Holy Ghost People
Note: “Holy Ghost People” includes quotes and corruptions of the following voices: Charles Olson, James Brown, Myung Mi Kim, Ernestine Van Duvall, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Juanita Lumpkin, Charles Wright, Cornelia Parker, Samuel Beckett, Louise Nevelson, Gil Scott-Heron, and the Old and New Testament.
1
Make the body speak or say,
make it
break.
This is where I live, where
I am told—
“tear me away.”
Selfsame, this scattering, a body
annulled throughout.
This berefting—
if one suffer, all suffer—
A part and apart, continuing
and canceling as you move along,
a kingdom laid to waste, encouraging
its own plunder and rape.
All this ambivalence, the body is.
People shout, words break, those gangsters
in whose anger arousing
I am a mouth.
2
Refuse to say, then
say it.
My body stirred, stricken—
if one suffer, all suffer—
Again, the reminder. As if here,
on the dirt floor, enraptured,
the two of us weren’t already—
for the body is not one, but many—
Dear thugs,
the body is innocent or
professes to be so
without blame. It never
hurt you, never
burdened your tongue
with more than it could not
(hauling itself up, making
itself, forcing itself to)
say.
3
Each thing I say I unsay,
over and over,
and in circles—
“How many times
have I made it here?
How many times will I
make it back?”
This faltering, the life
it concedes,
liminal, unconstrained,
always somewhere else.
Smoketrees line the road, the road
hidden but for the trees.
Among them a judgment,
a reckoning—
come through the self-sieve,
bear me up—
To summon
submissiveness.
To be so easily passed through.
4
And now the voice,
and now the body.
One enters the other,
othering—
“I resurrect things that have been
killed off.”
Where are we?
Behind, behind, the limping
rhythm of my heart, your voice
calling from such a distance as
the body is. Borrowed
for such an exchange—
“If I’m already dead, how can I live?”—
You have been seen.
You are known.
You will be paid.
5
Our bodies are not hidden
but revealed
precisely for what they are—
“He came back, never said a voice,
dead man”—
Permanence is without muscle,
that throstle song—
dividing into everything severally as it will—
Owning nothing,
owing no one,
self gives way, your voice
in my throatgut,
what burgeons, bludgeons. A gift
either perfect or monstrous—
“what people call by the word
‘scavenger’ is really a resurrection.”
Owning nothing, owing
no one.
6
Out of what has ceased into
what is ceasing.
Nobody’s voice, again. Such slippage.
How you find your way in.
And in and in—
“I just blown here, I just come here,
and this is my home”—
Supporting the whole weight
of your weightlessness,
the body of what I never was but have
now become, emerges—
chrysalis, supple husk,
(o use your gentle hands)
stripped now to my bare
places.
7
What was left and leaving
gave itself over
to what would come. That moment
when your voice sounds so very close
to the sound of what happens
or is happening.
What is happening?
Close by, a conversation—
“But why don’t you let yourself
die?” “I have thought about it.”
“But you don’t do it.”
And round it, farther and farther,
dusk, this gloaming,
a seclusion that forbids any entrance
or departure, a distance
like that between
being freed
and freeing someone.
8
To rid itself, to rid
myself,
grant me clemency. To refute, to refuse.
As unable as I am.
So many thresholds, so much
veiling. I can never know
what I want to know.
There is no deep enough, no
end enough—
speak without words such words
as none can tell—
Tonight looks like Jerusalem—
“I’ma save my breath in case I have to
run from here.”