e-creature
adrift
: ancestors
turned horse, bird, branch, arrow
to "ohr," "ear," "ah," and "ahr" -- in in-
finitely return- and combinable
drifts of our river. Part of it (facet
of its flowing mountain, a boatish cube)
was/is,
for example,
Russian/Italian futurism
meant eventual branching -- "Volga"
& "Po" -- return?: the Iliazd Eco!!
(note to text:
point to an exclamation there??)
While we talked over it all
through the heteroglossolalic
prism of the day & night shot through with waves
it was best to be on the border of all four
-- complex construction, like our biology.
"She was a printmaker."
The mind as echo-receptacle, figurer, transfigurer
we just have to learn better
narrative/rhythm
[expanse] of -- like memorizing
dialogue in the Platonic expanses
of The Godfather
or Back to the Future)
--"acrostic junk" -- days of turning
turntables -- in dark dance
halls -- alive where we once slept --
riding the body (Cixious & Irigaray --
Gauls & Persians) -- Subject: Re: Language:
the notes of the referent itself
the connotations, condensations, connoceans, mean that
a poem silts into meaning-
registers and only in "reading"
experience of e-day life
does it reassemble a mind's
active engagement -- writing --
with the imaginary of symbols:
artifice as returning
to nature.
***
Loris as man in pre-history,
silent a long time,
PREPARATIONS
In the silent space
of a delayed call
waiting for a telephone call
what is this final-seeming anxiety
returning which seems
to have swallowed
the very reassurance that is supposed to follow?
"Whatever... the case beyond the channel"
history's readings link inevitably
the unconscious cactus
of the paralyzed dreamer to an emergent
image we keep in the shadows of the stage
of the day driving and getting down
to work in old Elizabeth, New Jersey,
in the safely filed-away cube
of daily river-cruises
of calculations, allowances.
"The most common unit of value... to copy"
happens to happen across multiple spaces
of time as if time
has not budged an inch but left
us to watch the complaints
of swans or geese preening
or settling noiselessly
in the backyard pond
of the office park, worried as the dumpsters
are serene. What a wonderful world,
company tournaments, air and time,
silence, chewing an apple, clock
arms mimicking Washington's teeth
in the moist mouth of public interest, however
linked to the threat of some unnameable
power, swallowing production,
yet also immured, what isn't,
the secret sweetness
prevailing, no matter
what comes, how strange
and wonderful like cracking
knuckles underwater.
RETURNING
An early morning childhood
hospital factory
city, a life
in the dawning
dawning, sleeping to history,
the Hittite realities
before us, the cities
of the Indus Valley
horses: taxi out, out: a tree grows
between brisk walls
a window appears between
unrolled stonework
metalwork, like a passage
of Plato surviving Iron Age world
wars. But after the wars
of self and world
there'll be peace -- after the distractions
-- explosions, redactions, accusations, contractions, complications,
obstructions, abstractions, reductions, allusions, imaginary fluencies,
fluff, ligher-games, food, anxiety, computer-games, tattoos, salads.
It's simply hard to simply roll
with the tropical, arctic, deciduous
punches of your breath-stained
mirror or window you expect
me to windex with sympathy. In my valley
there will be peace. How real the things
that really happen
in the field of the senses! -- how vivid, exact, un-
mistakeably not me! The river spewing most of the time
totally monolithic. Vegetable combinations
in the net of electricity. Amalia Starbird.
The library the forest
again, in derivations
of the sun,
carded, bound - imprinted with sea
and land creatures. Abstracted...
"Soon after his day inscriptions"... we have
washed up alive, a mess but in love with it,
from the stables and the chariots
to the tables and the chairs.
A hand to a city to a hand,
A child, a skyward balloon.
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