getting my feet back

new direction for my manuscript. cleaning it up. finding my feet. forced language in previous versions felt forced. yes. the other versions were false starts. All new now.

Here is the rough draft of the beginning:

Because It Was Corporeal They Did It With Marvelous Sublimity

our minds were not so much closed
as unready
to change our whole view
of how life is constructed (nostalgiac strictures of feeling)

Our memories are kitsched and must be refabulated
(St. Sebastian fucked against a tree with flimsy loincloth)

memories are the absolute denial of the accident
of birth (she tore her lips—this is the sound of the tearing—spread legs—liturgical—popped eyes—light on slanted windows— the midwife carried a glass for measuring blood loss)

what held and what
fell in that

what slapsong gibbers
us into existence

life does not begin auspicious

memories fluffed-up

like dandelions

like a dead
tree floating
on a mountain
of water

like stray hairs
on the bedsheets