The thought you held inside your body — manifested in that quick flutter or way your hips stiffened as you walked up the street — are you to be culpable now for even that.

How can we predict a behavior. I think of the larger cultural sub-programs operating through me — a ray of black light, furling along the central column of my spine. It has a tensile strength. That is hardly a home. Some habits I seek to translate into language, catch it phrase by phrase and render it seen.

Are habits always destinies. Are patterns always predictions.

Am I also my future, all that is yet and else. Is that me, too.

And what of the men whose spirits called out, who reached for guns and took shelter among friends. Can we see inside their bodies with such certainty. Is terror housed in an angry fist or the nameless bolt that falls down from the sky.

To sign off. To sign. To mark through your body. To strike it down, through. A name I wrote on the page. This trace of a body, flattened and captured. Sent such distances.

Can I survey murder in your heart?
Can I survey murder in your body?
Can I survey murder in your name?
Can I survey murder in your movements?

Can I know the future in a gesture.
Can I know the future in a signature.

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