The forest service team came to my house to give me a thin-leafed tree, and to say you can have something, if you wish. You can have this native tree, a skinny branch, a skinny leaf with bareness between the leaves. A shrub like me? Here is my bark-being underneath. The freight service team came to my office to give me a vermilion boxcar, and to say you can have something if you wish. Why is there no train service? No Amtrak? No russet cargo of folk, no poets to embrace because our hands all unclasped in response to the peptic ulcer of too much fanfare, woods with austere engravings—plumed-pen-etched-words, severe sentences with accusations—then interjections— poets all alone floating skyward. I have found the writing on the wall to be formidable—no patois, no interesting resilience—I don’t care for leaf rot nor figures who do their own dance. They find frozen ground menacing—they found me menacing— even when they say in unison you can have something, if you wish. It was not I who shoveled the shore and fixed it to another place. I didn’t find the pallor remarkable nor did I steal it. I did however try to emulate it—pale-face looked feasible. I thought I could have something but this was untrue. I didn’t take your sun. I didn’t take your eyes. I’ve been trying to salvage the bitter roots that came my way, the tincture inside watery and unctuous— maybe the residue is sweet. Or look to the river with its over-determined gurgles in the vicinity, small cascades immersed in scenery. All will sound false to you but I can hear my real voice attempting speech— but you happened to me—you ghosted your way through me, you shrubbed me, not the other way around. I know these things. I have been down here, not up there— I don’t believe in powers that be, but can see how the world looks up there. How it knights itself with the grandiose—the majestic snow of simulated faces, the whiteness that surrounds me, and the quiet that follows.
Do not fall in love with a poet they are no more honest than a stockbroker. (Do you have a stockbroker? If you do, your poet is with you because you have one.) If you think that they are more sensitive because they care about language pay attention to how they use language. Are you included? Are you the "you"? Or are you a suggestion? Are you partially included as a suggestion? Are you partially excluded because you are a concept in some jewel-like nouns, almost throwaway, yet a perfect resemblance? How does narcissism assist you, who is also the object of desire? Do you become the tour-de-force? Consider that poem's vagueness doesn't account for your complexity and the epithets don't suffice, you are not "one who is a horse-drawn carriage" nor are you a "sparrow with hatchet." Perhaps they quote Mallarme when taking you to bed, carefully confusing you with their charm and faux-chastity. All this before voracious body-pressing. The lovemaking is confusing until, you remember, they said something: thus spake the dreamboat, your poet, alarmingly announces during climax: I spend my fires with the slender rank of prelate and then fierce withdrawal with a rush of perseverance to flee. You are mistaken if language furthers your devotion. You are a fallen person now. They care more about "you" than for you (you, the real person you). Line after line, a private, unmediated act done to you with confusing abandon, flailing in its substance, however deceptive. It will enhance your own directionlessness, you will be harmed. You cannot mediate it with caress. Do you think because they understand what meaning looks like, they have more meaning than others? They are the protectors of feeling, mere protectors: earnest? No. They are protectors of the flawed, filling zones of bereftness. The aftermath of pleasure. A contested zone for all. What about the lawyer who loves the law? Isn't he just a poet with a larger book— the way they protect and subject language to sense-making? A kind of cognitive patternization. Ultimately, both undertake the hijacking of language, they won't love you the way you are; it's in this inability to love— unless you embody the poem— you embody the law and its turn of phrase. Unless you see the poet clearly: loving utterance, an unadulterated utterance—seized and insular. You must entice with otherness. You must catch the poem as a muse does. You must muse and muse and muse. In thralldom to encounters that stand in for sexual ones, we terrorize with sense-making, it stands in for intimacy. It stands in and suggests that all other kinds of feelings and declarations yield to it. It will move you if you ask for permission to exist within its confines, and you move the poet toward you and you hold the poet's head, wrapping your arms around it strapped in your wordless hold, but soon words do come and in the trailing off of speech, you will be permanently lost.