Day Heisinger-Nixon

On Surplus Value

In Ernst Bloch’s work, surplus becomes that thing in the aesthetic that exceeds the functionalism of capitalist flows. This supplementary value...is at times manifest as aesthetic excess and at other times as a sort of deviance from conventional forms.

—José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity

The half-remembered aria in the early chirp of morning is a surplus.
The rush around the block—a surplus.
The envased daylilies & orchids & periwinkle on the kitchen table are a surplus.
The clouds above our balcony (which look like Žižek pulling at his nose & collar) are a surplus.
The inhale (six seconds) & exhale (six seconds) are a surplus.
The pockets in your summer dress in which you pilfer books of poetry & gel pens from the shop down the street which busted our friends’ attempts at a union are a surplus.
The moments spent deciding on the best translation of the word “vicissitude” are a surplus.
The opportunity to appreciate the shapely qualities of the shadow extending from the lower extremities of your chair is a surplus.
The oils on my feet & my shoulders & your hands & your shoulders are a surplus.
The cat who sleeps in a bed in a drawer under our bed like a little night-time sidecar passenger is a surplus.
The return to a thought conceived earlier in the day to carry it to its end is a surplus.
The names we have passed through to get to the ones we have now are a surplus.
Beloved, I feel like such an aesthete when I’m with you & everything exists in plenitude.

In Which a Single World is Made of Fragments

The day, a fragment,
slides, round & rotund, orbits me, a fragment,
as I amble along through Eagle Rock, a fragment,
through Boyle Heights, a fragment,
through the many narrow streets of Pasadena, all fragments.
The weather falls down around me in fragments.
The dracaena & the begonia & the asters grow in fragments
up toward the Western sky, a fragment,
from my neighbor’s gardens, all fragments.
My mother, a fragment,
still loves my father, a fragment,
& the two still dream of traveling fragmentarily,
getting meals together in fragments.
Sometimes, while fragmenting,
I watch TV, a fragment,
with my lover, a fragment,
& the watching is a fragment.
The tearing up is a fragment.
The meals we eat around these tender fragments are fragments.
The moments we sit in, counting our last coins, all fragments, are fragments.
& you & I & everyone & everything else are all fragments
constituting a world in which I am constantly falling in love.