Aught, no. 11/12 (2003)
at Vantage Point "while derricks are lit"
Alight. Stationary triad of derricks appear shifting position.
Position. Perspective of all
words into scene adapting itself to a mood witnessed at that moment precisely.
And yet always recognizable as wind and surf and sunlight as sun descends and derricks
appear outlined black as structure intrudes and gulls are a loud menage totally a
paragraph of eyes towards dispersal. If the sun recedes then range is an echo of real
technology dug up preserved solar text of ancient origins. Historic. Chewed up length of
breath which speaks of it and not of us. A noted revelatory design the beach is a music
box of jargon a text in notable manner. A man walks beside whispering sands while
also beside a slim girl holding his hand and shoes in the other. Immersed figures they
pose temporarily a silhouette of color and shape distinct as a page from some novel. I am
there. Standing off from the matrix while composing something. Off to the left is a wall a
more wily construction. Alive this shore begins time as art. Still motion. To believe it I
must seperate downtime from its rewritten/edited afterward as recreations exist like
noble creatures in all complexity. They fall short of what I am while presently engaged.
The gulls and couples whispering in shadows like admonitions from a movie or song.
Contrived complexity is yet real motion and yet skewed interpretation. A sense of the
real adjusted to fit a later manifestation. A sensual completely false reading of facts as
scrambled and reshuffled into a way a verb might present itself as adherent to a noun.
Derricks slightly distant. Silent three points seeming reasonable but occluded.
Simultaneously dissimilar to links linking them to what "I" experiences. A perpetrator
sneaking off in vain before collecting his own sense of aesthetic pleasure. The view
becoming the one who views. Already a required love of beautiful surroundings all of a
man made structure. Horizontal dimensions drawing the eye to vanishing points.
Someone must write this proclaimed like a man falling down then standing back up
in a dream. The light is intellectual sanctity in mind only. To come away from is to leave
partial identity scumbled by more martial aspects defined as constructed a sea wall off to
our left brushed by sand. Innovation is real juncture as information is a way of
seeing. This shelf of beach shore. The purpose deemed beauty bounty function itself a
word wrangled round to its own reflective omniscience as what occurred primarily what
was witnessed was not what is said. One man alone with his words is a black shape an
outline of do this concurrently with achieve similar distinctions. All a contrived harvest
in transit in focus but squeamish about facts while derricks are lit. Altered vantage.
Alight. Stationary triad of derricks appear shifting position.
Position. Perspective of all
Manifold Involved Evolution of
"The word that means being is the same
one that means word."
— Kakawera Jecupe
digressed to what I have become an heir to.
Seperate functional employed by disruptive influences.
Weary Hades' knowledge of groaning underworld influences.
The morning disclaimed hopeless itinerant figurative/historical ash flakes
stilled themselves. Looked at themselves and hearing the hush. A fall.
Even as they wafted down--a silence of shreds of influences.
Not karma or controlled but traversing/blurring influences' borders.
Osmotically a prescience. Tongue verging on influences directly.
That utters its grave-life of the aimless hereafter.
The stillness of the influences wafted down. The influences of ash flakes.
Continued to fall. Wary aspects of grinding knowledge leapt from mirrors.
A totality's regime. Margin of origins. Each a third side revealed.
Transubstantiation of cold ash flakes. Our language and our ideas of language
are heretical by influences. A devolved form of our anticipatory involvements.
Border of ambiguous order. Questions arched like stone upon stone.
Only as influences do societal mirrors reflect. And the voices become word.
Then a second. A third. And so on. "For the Tupy-Guarani, being and language,
language and being are the same thing." Not, however, contingent circumspectly.
But overtly involved as a formal music that reaps what inviolable sows.
What the invisible masks (say primitive persona becoming art).
Shifts relative to chants: face to face to face. The one inward.
The second a third. A probe launched like an effort to speak.
Invisible world speaks chants writes of primitive masks. Dialogue repartee confession.
At the harp stands the butcher. His mouth mangled by remembering.
At the ready. A participant to copulate. The indifference is an engine.
Harmonious after-effect is his other persona. Dangling modifier reveals.
The sky where horizon defines itself in terms of angles. The visual.
The comic tale involves evolving. A particular room. A resonance where.
Butcher and horizon define what joins them. One thing. A flawless seam.
If I Am To Comprehend It At All
I am not awake, not yet. As I write this, I confirm the image of my yard: a
writes this about itself, creating self-reflexive order, parameters to be altered
by the writing of this: a streak across the sky of this dream it narrates. The crow
inhabits its own dream. I am not awake yet either; clarity and clairvoyance
occur while half-conscious. Let me tell you my dream I had: the crow wrote this;
the sun wore out its sandals walking skyward to become its own limit. (Again,
self-reflexive, unduly masculine?) Its apex is the dreamer (I) and the dreamed
( ) converging in silence. Not knowing becomes the words: "hardly a shift to a
proper point of view." The necessary schism occurs there, though the schemata
of duality conforms to the "what," the "who" it defines by his/her/its secret
dimension. An hour of telling it equals all of our seeing it fly. The sun heralds
the crow of sly totality disguised as "a brimming ardor for description,"
metaphors for order and temporality. To shy from the crow, just now seeming an
impertinence, I'd have to wake, and possibly know myself, possessed by things
I own, (still not awake) and put familiar slippers on the mirrored effigy's feet
(my own) and walk down the mythological (to me) hall of not-knowing, even as
sunlight finds quadrangles, triangles, bars of itself cast across the impenetrable
floor, by which I mean it can't be assimilated. Seen from the next viable solution
to the "real," "in light of the light" I walk across it (if I am to comprehend it
at all I must walk into it) as I walk into the mysterious lake (an edict now) of my
shadow, ever unready, ever a void of a voice, by which I mean: the crow hears
something. And I am thinking. I am thinking: "by which I mean it can't be..."
A Seen Language: Chevrons of Brants Headed North
from the East Village streets, order inhibits:
pump of the Brants' already weary wings,
shadow inflicting the transitory upon the moment,
a seen language notational as the specific
hallucinatory plumage description wears.
If existence continuous as logic. The swell of
street scenes beyond the factual. Form
is to angle in this architecture of witnessing. And the memory
of winter leans its shovel against the
door like a. Metaphoric, preternatural arrowheads.
That spring should burst with lies, so! A song
in a window. The scent of. This morning
each dream escapes its meaning. Beauty's juxtaposed
blue contingency where Brants. The sky.
The streets slushy today with afterthoughts.
Renewed attitudes. Bringing in the groceries
from Mueller's East Village Green
Grocers, the bag of coffee spilled. Chevrons brown as old
blood. Bringing in the groceries from
Mueller's East Village Green Grocers I watched
the bag of coffee I'd bought, spill to the floor.
The sink gleamed as seeming developed.
The logic I kept up widened to narrative. Sketched an image
of things inside of me. An entire day
of Brants passing like ships through port.
Littoral Dimension with Sunbather
the scene-politik appears nude
Crazy-gull-wandering-eye to the touch of rocks below of secluded shore
Beauty dismantled by poetry glistens like stew
Sampled from unearthed spoon
Where Maria sunbathing reclines on the rocks of Long Beach in Gloucester
Near the house where Olson usurped history at lunch and supper
Goddess of the striped towel domain she wiggles and scrunches into a posture
A sodden sea lioness to the man's writing watching from his window
Her resonant ache a cache a dimpled tumescence beneath her skin
As bruises flowering at sunset coincidentally seeming a sunset
Her "surgeon's" fingers feeling first for the impulse then for the act
Impact of the possessive pronoun
Orgasms flowering in the hand of the eye
A grand slam of writing as the poet watches
Lusty belly whomps of waves hitting her flat against the thighs
Of this new world newly proclaimed newly identified once again
A moment of sanity inhabits then effaces them both
This "real" information is a sunset done with forms
Sexual paradigms exist as sweet liberty sweet fruit between the legs
Of the man's writing the clock beside him itself mechanical with desire
A stupor of unwithered dimensions
& his queen sated upon her impenetrable fortress of rocks sits up
A new perishing vista eschews her as she wriggles as he writes
Something "out there" skips a beat in his mind
Something "of the territory" has been written
As when Sluggo danced with Nancy
Copyright © 2003, by the author.
All rights reserved.
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