FCF 85

Which
is to
hold out in

the
spilled entrails.
The sun pummels

the
River God.*                            *God is the name not the god of the river.
No, it sucks

at
it. It
sucks its head.

It
bangs the
body. The tongue

in
your throat,
you find, is

not
your own,
just a copy,

that’s
a really
funny joke, blown

like
dampness from
my little room.

Solar
systems, as
bound objects, are

never
fully available.
In astronomy, that

black
drapery of
the stars, deep

in
the curve
of my heart,

as
if the
sea weren’t underneath.

I
do the
math for fresh

water.
Spirals are
for pleasure. In

the
cult of
what would happen

if
we had
choices, would we

know
it? Now
let’s draw some

circles
big ones
small         overlappin            til

I
get pretty
damn lost. Je

suis
né comme
le rocher, avec

la
respiration aggressive.
I was born

like
the rock,
with my wounds.

From
birth I
have had an

aggressive
breathing. My
nervous breakdown is

immensely
boring. You
are the one

I
want beside
me in the

vehicle,
our hands
on each other’s

knees,
shouting our
heads off to

the
music recorded
on this obsolete

medium.
I want
to think more

(way
more) like
X X who

moved
outside his
preandproscribed canvas out

of
necessity, tho
I don’t even

know
what necessity
means. His focus

just
went past
the corners. X

X
sat there
for a very

long
time. Sitting
for a long

time
doesn’t appeal,
either, whelping stars

gentle
chains wind-
blown plastic scraps,

baroque
confusions, underlining
the star-lit

crates,
escaping into
skunk huts, broken …

The
point enters
spilling its message.

Is
this a
case of “the

foal
not shying
from the hand

that
gelded it”?
Suddenly I understand

why
they left
the empty bowls

on
the table,
in the empty

hut
overlooking the
sea. Suddenly I

understand
why they
left the empty

sea
on the
table, in the

empty
bowls overlooking
the table. Suddenly

I
understand why
they left the

empty
hut on
the table,

in
the empty
sea overlooking the

bowls.
Suddenly I
understand why they

left
the empty
sea on the

sea,
in the
sea overlooking the

sea. Suddenly
circa 1960
something about the

future
makes the
past go — no! —

Disinterring utopian scenes like this one, it all contracts a rather brackish taste I’ve grown to love. We were unwinding into looting the blank debris our forms so endlessly fulfill, nursing on spectacular slaughter. But it didn’t take long before we emerged, together again, from a hole blast thru the audio feed,

folded into yourself
how hard you are working on sleeping

folded into myself
how hard I am working on sleeping

folded into ourselves
how hard we are working on sleeping

·                        “What am I

· doing in this abstraction as if

· it were my experience

· and I were just an activity

· of time trying to make itself clear?”

Inside
of grace
the number of

my
friends increased
and joy wove

stories
of impossible
loves. Inside of

grace
the poor
tormented the rich

and
the hat
was lifted in

an
act of
pure gratitude. Inside

of
grace the
passing bird shat

on
the furniture.
Inside of grace

the
plane passed
over Albuquerque and

tho
they’d served
the meal and

shown
the film
there were still

two
hours to
go. My wings

are
yes and
a half meters

wide.
I’m sexual.
They cut my

flesh
aggressively. From
Persia I march

to
India and
back. I lean

on
my elbows
on warm stones.

(“My
bloody is
completely cheese”).

is what I have
a PRE-EXISTING
condition?

when is the LAST
TIME I had sexual
intercourse?

I
WENT TO
a DISPUTED REGION

the
DISPUTED REGION
via brain sucked

thru
nose straw
into canopic jar.

Though as I
say that
I know it’s

what
I’ve said
each time I’ve

arrived
at this
precise moment, before

I
pause then
notice a tribe

of
red ants
stuck like dried

cranberry
bits in
thin cracks in

the
oak bark.
To go on,

at
that point,
always seems an

inadequate
description of
what it is

we
do when
Brahma wakes. On

the
run, the
body wobbles. Sitting

still,
the planet
shakes. Fort … da …

[Note: For Alan, Tom and Geof. Sources: Ron Silliman’s new arrivals list, posted 1 Jul 09. Marie Buck, “List in the Window from the World”, “Bitumen”, “Hunt the Thief”, at La Petite Zine; Amy Catanzano, Starlight in Two Million: A Neo-Scientific Novella, at Tarpaulin Sky; Joel Chace, “in the kingdom of the American Way”, at Three Candles; René Char, as quoted in Mary Ann Caws, “René Char - Resistance in Every Way”, at The Brooklyn Rail; Jordan Davis, “The Facility Finder”, at Shampoo 34; Olena Kaltiak Davis, “That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do”, at Harriet; Brad Flis, “Screams and Permutations”, at Milk Magazine; Celia Gilbert, “September, Running With Birds”, at Ploughshares; Kevin Goodan, “Untitled”, at Alice James Books; Linda Gregg, “Now I Understand”, at Poets.org; Rob Halpern, “D I S A S T E R L Y R I C”, “D I S A S T E R L Y R I C”, “from Music for Porn”, at Eoagh; I skipped Serkan Işin, a visual poet, from whom I’d have to steal everything or nothing (that’s one of the interesting things about vispo; how to sample?); Ruth Lepson, untitled, at Moria; Paul Pines, “#6” at PaulPines.com; Amelia Rosselli, from War Variations (trs. Lucia Re and Paul Vangelisti), at The PIP Blog; Tomaž Šalamun, “Kestrel, Buzzard, Hawk, Falcon, Buzzard” (trs. Thomas Kane and Tomaž Šalamun), at Melancholia’s Tremulous Dreadlocks; Rachel M Simon, as quoted in blurb for her Theory of Orange, at Pavement Saw Press; Stacy Szymaszek, There Were Hostilities, hyper glossia, at Boston Review; Gail Wronsky, “Go On, Sure, Why Not”, at Verse Daily; Deborah Woodard, “Sanka Mnemonic”, at La Petite Zine]

Comments

[Bob]

Wonderful!