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?