Magic Hill

 


‘This imagination is the serpent that deceives,’ Winstanley
writes; it separates ‘single simplicity’ into a manifold of
divisions, enclosures, objects to be bought or sold, as well as
graves, urns, particles and so forth. The phrase is taped to a
mirror whose surface darkens in response to any activity it
detects. I won’t move (therefore). A voice cycles through
nouns: noema, noose, lip, marble, curtains, camel, sack.
Things soon will be different––the people here will be gone,
some abruptly. Efforts can be made to retrieve them, even
those only ‘organized in the seed.’ More nouns: languor,
jewel, propinquity, horseman, zoo. Plus the four imaginary
selfish powers. The opium of refusal, of detachment, how does
that work. My ship is spinning infinitely fast. My ship rasps,
tilts, stalls, heaves. My ship is absent everywhere.

 

 




Set Me Free

 

 


We had liked them all the way up to the critical point, when they
told us they were not interested in our idea and wouldn’t say why.
Instead, they simply asked us to keep thinking, as if we had ever
intended to stop, or that it would not occur to us otherwise to
continue to plan for something we had so tirelessly sought day and
night for decades (three decades at least), and had imagined taking
place in detail, with each such detail unfolding into elaborate scenes.
So pensive––set me free. Unverified appetite broods. Shaved
speech incinerates. It is wonderful to sit beneath this dome and read
accounts of your pathetic decline. What stunted you was the
oppressiveness of the present, the same present that seemed to
appease those gathering at trackside as it flew past, hoping to catch a
glimpse through the speeding windows and somehow be
acknowledged by it. They would be gems in its teeth.


 

 

 



The Sixth Door

 

 


I fell asleep in the gap between almost Pink and waterfalls of
flame
and I saw a woman leap through glass and a man who
inhaled a flag. From behind the lattice came vectors of
farewell, ourselves to follow, having disclaimed the
qualifying image of felt hat, flat tire, desperate monitor. I
almost remember. You were becoming––you had
become––a lens. The day was stunted like a shrub. Within
it grew the retiary landscape of what can’t be compressed,
but is blown up and distended, spread out to be folded into
the texture of something that takes and gives, a thought or
word rubbing its hands together, a consciousness of
coincidence or conjectural pattern, cut by flared faces, empty
apex to concentrate unclear. A citizen crosses suavely into
view. The eyes are worn circles. The rest is noise.
       
                                          for Jon Fjortoft




           


Snake Hood

 

 


Lordly echoes trick out swaps caps floors plus the dead letter E
and the dead letter A for a science of rights en route to further
furtherance or forward lightward movement now the morning
turquoise hammock or sky in fluid blends not less elaborate than
any vessel the poet proposes nor less full––I’ve tried my best to
interest them––not too successfully––and there’s a meeting in the
trees––poplars––to sand out rust involved in every discrepancy,
every energetically postulated complexity––including both redline
versions––all instruments working in concert, each talented
mouth shaping a frozen O to entwine the metronome of
soundless emission. So we did believe. Enter need to show
the world our insides through a just motive, an increase in
care and circumspection, a fireball that has awakened
a whole system, like the garrulous core of the anodyne sea






 

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