In the House of the Hangman 1145

And hey look it’s Ted’s birthday. Like, “Here I am at 8:08 p.m. indefinable ample rhythmic frame / The air is biting, February, fierce arabesques / on the way to tree in winter streetscape / I drink some American poison liquid air which bubbles / … / Heavy with that lightness, heavy on me.” Hamas is shooting clunky idiot missiles at Tel Aviv. Israel is retaliating. Or vice versa. This show of starch so impressed the Turkish world traveler Eviliya Celebi that he remarked upon it in his journal. “The meadows were covered with Hungarian carpets, onto which forty giant loaves were placed.” The prince’s method of conveying the loaves to the hungry soldiers Celebi found equally impressive. “Each one had to be drawn on an oxcart,” for “each … was twenty paces long, and fives paces wide.” Like all the religious icons in Triana / Like John Cale’s violin in “Venus in Fur” / Like the market in the mountains in Grenada / The one called something I can never remember / Like the Arc de Triump by Lemarc / Like Gun Club’s “Mother Earth” / Like a sunset / Like Nina Simone / Like Samarkands when she come / Like the strawberries tasted in Aunt Bertha’s [some kind of cake] / Like morning wine in May … Like when Whitney sings Dolly … but later … later … as I ripened to mush / Out of the blue, after many decades, I went to visit my fever / In the aquarium cistern in the deep ship’s inner, dark-green moray eels stroke in a slow orbit the soft legs. Out of the gland-darkness, the aromas of heavy vanilla and ambergis rise; purple acorn bolts and pulsars throb rhythmically against the machine’s watermill. A charge grows out of the steam from moment to moment. We hear voices from misty shores at the edge of the field of vision. Orchids of flower meal, pionees of meat, Alexander’s ampules from the Lust Garden of Suffering. In the pearl-green water one can see rags from siphonophores torn into pieces by the deep-sea hurricane. I have to lie facing inward in heat for many days. Here follows an episode with consequences long past that of the bare eye. A young Chinese girl who stares at us from her obscured position the whole time. And Saskia Morena moves straight into Alexander’s traps. In her view he opens the ampules and the androgyne’s pictures begin to seep out. He also anaesthetizes certain muscles with small dozes of the pink powder. He dissects lovely plants and he creates a herbarium of stamen-sprout and sticky hairy stems. This makes it possible to turn the poison outwards. To loosen the catastrophe from its position in the in-between space of our inner meeting. To spread it like pollen over android heaps and mute legions. At the surface of the facial skin whose carrier is Saskia Morena.

[Note: Sources: JBR; Ted Berrigan, “Red Shift”, as seen at EPC; JBR; Christine Baumgarthuber, “Bun of Contention”, at The New Inquiry, 15 Nov 012; Joakim Thåström, “Samarkanda”, Kim Hyesoon, “Silk Road” (tr. Don Mee Choi), Aase Berg, Dark Matter, as quoted in Johannes Göransson, “Exploded Kitsch Collections and Tourists in Art: Thåström, Hyesoon, Harry Martinsson, Jules Verne and Aase Berg”, at Montevidayo, 15 Nov 012]

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