Saturday, January 26, 2008

Ah, Captain, Glad You Are Here

words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its prime when we spoke its meat. written, it reserved another space, for us...

Sudden Historical Testament of O. K. Corral

imagine wind wound on tubes of words, which then what? your own weather came daily, over an ocean noun, smacking season mountain, till it is when you make a word to read: each word, one at a time, invented by your work. then imagine, clearly invested, optimal as bright, the specific beaming of winter sun morn, that much red in fiddles of explosion, tho you doubt that poetry just as you exclaim. settle for the spark that set the trees, then slip away. settle, too, for an undertone, the word as grey as dear waiting. or the black that is convinced, even night on the border of more night, useless examination of physical matter. a word stuns the once, then stuns again. doubt is a courage. sentences are found in our days, frequent, willed, and vetted. then a crimson of dawn smokes thru the goggle of staring, you are reminded. do you get sick of stating the facts? a poem is no relay, it stays inside the bounds of words, except for bringing stirred up to the round up. Wyatt Earp, we are reminded, with brothers, rustled up the Clanton gang, gun flesh. improbable monstrance begs you to differ. crazy gunplay applied to real whirled words.