for Diane di Prima
Just that piece
of the poem you could hear
the groundswell,
and written in such a way, numbered
left in-tact
on the back
of a flat-bed truck
amplified
taking up
space
in offering out
strategy with every form
of art
stacking the trucks
and sending them out…
new music/new poetry
Survival—courting the elements
(Divination) to be reliably great, what is clearly my job
the impulsive unending twist
in hell, groundswells
sounds of film spinning on an old reel
sweeping up,
glyph like tracks
on a white page (reproduced)
Phones held close
against the light
deranged pleas
hopeful songs
gospel noble truths
Poems that we hold
beyond our bodies, a joy
we can keep ringing at eternities fold
melted in the hot brick
or crucible
as Audre Lorde would have it
that longest arc in the edges
before they join
