You step from the bus into a sequencing tool that is moist and carries the scent of
quince
You move among the eight banner-like elements and continue to the edges of either
an object or a convention
And in Cascadia also
As in the first line of a nursery rhyme
Against cyclic hum of the heating apparatus
You’re resinous with falsity
It's autumn
Which might be tent-scented or plank-scented
Their lands and goods, their budgets and gastronomy quicken
You want to enter into the humility of limitations
Coupled with exquisite excess
You walk in the green park at twilight
You read Lucretius to take yourself towards death, through streets and markets
In a discontinuous laboratory towards foreignness
You bring his prosody into your mouth
When you hear the sound of paper
C. Bergvall says space is doubt—
What emerges then?
Something cast in aluminum from a one-half scale model of a freight shed
Intrication
The slight smudge of snow in the shadow of each haycock in the still-green field
The hotel of Europe. Its shutters.
Fields and woods oscillate as in Poussin
While the vote is against renewed empire, or at least capital temporarily
Each wants to tell about it but not necessarily in language
I overbled the notational systems in transcription
And my friend was dead
What is the rigour of that beauty we applaud
(Secularly)
At the simple vocal concert?
The otherworldly swan wearing silver and white passes on into current worldliness
The steeple-shaped water bottles ranged on the conference table seem unconditioned
by environments
I had been dreaming of Sol LeWitt and similarity
In somebody’s visual universe walking
In the sex of remembering
But I have not made a decision about how to advance into your familiarity
This trade has its mysteries like all the others
It is a labyrinth of intricable questions, unprofitable conventions, incredible delirium,
where men and women dally in the sunshine, their clothes already old-fashioned
They can still produce sounds that are beyond their condition
Here is the absurdist tragical farcical twist
In order to enter I needed an identity
In identifying this figure of reversal
The vital and luminous project
Will measure itself against women
And this has seemed poetical
When it is the ordinary catastrophe
I will take the poem backwards to this mistake
I will take your rosy mouth backwards
It is my favourite mistake
This masquerade of transcription
Hands torn crisscrossed
As the medicinal scent rises from books
Like a boat floating above its shadow
Build here the soul of thread
Pluck here the ordinary doubleness
Like delicate men in positions of power
They want the mental idea of the perfect plant
They want the perfect plant also
And I am the person who sits beneath the tree, listening to Calliope, attended by luck
Like curiosity translated as society
At 6:30 A.M. it was heavily snowing
The hills not visible, everything blanketed
I watched a pilot boat go out
Into mildness and vowels
Into this great desire to see
Always a boat in the middleground
And in the foreground, the men’s powerfully moulded torsos
Twisting and bending persons of the foreground in turmoil
Make livid a philosophy
But not under circumstances of their own choosing
In these persons we glimpse belief
Establishing the fact of perception
Its inherence in history
Now that philosophy is collapsing before our eyes
Our former movements are integrated into a fresh entity, into a freshened sensing
And once more I go screaming into sheer manifesto
Also called shape
In several ways, each pigmented and thing-like
In the use of hollow space, which has in it pure transitions
Calm and hostile and alien
In the chirring from the yard
And in the appropriation of falsity
The She is thrown headlong into transcendent things
She swims into splendidness
She bites into her invention and it runs down her face
In this way she is motility
This is different from saying language is volition
Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre
Someone sits and murmurs
This dog that swims in toxic Latin
Licks his Latin paws
This is the middle of my life
Bringing with me my skin
I go to the library
How will I recognize disorder?
Yesterday I felt knowledge in the afternoon
The alcohol relaxed my body, which made me feel pain
My whole life straddled distance
Who is so delicately silent
By accident, procrastination, debt
I sat in the material tumble of fact in a T-shirt
Say I’m a beautiful animal who has mastered laziness
In reddened clearing in the occidental forest
In the album
Purse of goddess clicking
I long to see how it will continue to behave
And I am walking in her garments
In rooms made of pollen and chance and noise
Towards the errors in humanism
To untwirl that life, puffed and rifled
In the old clothes market
In a tangible humbleness
Smelling of copper and shellac and solder
To the extremity of predication, decay
Among the 804 works, merely to sit in unfamiliar light
In a mauve-toned customized van
Called the Presidential Tiara
Out of belief comes
The yellow light of previous decades in a movie
With flag-iris and wild-rose overhanging
There exists an obsession with structures that dominate position
To produce a deep unease
A hencoop and a kennel
Of high-nosed dogs. Odour
Of sulfur emanating from
A dream of paradise
