(Welcome everything in)
Using both cursive and print in the same
paragraph or voluminous examples of
“cross-writing” during civil war when
paper turns scarce. When the words do
not resolve but clank and die next to
each other. Arbitrary actions leveled at
flagstones in architecture, resetting our
margins after the poem has already been
typed into “emotional” paragraphs. A
hovering form of distortion. That we die
and only the recordings will go on
existing. Who filled my head with such
dark and exceedingly separate stars?
Ghosts I lifted along the turns of
wandered roads, ahead of the game,
behind the times. We regret our early
books for their lack of innate distortion,
a dead yellow breeze onto the gold coin
floor show (molten lights). When he
faints from terror she busies herself. A
crinkling irritation, violin electric black.
A writer is a foreign country coated in
ritual dust. I mistrust my neighbor’s
children, all government, they have
come out as a terrible person (in droves)
I welcome you into the sound of
repeating our demands, as distillate,
archive, plumes of coal smoke, simply
the time it takes for the bank to form
above us. “Living goes on
to resemble its cure.” And setting that
against John’s line “Sexual facts are
tiring too... I dreamt Christopher Smart
as the escaped lunatic hero who begins
to detain fascist after fascist through
force, shadows of iron lace, Saint
Peters’ St. & Royal for the final chase.
For I will consider my sonnets
unconnected, titled and dull forever
after this, fluttering after full of worry, I
will keep blowing out this brutalist
stricture in music, demanding a
dynamic in language that mirrors the
mind is insanity, a common distortion.
Where there is no actual clash and
surrender, it’s every day and still has a
sprung enclosure effect. Orange and
Black Wall
endless destroyed works as they will
become the best poetry, exquisite, half
forgotten, a torn tissue, four to eight
specks of unequal green.