What I was supposed to do isn't. There for
the likes of me. All a scope. Fear & Trembling
takes everyone's place. Prizes go quicker to
The Wonders of the World. A big Bear Hug.
These are ekphrastics for works not yet
anywhere. So bother with it. A cornish hen
will not taste good as every good boy does
know. Which is fine with me. Who doesn't
know where that organ song came from but
will look into it. Plastic burns with an ancient
acrid leap. And steps away an old man
toward a half-sensed road cut cathedral. To
see. And keep seeing into the organ deeps.
And asking the camera to stop thinking.
Noticed in late afternoon your spiritual trousers
weren't Astounding. Stand up for ineffable diminuendos.
So. Weren't it. Unfolding like zillions of blinds maybe
in Childhood toward our transitional brightness then
parking Ourselves behind. You know. The dead
tree Whodunit just to keep going forward not
announcing Stop until we spotted divine inklings
in Tiny bug-like glyphs of breathy stuff. But
wait Don't you care what anyone thinks anymore.
Not The sparrows the germinating plungers the zeros.
None of them full of force and burly devices but
just Enough beautiful falling down takeaways to get us.
I'd like to say I'm not interested
in pretty language anymore &
wouldn't make it not even if you
tried to pay me. & I'd like to say
I'm tired of these games we go
on with language. But I am &
I'm not. Stand up to read it all
then sit down. And let me tell
you some of these old houses
smell pretty bad.
Make no claim and there. This ragged piece of
talk will go through a few old stages & hopes
to arrive here. Look how dry its skin has become.
Let's get together some night this week then and
sing it. Sing its dryness and toss it fireward. And
make no claim. And there will be a blasted moon
against the shadowy outwardness. Again, outside.
I wasn't listing the words in the piece. I wanted
to climb out of my sin of my skin. Thinking or in
these rags I got from the moon. Watering skyward.
Why this don't arriving at last.
Was has it in the stumpy tree.
Why this genuine blue desertion.
Was says delicious across the road.
Why this talking about me already.
Was well and it's all been done already.
Why this steady return to the deliberate.
Was the time trials then later a diner.
Why this view.
Was still full of words that lost.
Why this exacting text.
Was has it given more in a car.
Why this tendency to recalculate.
Was days on end with nothing coming.
Don't take my funny obfuscation so sadly or serious.
I could not get home any other way and still care.
No code can eclipse my bright bewilderments if you uncomplicate.
You just the shadow off the spine of a book. The Book of Me.
All the non-mechanical parts of me are engaged in a reappraisal.
My nature parts and are suspect but sufficient.
In crass mention of my separate or my swagger. Go on.
Show my failure silence up for a wonderful new film role.
At last I listen and propose the next popularity and exist.
You in the jar. There as these journeys go.
Far from the Authority you miss having said
Anyone can stand in a jar. But most of us—
Can I say "most of us"—think there's a trick
To speaking from the Imagination's dream-
Djinni far. To have a tame one in a tight jar.
He keeps that whispering on all night now.
When you're in the middle of something you love, you might be afraid.
But at rope's end. Gutless poetry arrives afraid to call its own number.
Working one's way toward the bridge of one so afraid his thinking jumps.
How the guessing is all afraid of the picture that might be made.
Afraid of a car, a window, another storey. Afraid of the zero the zone.
Something of nothing. Something for nothing. Something in nothing.
I was afraid to name the bird, the rock, the very sober tree among so many others.
It is all of everything and next to nothing afraid of the latest tiny push.