Do not ask who I am or ask me to remain the same.— Foucault


a measure of flame and oxygen, a white heat degree in shame

searing pain, unquantifiable pleasure

that’s the key to a really good secret 
a secret doesn’t belong! —

it exists only if it is unsaid

it self-destructs on contact

a nervous system renegade

it must keep guard against detection

forget to remember itself

to itself
in the white room I lean forward, draw my cheek beside hers

eyes fixed on the wall socket, I listen to wet lips

hear her husk of breath and wait

for whispers of trembling ash
in the presence of my attorneys

I must decide the fate

of telling them anything
so now the third verse becomes:

in the presence of my attorneys

I must decide the fate

of telling them anything
I will tell them what it was like

they will hear an unreliable report

I have kept and erased the violence

(which violates and does violence to itself)

skin becomes new skin

I can’t believe my luck
and all my friends are conspiracy theorists

we are clumsy archeologists

we are writing our retractions as we speak

we are not who we say we are not

we are not saying anything

I will tell you what it was like

but we may run out of verses to erase

this burning desire to archive what is concealed
isn’t it always the case:

someone is always following someone around with a camera

asking them to reveal what nobody has seen before
someone is always following someone around

asking to reveal what they always do