“I have my city boots on, so it would not bother me to see this. Your nation
toppled, turned to a wildlife preserve…. I would not be bothered to write this once
more, as harmonizing against the aggression of our surroundings is to build a garden
of many pleasing species.”
                                                                              Evan Kennedy

 

Triggered by licks, my ‘nature’ spilled
onto the feet of a laborer: in reciprocity,
or recompense, that’s what I meant by
HARDER. They say we go about inventing
tiny continents on
which to want.
They demand to know on what we live,
what we wager
for a body of work-song.
You are its crops, and pulled from
briar      would if you could           be
tender and self-evident.


Think of torches and thirst. If there is no spirit for youth, and we have given up that
gallery of ghosts. But Given against, this is the antidote, I took it there, that night. As
before I was medicating with something like music. As before I kept my monastery
and lived on the lithe ancestry of words I came close to understanding.
All sunless gestures will remain oblique. What is produced by all these ghosts has
called to me until I know what a curse is, until I know I will always be rehearsing
fury, insulated by the other children of this night.


How then to dérive. To point to the beginning because of forgetting and returning. Beginning because we wish to adopt movement outside of narrative, in time. To see crisis not as the great hill that comes into relief against the depth of a valley, but as the voltaic atmosphere and eccentricity of fog.

 

          I said that when we sleep we are a little pile of bones.
         

          We are linked in the continuum of dark water.
        

          “Do not weep: Heaven fashioned us of nothing: and we strive to bring
          ourselves to nothing”
          (Duchess of Malfi 3.5.79-81).


When I said your forms are incorporated by the spectacle of life, I meant literally your forms are under copy write, induced by some life-like state and no light shall pass between us on these days but I will not leave you here to convalesce among the subjects. You must believe me as we ride ahead before the evidence. To be exilic is to be pursued by a herd of heavy, heavy myths, wary in their chain smoke, the contenders. They wish to lead me to through the heather, take me down in meadowlands, where together we are bait for something barbarous. Will you lay bait for the trapper when all that glows in blood sugar will be double dug? I want to go out in the field and make a wound of consent, as villainy obtains when the simple love of riot is insufficient witness. The idée fixe isn’t sucker free. Western Civ proceeds as elegy.

 


As coup de grace

 

“so i thought again/ and it occurred to me/ maybe i shouldn’t
write/ at all/ but clean my gun/ and check my kerosene supply/
perhaps these are not poetic/ times/ at all” (Giovanni). A testa-
ment to being made for something and left Bewildered in partially
illumed transitions, dressed in spines and ennui, as we comport
ourselves to historicity, the appearance of the ground, the streets.
But where longing is longer the wild persists and I am making a
‘safe space’ for violence when the bridges sheep and the shop fronts
bleat and we who are their creatures brim with bend-over. When
they demand to know on what I live, I say I Live On Nothing. But
ruminate on a penumbral joie, as Daniel sings, that America is so
ferociously in Bloom. Provoke me and I will study to deserve this
antidote.


If one hesitates to covet translucent offerings, this means incivility. To pick a fight with large things around. Situated, you must sell something, become boutique, there in knives, I accord to a peasant’s fit, its love’s shape. And certain holy spectacles remind me cheaply of holding this perforated blood.


They say God is a place, and not that permission by which you may visit a pallor where money’s sensuality evidences, so when we break, we’ll wait for our miracle and move an under-lip to show it a human mouth for pathos.


Something happened to me in the streets of this city. I became intimated into a structure of trust, something like sudden love. A study in trouble’s organ book, capable of destroying the conception of violence that lives under some false heliotropism. Helicopters red against the light polluted dark, our intimate contamination. When we took the building, Clai was, for the onlookers, a quiet spectacle like neon in the top window. To consider the symbolic in this way, as a ceremonious absorption of data, as “ceremony has made many fools.” Rations are ending. Banditry as a habit of learning. How do we sleep? Not before four in the morning, when holding is the only ameliorative posture for danger. We women were frisked each time we left one holding tank and went into another, and so cultivated ‘livid indifference.’ The tear gas, the sleeping late at a comrade’s house and the wandering in #wars and rumors of wars. This is recrimination, as overture. The ammo of my pockets and yours, our mouths touching through a bandage of dark water.

would you call it dangerous to
represent it,
but of course you’ve been
transformed by representations

(Brian Whitener)


I am all fire and fat, Nightingale,
I shall e’en melt away to the first
woman, a rib again, I am afraid.
(Ben Jonson, Bartholomew Fair)

As Thom writes, “The lyric won’t die because there are still bodies and we suffer those bodies beyond conceptualization at a limit where individual touches multitude.”


That this coincidence is penumbral like a darkly exposed photograph of something joyous. What is the corresponding figure of open burden. How to subvert the program of doubt. Its pathologizing secrets do not forget the moment on the march from Union to Foley Square, next to the clergy reciting Hail Mary’s, how I started the rosary, an accident, and realizing it, started to cry. They sang a song in rounds about the Lamb of God. What of the password primeval. What of transfiguration. What of paradise now. To correspond, as to coincide, is evental. Of this as the Kairos: to return to a meadow “whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words / that is a field folded” (Duncan) yet we go without permission. We go whipped, as in eclipse. And so looking for instances of destruction that grow into a “symbol of the essential thing that needs to be said.”


We compose an epistle sent to their malice, with its prefix: Etatist.
Oh undercover whitecop: your colors are contagion to the polis.
Their substances—dominion’s device pallidly consolidates.

We are concerned with movement, and stealing a little bit of life
in the metropolis.

Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter