The basic problem of being would need to be solved within the arena of the particular being
if it's worked out there the questions are all resolved if not you'd always be chumped by what you were seeing
it's beginning to rain it's been a rather dry summer I sit outdoors in my corner and light a cigar
the purpose of living is not a pedestrian rumor! but why does it always elude and seem afar?
[This I will regard as the second poem in a sequence that follows (in feeling as much as in form) from whatever I may have absorbed, in gone years, dabbling at reading and translating from classical Chinese shi. The most typical form of such a poem is in 8 lines, either with 5 characters per line (mirrored in the English form by five stressed syllables, as here) or with 7 characters per line (mirrored in the English form by seven stressed syllables, as in the 1st poem in this sequence).
give (not up) give (not over) just exist. I'm talking through my coffee now I welcomed this new one and I spoke to him I welcomed this new one and I sipped. he had no shirt on. I had a shirt and also on my wall within a frame I had this kin of sheep (asleep).
who has been my mentor in this frilly quasi spacetet. am I wholly (am I what) in dream? you tell me and I'll be frankincense (demur). articulate retractions take the p(l)ace, the cake and so forth. look at how I say I am according to this frame.
whatever has been true has now been relegated to a pseudo present tense. that's how it is in wardrobe. one shifts lightly, gradually, one pounced, even, on an opportunity that recently has not been even partly known.
the act of noticing deserves no badge. the act of noticing is not the same as an invention. by what process are you recognized apart from just being yourself? today the roses are the color of light copper. when will their patina start to show?
different rooms tossed in midnight slipped hands forward moon leafing through light escaped pages toward fire hydrants of loss when things go wrong down an inescapable avenue walking barefooted and drunken like a zombie shrunken under the crackling of foreign hands painted brightly zero'd in crotchwise
momentum indented slanted in sexual hyperbola or else fragmented or else or elsie she's been acting kinda funny lately i'd rather not listen closely groping seconds pessimistic unrest distressed
Like so much of this country the lemon groves are sunken. Oct 7, 1964, a night and she was out of milk. There was something left, a bronze coffin with pink carnations, 200 mourners of Ontario. Of course she came from somewhere else, something she had seen in a movie. Unhappy marriage, the bridegroom in black the bride wore white and sweetheart roses with her illusion veil.
No way to explain the facile, indefensible thirst that saps dry any discovered reservoir for fear its contents flows elsewhere. You'd be frightened to learn that the stricter a dreaded outcome of a given body, as in beetles to leaves of a crabapple the more the bugs abound— and their scouring. Odd that I should so perpetually love a woman, that I can't eat for the literal physical pain of her absence, and I withhold the name of her whom I love now, worried that she, lovely, distinctive, light heart is another strand of twine, binds me to my own burning effigy, ghost of habit and fear.
her thrumming promontory a softness landing on damp, red earth. our hollow sleep being droned to death. particles offering only stale water amidst the errors of love grafting love to the colour purple. an association prophesied in bundles of wet feathers. in the interstices of figures haunting the tops of trees. one lone woman swelling brightly smiles. hard skin becoming radiant again above the vacant electricity of a lifetime. reserves dilapidated. loving the yellow reason stepping around the wisps of crackling dawn. schizophrenic nastiness spat from the merely descriptive other lover. hands moaning with forgotten ambivalence plucking names from puddles of silence. an established inventory shining a numinous light on abandoned beds of awe and wonder. everything happening in frozen cycles of emphasis. our mystic imagination having to crumple the boundaries between the broken nothing and mystic ceasefires hiding in this lasting forever. just to confuse matter. thrown words following the edges of alpha to phantasm. made green to licking after regular intervals of stolen precipitate. swallowing a channel of whiteness. untamed branches clearly breathing in tufts of DNA. a wearied newness drooping for you in the heart. lucidity braying where life lies hidden. blue intensities wearing beads of conflict around their mirror of clouds.
The music is endless image of an immeasurably continual waterfall, I always want to walk there, enter the wild throe of the band of water, never to hear another wrench or shriek, but the whir become roar of cascading the tumbling, enveloping downslope.
Alternately, it is the dream then the waking from dream that sullies the heart, one cannot forswear discovered clouds, not sit a realistic instant in any fold or furrow no matter how delightful.
The wind, then, to move the stagnant depression-
times, however, there is not a whisper of breeze and the trees in duress limp to horrible stone- the earth sits heavy unto itself.
None can lift the body to ease the grief hand that would mend widespread damages hurt itself.
What humiliation to lessen the burden, weight of greatness acrid, awkward delusion,
that will not bring the body lower than the ground from which it began to climb but show an elliptical manner possible one horizontal, as in benignly, to cross the room not to rake shoulders of the others with the cleats of boots nor to uproot the ambitious saplings crowding, aspiring
but to enter the throes enter the ragged breaking down, circumstance in which all are twofold swimming, grace incarnate and a submerged worm drowning.
"Help me down" like she said, never any better anywhere but closer to where dirt is made of dirt to look around from there around there the stars, small lights not swirls aflame that dizzy the charlatan's eyes among them without shine or any way to streak across the sky where one happily gently is not a fixture.
melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is a bi-weekly journal of poetry and curious bits...
issue 2 features poetry by jenna cardinale...caleb puckett...scott keeney...glenn bach...mary kasimor...christine hamm...donald illich...kudra delaney...pierre joris...reb livingston...louise landes levi...jessy randall...francois luong...tomaz salamun...elizabeth kate switaj...brian boutwell...and lena dunham...cover art by michal macku...
God and the devil are at the kitchen table sharing a sandwich. Outside an angry preacher is banging at the window with an old shoe. On the sole is written the history of the world-- it is a very short story. On the lawn is a collection of circus tents. There is a line of people that extends to the horizon. Inside the main tent there is an ape chained and someone has giving him a picture of Fay Wray. He understands more than you. He is smiling, and off in the distance a group of pilgrims have mistaken his smile for the sun setting over Golgotha.
I put you on the stage where you feel comfortable not looking good, not sounding. Then I put you on the stage again where you decide to extract a vibrato from a place vibrations ought to be, deciding further that the people looking stageward yearn for you. And I believe you tell yourself another thing not one of us will bother to interpret. How could we check our work?
I put you on a stage so I can leave myself atrance, and I am not entranced when I look at the stage. Every so often I look at it, and tell myself pronouns are handy. Pronouns help us carry baggage. Pronouns are intact and quaint. Were you saying something?
I put you on a pedestal you made yourself, and I would vote for the probability that each time you use it, you project another builder and another. I would further say that you decide each of the builders lives for you and longs for you.
I put you on record so I can prove that I was here, when in fact I was not here at all. I was instead confirmed as present and accounted for in past tense, where I lived comfortably, rent-free. From that vantage point I looked from a white dock at the country of my heart that matches perfectly the very bluest of salt water mirroring the sky.
I put you on hold; I dazzle my learning with the scent of consequence to come. I plan the cold renewal of once blemished heart, considering a way to cradle what I am and how I used to love without an obstacle. What obstacle could stave off perfect love? The many numbers capable of being rounded to near selves begin to stagger me. I think that I will go lie down now that you're planted on this stage. I tell myself another thing you could not prove, even if you were to listen closely and define.
The bleak or solemn raven-cold, beam of iron no-weight rusted endurable underneath- how apply ponderous human concept of the ominous or numinous to simply the weird presence of eyes looking manifest as body.
Some old ditched house with framed picture of a gone person on the mantle inside
it's Nana Jo is in my mind not looking at me or anything always old wife to Bill she sat in that chair, now
concerted to a stick upright in the marsh and into flying a beard going gray or a chest breathing sleep