Square (2024—)




Square


chess tense: everything stark and segment. the world trips over its axis, apricots          
get squashy  with each  seco   nd sp  ent         looking for   the right synonym. 
and so THE TIME PRESENTS ITSELF FOR A COMPLETE CHANGE in the way things like words 
and machineries carry us across our concrete weeks, a register of steps where no t
hing is like anything else or like anything that came before it,  the return which 
cannot be a return because we have installed its eden with rivets and twine and th
e task is now only to up-root it from the symbolic stranglehold of our apprehensio
n,  allow for the endlessness which cannot be an endlessness because in no measure 
does it relate to the possibility for an end, or a less, or a ness-ness. but of co
urse it being 

       THE TIME                 FOR A COMPLETE CHANGE 
has been the state of affairs for quite a while now,  in fact for so long that the
 
                                               CHANGE 
                                               
has ceased to permit     ITSELF     A fleshy horizon, and the instancy of 

       THE TIME                 FOR it has sanded down completely into the smoothe 
fibers of our discrimination,  one of a million tiny invisible magnets for our bri 
lliant compass, like Easter or Michael Jackson. and plus there are many reasons we 
should talk, and, in the parking lot, after          
       The laundromat is closed For                  
       The evening. 
     Finally we catch the scent that those immutable laws {which place their opera
tions so incredibly tightly against the granules of even our most delightful metap
hors} have histories but not gradations, seeds but not gardens, durations erect an
derased. and we can stumble wildly through them, surely, but the edifice whose ste
ely infrastructure we now find ourselves caught against is just as much a function 
of cardinality and false equivalence as the stratified firmament of which it has f
or so long fashioned itself into a perfect replica. so from the outset we are quan
tized to its themes and variations,  elected gently and with timeless resonance to
carry out and occupy someone else’s feelings, his having in fact already anticipat
ed any of our own–- ,,IT’S ALL DECIDED. IT’S INSIDE ME. I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO THINK 
ABOUT IT’’ Just look how many years since this indignation! already the charcoal b
lots are twisting in their furs, the executives have all run out their parking met
ers and put on their hats, will drive to their beds and there be brought to order, 
unbearably sweet and bitter. You can almost picture it now: the lover who rehearse
s stung syllogisms and the one who has not brushed their teeth.    dust entrusted: 
everything same and separate.     even in the foreclosed is laundromat...     THE!

 



Square (a child's garden and the serious sea)


this is how i become the signified. moons
in the marshy imperative - almond eyelash
garrison. this is how we record the initi
ating disjunct of sea and sky,  which has
come now to put our shoulders on the sofa
, a quiet this, without a hint of excess.
volumes parcel boulevard.   this     much
is true; this is how it must’ve happened.
and now somewhere the snow brooms, a cow.
various permutations of one impeccable  .
pavlov  potlatch  peony .................
When we were children this is how it was:
sobbing chocolatey smells, the geraniums-
clocks behind the partition, your and our 
hair tangled against the fluorescence and
now it’s like this: the fantasy instantly
abolished of finding something unnameable 
, a this, named at the moment it’s found.


 


Square


Oh Petunia, this will be my last teardrop on the abacus.
In the cemetery all the sprinklers have come on – the an
gels are drenched. Your name stops ringing out in my sky
for one absolute moment.  For one absolute moment we all
repent to one another, in the harsh parties we all repen
t but of course we were all also sublimating at opposite 
rates, guaranteeing the motions of technique and expendi
ture, eddied always back to the interstates we were name
d after, here,  on the single same experiential plane as
ike eisenhower. For one righteous parable the sprinklers
make froth of our summers–- right down to underneath the
rosaries, right down to our cherished guests. Come, retu
rn as consolations for the figural, empty me into a year
full of ridiculous flowers. Often find it fun to enterta
in. No longer can we merge with our images nor watch the
m whirr past, only sadly the cup of hemlock, only the co
ver that has been cast aside. In the infinite dephth all
the lights have come on - beneath this surface only more
and greater surfaces,  ones that weave such thin and con
tenuous chronologies that their skyscrapers of cause and
effect have begun to fold apart with the gracious gradie
nts of the nth phox flound. Obviously. So it seems we’ve
reached the time to make our wagers: fast or everything,
dear, the thing or its ripple in the stone?Remember this 
is not a product or figuration. It is the days beginning





Square


Okay, everything is corny.
The saccharine silences, a
question with two answers.
Poetry’s just as corny  as 
romance, at least  as long 
as an idea can   pinitself 
invisible        againsthe
back of a matchbook, weigh
it down with “creation” or
“selfhood”... the old kind
of seeing.   november 9th:
nearly morning and stillll
ssssnowing...”     ,  “, :





Square


glass glass glas
glas glas and be
gin be well well
lit well acted a
part shell shave
to glares glasse
tongue and so si
mple so glass so





Square (measures of poetic embarrassment)

    
Ahem. Tenderhearted councilmates. In this state of a
ffairs, each having already become the rigidly visib
le analogues of ourselves, and thereby rendered unab
le to plumb anything whatever outside the gracious d
uty of watches on our wrists,  (by which the outside 
is made a possible position),  it seems imperative t
hat whatever unetched granules happen to swelter thr
ough our walking-malls be punched into an idea,  and 
thought about accordingly. Have we all a proper sens
e, enough time to gain a proper sense of how our eye
s would look from the other side? Even when we do th
is? Or how they might be plotted onto a map? Yes, do
ors and windows? Yes.. and so here lies the problem:
It seems that the thing will disappear at the moment 
we understand it, which is not true, because as we a
ll know the thing will only disappear when we put it 
in our mouth, or peel all its soggy petals apart. In
an aughust of realism, everything naked and adorned,
the images reverse themselves  and still place their
blank marks upon the spectroscope. everything rapt a
nd resonant. And as we keep the I impeccably spotles
s, pushing everything beyond its bounds,tears will s
till well at the bottom of the mountain, punctuation
under the penalty of the kickback being left unreali
zed and pale, now having pulld everything inside the
halo. Now, if you'll direct your attention this way:





Square


The first step is not to gauge what is normal and strange.
We go into the market and every color is calculable, no am
ber alloys or uncertain in flash. All we want is time to s
et the table. And to see each other, apart from the partit
ion,  nestled in the corners still not reached by the echo
which still says --do not sing; the world is perfect.-- Th
e first step took place so long ago that there is no longe
r a dream to know what it was; this is normal, and strange
ly early the sailboats grow, stumble, replacing paper, the 
n will live on the unit for confirmation and future refere
nce. Nearly eight, aptly intactly. Just as it is today. So
once more ensure our faces signify nothing except their im
mediate presence; from there it’s finally all the surface,
and yet the quiet stings always give back to us those cont
hours of our body,  remind us that we must negotiate the 3
dimensions of our ribs and finger-tips rather than the two
of our eye-sight. Rarely acting exponentially, mostly abov
e and below. Tension and extension. Still and still reverb
erant. volume volume volume volume volume area volume. Why 
should the writing be its own action? An always-after to g
ive the momentary experience its purpose, its “product”? I
suppose because writing installs a single and permanent de
pth, a segmentary death, a volume for the area which among
a moment risks only being part of--the one sequential stre
am--central sequestral, risks only being the distant white 
flowers and cattails and wheat-stems, scattered easily aft
er the foliage of lapsing resonance. Still, must I even in
stall a majesty there, with all the Word’s tyrannic height
? Where do we get, always circling back for the ineffable?