Making Love Intellectual PropertyIn the middle of making lovethe Beloved shouted, oh, science, science science science. In that moment, I thought of silver, I thought of the meat world, I thought of the way shadows die without smelling and how the transition from boy to man is often a gruff occasion or an occasion to be gruff. Later that night we again tried to make action storms. She shouted, good science I feel so good. Like a tongue summering off Long Island, I waited for a summons and a civilized someone, the love corral-- but my pleasure was damaged by distraction. Yes, a bit of memory traffic and music music music but the rabbit end departed me (I know I'm not innocence diving) and what I got was more truant words: Science I'm hot tonight. The best laid commotion is never feudal. That's not helpful with the head jammed against the headboard and the foot dipping into the ways of things. But fine. I'll swear off sheep and the other traps of silence. Therefore literature therefore greedy meanwhile wilderness. Verbs are never caring on their own. This you this dusk a partnership destroyed or a portal born for conversation in a menace-filled universe? Ask the learned wall. Now it's motel life and the bombing radio. It's morning. It's home. It's a theology of Monday. I have keepsake embers and the elegant bye. Once I was the night messiah (her words, and what are words when house lives become too public, when after nearly reaching the top of the desire staircase the butler is showing me to the vague outline of the door?) I'm now -- for you young screen lovers out there still following along -- part of the oblivion crowd, another street object lacking proper signage. Every night I'm forced to watch the stigmata television for news from my nether parts. One might hope the arc heads would go dim, and threat become the fabric of street and ground. Science help me. My hope for plot is a momentary lapse, a gesture, something like a flower but not red, snow where no snow should fall, a slip of the tongue (science help all of us, what got me in trouble to start with), a radiant waltzing into the church of the visible eye. Farm SubsidyThe herbs are dying in their plastic potsthe way my father used to work waiting for transplantation brown trunk stems withered what if from a little neglect impossible garden out back I grow distracted Indian Summerin coffee housesout west we substitute weather or influence from outside listening to the wind looking like a young virgin looking for a young virgin no sound conditions become perfect for political concerns for fire the first strike the skies a red clarity I turn my back I desire total darkness the wind comes up immediately after midnight there are no solutions they are hammering next door again The Decay Of ProbabilityThe first level of knowledgein order to write the "great poem" is to characterize its properties, the next, the information needed to specify a position in a given accuracy. Sometimes poets using these methods spend their days plotting data, drawing little boxes and counting the number of data points in each box. Crude, yes, but for the first time chaos is within reach of poetic systems. They look for poems in flapping flags and rattling speedometers, searching out chaos in the current literature. Unexplained noise, surprising fluctuations, regularity mixing with irregularity -- these effects pop up in poems from experimentalists working with everything from pantoum accelerators to laser sonnets. Several experiments on josephson junction octa rima reveal a striking noise-rise phenomena in audiences. But the collective is a problem-- one partner for a clean job, the tendency toward crate mixing. In the end, I can only conclude the brothels of poetry are manned by crippled pimps-- Hot doggy, I always wanted to say that or something like it. The Injured, The AdmiredThe moment turned and I took myroad out on the act, again pleasure borrowing there. Much mouth and a horizon anybody, that was me in those years. I was a catastrophe waiting for an aquarium, waiting for a her like night inside weeds, like a terrace following up a needle, feeling the way an actor falls on stage when the audience grunts. |