CLXXVI

 

 

That syntax, without

insistence, allows that

one might return

laconic and refresh’d

to the initial

object of its

ongoing exposure, is

a measure of

its own malleability

and conduct. It

leads one whither

one finds one’s

improvidentially been. So

go the mysteries

of the lingual

feat. Or feint.

A tall beer

at the end

of day with

Boca the green

macaw incising the

air with unintelligible

rasp and snicker.

A bluejay’s distant

note of slash

and burn. Who

reads the Memoirs

of Gen. William

Tecumseh Sherman?

Michaux, in China,

writing of ‘the

ascesis of what’s

immediate,’ how calligraphy

itself is a

necessary effrontery. Remake

my line with

all its stark

refulgence, arousal, speed!

Every equilibrium is

a temporary and

colossal botch. One

house wren behind

the garage, one

Carolina wren out

by the rhubarb

clumps. A woodpecker,

likely a red-

belly, working the

jack pine across

the yard, beyond

the horseshoe pits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CCCXVIII

 

 

Feign’d hubris, what’s

that? Any pied

type put directly

into the hell

bucket. The Brittany

spaniel cocks quizzical

at the noise,

back to sniffing

the damp corners.

Cold cellar. A

muzzle full of

porcupine quills pull’d

out with needle-

nose pliers, two

men holding her

down. Name of

Lady. If I

misread unchristian deification

as uncertain defecation

is it necessary

to put it

down? The impact’d

riddling wit of

Leibniz, roughly twelve

pages of French

fragments jammed up

demon-gnomic style

into some invariably

unwindow’d space, je

lance des flèches

dans la nuit, Bill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CCCXL

 

‘Tinny pin-point cleeking of

crickets’ is how Charles Burchfield

put it, a man so

irrefragably attuned to the various

color’d rhythms of the natural

world, he’d paint aural halos,

black-scored jags of musical

energy, studying, by such “conventionalizations”

of things, the getting of

an ungodly purchase, happily un-

housed, on, oh, the unendurable

wind, the hepaticas in bloom,

the holes in the clouds,

blisterbeetles, the nubby tops of

mushrooms pushing up out of

the edge of some cow

manure. He’d sit in thrall

to the ‘gutteral yipe of

the skeitpoke’ (a heron) toiling

up out of ‘frog blungs

& lily pads’ and, against

the sky’s cold cauldron of

scudding endlessness, the squandering heavenly

rasp of infinity, deposit continence

against profligacy—moth against thunderclap—

fierce corollaries made of light.

 

Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter