As/Is







5.18.2007


There Is Something Missing in the Whole Transaction Between Us

The sales pitch

of thunderous manias

begs one more text

be read

askew,

the likes of which

is market day.


"YOU'VE ALMOST CONVINCED ME.

TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS CITY(I. E. FOOT OF THE CLIFF.)

ARE THERE LOVERS?

EXISTENCE IS MY SUBJECT IS HOLLOW."



In the cause of tireless waltzers

there are no things but things that are named.

I call this “photograph”,

& this “sheik,”

& this “cabal.”

In view of: The History of Chinese Art…after Two Minutes

in the Washing Machine, 1987,

books, wooden box,

and glass

(now destroyed),

I protested

& became sexual.



"YES.YES.BUT I NEED TO KNOW YOUR MOVIE PLOTS

ARE MORE THAN JUST SCRIPTED. I WANT A NORMAL

LIFE IN VAIN OR IN TEXAS NEAR OK BORDER. BUT

DON’T SAY IT WRITE IT ON PAPER FOR GOD SAKE.

DAFFY DUCK IS IN A POEM AND I THINK IT’S GREAT

HE’S GETTING SUCH FLUENT EXPOSURE. HOW DOES

THIS EFFECT MY CASE IN TEMPO IF YOU ARE NOT

A PAGE A WILD SWAN AT COOLE THE SORROW

OF LOVE THE PITY OF LOVE?”



I squander verbatim,

at heart a narrative or beautiful run-on sentence.

I lift up “conch” to my ear.



"DESCRIBE LIFTING CONCH TO YOUR EAR."



I hear the maestro

(meaning Key West / meaning circumstance)

& Oceana smooth & nude in six reluctant similar scarves.


"YES. THE EXCEPTIONS ARE BEAUTIFUL.

A PRELUDE TO A DELUGE INTERPRETS NOTHING

CONCLUSIVE. WRITING IS LIVING IN POETIC FORM

IS A TRAGIC LINE."



Our stand-ins

lack ummph. In the name of

ersatz dispositions

I bewail us

like Balthus-girl #1 & girl #2

entering a city.


"YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.

A SUBJECT IS RED STUDIES A WORD STUDIES A STYLE.

WHILE SMALL, I NEVER VANISH / DISAPPEAR.

I AM A SONG WITHOUT CLIMBING. MY LAST DITCH EFFORT

WENT AWRY ON A SWING SHIFT. I RIDE LINES ACROSS LINES

TILL 6 A.M. IS A POEM I ACCOMPLISH.”



I express “lover” like an abutment.

I don’t speed

or circle the roundabout.

My (syn)taxis swerve

as they mete.

A chancre of flow I dunno what to say to you.



"YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.

SOME TALES ARE WINTRY. A SACKING OF ROME

IS A GEM STUDIES A STYLE STUDIES A WORD.

I PAUSE HERE IN ISOLATION. DO YOU HEAR ME?

DO YOU SEE WHAT IT MEANS TO HAVE DONE?”




At maze’s end, six characters

in search of an authority & five oases

hover above a lost orchestral mirage / hallucination.

Nomadic

in one word: entropic.

Six notes seeking another.




“YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.

IN THE EVENT OF OCCASIONAL DECONSTRUCTION

A PENT HOUSE DECIDES: ONE) A RIVER OF DOUGH

IN LIEU OF SUFFERING. OR TWO) A CIRCUS OF CROCUSES

INHABITING SPACE. IN THIS MANOR BLOCK LETTERS

STAY FAT ON MY TONGUE SELF-REFLEXIVELY A FACT /

ANATOMICALLY A CHARM.”




& long waved her gown

in forums of amour, etc, etc.

[Insert detail / description

of said gown.]

There are strains I hear,

looking myopic on stoops.

A show boat hastens in suede.



"LISTEN. I BRANDISH CONFLICT.

I ALLOW ZENITH TOWARD HOWL.

THE POINT I MAKE IS LOUD & NO ONE HEARS IT.

NO ONE KNOWS WHAT IT IS.

THE EVIDENCE FOR IT / AGAINST IT SHIMMERS

& GOES BLANK."




The poem I experience

is either: "I am what is missing”

[according to sun up & sun down

boiled lobster pink for code]

or it is blue corn packaged in Lucite

is never a cube,

never a make & model,

but a lyric sung on a desk top.

Exit divergent street grid.




"LISTEN.

THERE IS SOMETHING MISSING

IN THE WHOLE TRANSACTION

BETWEEN US."