms, the Pill make way for FSH and BBT, how the sperm that makes boys goes faster, dies sooner, like boys, says Joanna, holding her little girl. Laura's fingers flick to show how the dye popped open her fallopian tubes. Rita Mae says a 48 year old's sperm could cause autism, Esther says kids are nice but they do ruin your life. Billy's friend announces, out of nowhere,I am so happy with my decision not to have children and none of us believe her. X shopped around for the perfect Jewish eggs, Y injected her belly, evenings, with little syringes, the bruises blooming black, now purple, now yellow and green. During implantation the nurses played soft eighties hits— I bought a ticket to the world, I know I know I know this much is true. She says in the ultrasound her ovaries looked like bunches of grapes. Z has a baby at forty-two— in vino she and her husband joke,in vitro a no-no in the Roman Catholic Church. Encyclicals entitled Donum Vitae, Dignitas Personae say why:the human person is objectively deprived of its proper perfection: namely, that of being the result and fruit of a conjugal act. The church, thank god, is soothing, confident, ready to clear all this up. Life a gift, human persons dignified. And we, most of us, are perfect, because fathers put their penises in moms.