Black lady takes the beast in her arms and turns back her fingers through the fur to grab his head with both hands; now it comes to file and chat, blackberry him with a brief shrug. Long Bones knows the face Sees it. The animal is not surprised, Darkness in the Dark is not surprised, Would Suffer In Her fingers her as some more, continue his game but the black lady will do light to parts of the long black lady. No One Would ask: is not it Long Bones, dark in dark? The day could meet there at the same position ... in the fecund river wild lives, colossal lives in the river of crocodiles and hippos. When cupid’s nails sank. Why not? I’m ask asking you. Why not me? Walk through the ruins that wreck us and tell yourself that we’re camping all the way to the fusion of sand with blood where the desert ends, communicable via contagions of mirages where everyone is buried in their metallic resonance glass shards on top of the walls a knife between the teeth of a raging toothache I love you. It’s a broken tendon it’s a blocked breath it’s a strange night like an exploding vein in my bone marrow and spreads the plague. “Are we going to go all the way, Blaise?” “Yes Jeanne we’re going to go all the way.” One returns to a Paris: “City of the incomparable Tower the great Gibbet and the Wheel.” At school, I was taught that Korea looked like the side view of a rabbit. Its severed waist stitched up with barbed wire, its scorched belly studded with a million landmines, its adorable ears branded as an axis-of-evil. As a defect, I don’t know how to affect something else than bunny cartography. I’m not being polite. “I wanted to unlock my phone.” You cannot hear this sound except on a snuff site. I wanted to close the incision with cat gut and tungsten. I wanted to hack my own phone. Making quartz and topaz figures of Buddha, Jesus, and Mary, Chinese workers “cough and wheeze”. Because rare earth metals are distributed unevenly, large amounts of earth must be dug up to uncover them; the peasants of Mongolia toil “in the waist-deep sludge . . . for I-pods, plasma TVs, wind turbines / Guided missiles — things that make the world / Cleaner and more beautiful, as they say.” A sickly youth marries a magic spirit, half fish and half woman; the two live through the horrors of the Cultural Revolution, but are finally separated by China’s ascent / descent into capitalism, when she is put on display in a museum and loses her fertility. She becomes one with the sturgeons, trapped by the enormity of the Three Gorges Dam: “You’ll hurl yourself against the dam over and over, your flesh splashing over the concrete. You’ll be shredded by the turbines.” Maybe it’s time to reread Virgil’s Aeneid again, maybe. All poetry is war poetry. All poetry involves a trip to the underverse. Poetry is for losers, humiliation, confusing harpies that shit on the tables, and sex in caves. The gods are jerks. Snakes are amazing. Wear your extended metaphors like a big gold chain. The emperor will read history backwards if he needs to self-deify. Dead center of an open field there is a flowering tree. In the neighborhood not even one That flowering tree with as much ardor as it thought about its thought-about tree opened ardently its blossoms and stood It cannot go to the tree it thinks about Wildly I fled For the sake of one flowering tree I really went that far to make such uncommon mimicry. This week is called palindrome week. What do you know about ATLANTEAN REIKI? “OH MY FRIEND, something 100% polyester AND VERY COLORFUL PLEASE!” The machine has three parts. The pewter stylus etches the shape, the focusing lens billows from its wire loop, on its surface swirl phantom reds and greens, and the barbed mask of forgiveness mimics the several figures that Euclid describes in the sequel to his Elements, I Was a Greek Mathematician. The blindfold kept slipping. My partner resented the paper handcuffs, tall cylindrical hat. Who can say what justice is or find it in a muddy field? The pen makes a blue sound. I can distinguish it from the rain which falls all night and leaves no trace. They were wise to take my skin away from me. How can I move my arms? I will move them like the rain. What will she draw on the paper? Nothing. What will she write on the paper? Nothing. What will she do with the paper? Eat it. This is the end of sacrifice. Why won’t this light fucking change? The only thing I HATE about the Claudius App is I can’t cutnpaste from it.
[Note: Sources: Lucie Thésée, “Profond Allegrese” (tr. Google), mingled with Google Translate’s messed-up version of Robert Archambeau & Jean-Luc Garneau’s translation of same, mingled with Thésée’s “Poem” (tr. Google), and with Google Translate’s messed-up version of Robert Archambeau & Jean-Luc Garneau’s translation of same, at Circumference; Rachida Madani, “Walk through the ruins” (tr. Pierre Joris), at Nomadics, 16 Apr 014; bits from Joyelle McSweeney, “I Want to Go All the Way”, at Harriet, 16 Apr 014 (includes bits relating to Blaise Cendrars and by Don Mee Choi); bits from Ethan Goffman, and Wang Ping, quoted in Goffman’s “Wang Ping: Poet at the Crossroads”, at SSPP Blog (Weekly blog of the journal Sustainability: Science, Practice, & Policy), 15 Apr 014; JBR, but see next, which concerns the Aeneid; Joyelle McSweeney, and Yi Sang, “Flowering Tree” (tr. Walter K Lew), quoted in “National Poetry Month Featured Poet: Joyelle McSweeney”, at Entropy, 16 Mar 014; caption to image embedded in Robert Hartman, FB post, 14 Apr 014 (because the dates are palindromes if written out as 4/16/14, 4/17/14 …); JBR, but see next; CA Conrad, Atlantean Guerilla Reiki; CA Conrad, FB post, 16 Apr 014; John Beer, “Two poems”, at Jacket 19; Justin Sayre, “Waiting On Hope Street”, at The Sensation Feelings Journal, Apr 014; JBR]