Kick and Muff

I hear the fist-sized heart 
cannon in the fog of rhythm 
death and future. 
From it I take the few things 
I need: the Russian 
kick and muff of this generation,
militant voices hammered 
in sonorous thrusts 
and undulations—vocalizing 
a disintegrated voyage 
toward the mother. 

These aesthetic battles are the story
of a youth. Today 
I am Napoleon— 
Napoleon and I— 
in the resurrection. 
Gradually words begin 
to ease themselves free 
of this dull roar, free from the black
thrusts of desire, free 
from the emptiness of heaven.