pangasinan chora

with Ina & Miggy, Vilmarey Chan Vengua, Monica Sandra Ronda, the TVMO Channel, Fred Moten, John Melillo, and Kyle Dacuyan

in a plain ponytail and no make-up we roll r’s deep as the ground
/taga/ /inerrrrrrrrr/
earthbound on its axis de-turning or de-tuning
undertone undersound arrive out of neither
from the cut
/wherrrrrrrrre/
we hear ground rolling absent of meaning
backchannels say there is neither I nor you
/kamusta/ /kala/ /EY/ —/mga/ /EY/ /nang dulo/ —
/EY/ /DMs OK Cute Baby into the buffering
counterpoints
the front-of-house monologue
at behest of a disembodied /mm-hm/
yours and mine turn into a multichannel we the way Fred says we
/aru/, /antoy/ /ngaran/ /mo/?
—/ano/ /yung/ /ang/ /ARU/?
—if you’re meeting someone you don’t know, /yung/ /ARU/
—/akala/ /ko/ /ARROW/!
—/hindi/ /siya/ /malambot/ /na/ /O/
repeat what we like us saying also what we don’t like us saying
by mimesis record and roll us all disorderly into chora
/aru/, /antoy/ /ngaran/ /mo/?
what’s archived by a language is not its working
as it sort of lays down an empty track a substratum
—for us, second-person singular is /anto/
but in a sentence: /antoyyyyyy/
upon which focusing smearing finding
in an improvisatory ear brings us back to what is written
overheard registered somewhere
channel wordways branch headlong
double-consciousnesses of lineage and fracture
say /sige/ /SIREN/! in which /SIREN/ makes IT sweeterrrrr

From Occult Docupoesis #1

A vial of vetiver oil sits
A writer gave it to me at a poetry conference
Put it on the soles of your feet to ground you
Vetiver gets better with age and doesn’t get rancid
It is excellent for those who’ve lost touch with something
The label is very faded
A rooming house is often the last stop
A color-coded map arms the zone and the covenant
It  glimpses  a zoot-suited brown man and a white woman in bomb-ass flapper
Streetwear just before they duck into a cab
It broaches casual conversations
It fills with small black dots, static but moving as in a dream
Some board airplanes to build skyscrapers
Some sit on a stoop to dream of CCTV installed into our eyes
Sees an afterlife of the street
Here, seeing is the barricade and the eviction:
A permaculture of notebooks, telegrams, and laws eating algorithm’s vomit
Already expired at the time of the accounting
A pulpy mass of sentence-pieces and bits of scenery littering the page