Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Lary Bremner

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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