Elegy Recipe
(
for Susan Yarrow & Kathryn MacLeod )
“The
language is a city, to the building of which
every
human being brought a stone.” - Emerson
“I‘m
gonna tear your playhouse down.” - Ann Peebles
*
In
this way the endless distracts. Naming
Language-self,
a moon not so much
Groundless
as floating as
Upon its own viscosity.
We are
All for October. Seasons
arising, contend-
Ing in harvested
buzzwords, drawn to
Truck
stops, the particle’d aggregate
Commerce
of any given meaning recombines.
A
braided emptiness
Of burns & binds.
Adjust as you will
The lydian filter of
habit, enforce a sweet
& aphasic
Funk,
suds the detour with difference. We
Find
ourselves hunkered-down here in these
Chromatic
cells of an ecstatic soup-kitchen, reading
Everything
out of anything into no thing.
It
Isn't
even wasn't ever ours -- the 'center
Does not hold'.
We fell in & in with it, gave
Way
to the undertow. Joyous & ill, 'facts'
Built
lingo condos on the aeon bluffs o’er
the
sea.
Diminishing
the
mileposts won't remove the dark beyond;
Threading
the speech but soaps
The same old drum; a
shadow likeness cannot
Clip the links.
Accessories after the fact of love’s little neck-
Brace. The thing is, we
said, it stares right back.
Robert
Kelley, that language is already
A
second language; Joris, similarly ‘foreign’; bp took
Collective
syntax deep inside the letter.
Another
way, Charles B.‘s non-absorptive. Hence Z’s
80
Flowers,
eighty copies hence. All undertow
In
the tidal sea of poesy’s (f)acts.
On
the plane over to Japan I had the simple thought I am going
To
learn to speak. Eventually, etymology
Splinters
until such time as
A
package of cultural assumptions contained
Becomes
incorporated, & the carnie-hyphenation
Speaks
louder than Shinjuku neon.
Cognitive
slippage, aphasia, ink
Sextants
& early map-making, charts holed-up
Alone.
Poetry’s combinatory
Tonality
evokes a reaction to existence itself.
Identify
with & own the virus, feverish
In
a ‘paradox of the reflective’
Most
common poetic reading strategy is the ahem
Implanting
of rhetorical device of analogy / metaphor,
Excerpting
anything in amen(d)
Fits.
Epistemological
Methodology,
diagnostics, an enunciated ego
Versus
the academe,
the brilliant, brilliantly articulated, false.
You’re
the doctors.. you tell me.
You da
Mission
operatives: every other possible path is,
By
necessity of going, abandoned. Imp-
Losion,
compressing love’s labour to a black hole. Ex-
Plosion,
“tearing things & persons apart,” said
Rae
Armatrout. When it all starts
To
break down, we might be forgiven for thinking that
What
is true is what we tell ourselves is true. Behind any of these
Strategic
veils, a writer may appeal to me
Because
places me in newer confusion, inserts stent in my stunt heart.
I
am so damned tired anyway of my own school-of-exile patterns,
Categorical
fishnets & slackening skin.
English
in vogue but out of a job, surfing the mall in its Air argots.
Leisure’s
chin music. Precise jargon for that group of speakers, ack-flak
To
others. Tall, tropical gates open the deep riot, time.
I had, then, the grasp of
it from your letters, from the banks of my
Habitation, my Gaelic
kanata.
Self-expression an imitation of
Colonial wig. Please bear
with us these our
Heavy
losses. God’s intimate murmur to the young apple
People
in their young apple youth. A gallon of lifeblood spills from the
local theatre, Blue Hawaii at the Cedar-V Theater, Lynn Valley, NVan.
I would, in loyalty,
abandoned even fair Killgaligan, my cow & stone Croft, to meet
this calamity. I am a famished instrument of six filthy straws. There
are notches in these potatoes like corpses
In
the field. Liken them to natsukashii
television
references, quickly dated
As
what’s behind door #3. A&R men head for the hills, seeking
re-Constructive moonshine. Hoist
The slogan & sip it
not gingerly, the whole throng
Locked into a rising
inflection, a fairy banshee, a keening
Wail, a greenback Socred
anti-distillation.
To
those who would say there is play within any
Totalizing
system: kindred garten
implies
plenitude. A web-surfing analogy inevitable in the post-muscle car,
post-comp. age,
Bound
to abound, but the sum of opacity is always
Night.
Atari
mae
premise, portmanteaux
of a
Personal
desperation. Symptomatic
Meanwhiles
exit from the eyes like skyhook
Devices,
phrases pushing rehabilitative putty in a prison-tattoo way.
Miscommunication
chamber, the density
Of
a voice on an errand of ‘real’ import. Inhalation sound,
Collapsed
cargoes of the word-instrument have
Made
of us these hemispheres, these unbalanced
Wings.
We might as well associate with the jellyfish now, the new Giant
man-eating Pacific squid. After much youthful bloom, embrace The
chu-nen
surmise & timely sagacious weeping, anon.
Was
this all done by acts of staggering dust, crucial crux material,
allusive dust-jackets, filmic trajectories & a litter of ration?
The
more potent variations, were they
The
digits in the ether, immigrants of an instant? Long
After
Gertrude went up against the founding fathers, entire empirical
faux-bouquet
of
personal anecdote.
The
breath of the poets I had befriended is made of wide ripples
Of
silt in a quilted black twist. Shifty thou
remains, though,
A
fluid reprimand in the name of the people,
The
dream of north invaded by a lingua
franca, a
clutter
Of
code-names in the luscious lowlands of total freedom. Tribal ex-
Pendable.
All models have been recalled by GM, now GM,
Leaving only hubcap
asterisks on the pavement.
Facade of an echo in the
dub version looms again upright, invisible
But still within earshot,
sown in the impromptu Venus-glitter of
Vegas
casinos. Numbers tattoo the darkness; numbers
Have
no past. Bless these anxieties, this issue of bromide treacle,
Aisles
of melody seen from the maze-console. The aromatic
Ring of the tactile
sanctum, the shaggy
Baby smell of writing.
Its a mere hundred volts of slug to a preppy
Behaviorist. The such &
such elicits the profound indifference of the
AV
guy. Everything has become analogous to bureaucracy;
economy
To
the erotic valve of the page, the insatiate flow of history
As
through a wind tunnel, an empire.
The storage of our slow
dissolves turned out to be nothing more than
A binary séance of
artifice. The actual radiance was sleeping
In the capillaries of
flickering immortals
When
(suddenly?) out burned the bulbs. Living on the fringe of
Tactic,
the empty layered arcades of a prefabricated faith, sad
Peepshow
& glory-hole. So,
You return to tramp the
Lack District, come upon a typewriter
Stuck in the peat bog.
Writ upon each passing cloud was the name for every form, every wild
debris of weather. Call it
A
sedation by over-stimulation, a deity lacking proper docs. Call it
The
dance of neurology, aural & oracular intercom,
A
yurt on the outskirts of reason.
As the film spreads, the
close-up blurs. All passively, darkly, a Rejuvenation device emitted
from the turbine of the throat, sensed
(At last!) through the
acoustic Gnostic bones of the ear.
This house has zero
plumbing & a scatter of carpet, its spores now
Turning to stump, to a
kind of beginner’s music
With the high arch of
attributes.
Know it as cell's liquid
devotion, writing-map, a levee of time, rough Morning mind, useless
sluice, diviner of starling flight
Pattern, image-shifter,
the rattles in all that helmet room.
Ignorant
as a stint in the army, you are given the files,
Moving
vans to which you set your license in a bartering
Behavior
that never ends.
Loss as a mark,
needlepoint breaking the
Surface of glazed berry
ex-stasis, the mess the night bred, yet
Impossibly happy by
another's mouth.
Dawn
in the basement, soul machinery gummed with ink, greenish Heartache
in the echo circuitry, prodding the slug
To
math, misting the vocals beyond cognition.
Swans on the radio,
thrash up their Siberian homing sounds.
The simples require
tending, a cold voltage of held-breath filing
Down the cogs as
window-pane brackets moon.
I
have this penchant for leaning out to the leftover hills, humming
last Year’s hits & hoarding sleep for a rainy day. Space is all
grit,
Thought
a toxin habitat eaten with war.
*
Thankfully, you wake up
one day
With a heart made of
tacks. October bursts.
Sounds much longer peel
Down
the corridors; syllables sink deeper into
The
cracked cup.
*
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