Jude finally meets Friar Tom. Upon seeing him she gives a Lou’s squawk. Hardly anything grows here, / Yet the granaries are busting with meat, / The sacks of meat piled to the rafters. / The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish; / Birds darken the sky. “This city. Is the death of the cube repeated. Or in the musical album. / It is time now for a general understanding of the meaning of all this.” I mean, it’s Valentine’s Day and the girls dress for their date with the rock. On the way they discuss its geological and volcanic origins — “Waiting a million years — just for us.” As it comes into view the seduction begins: they lose a sense of time (their watches stop) and they remove their white gloves. When they get to the rock they are as if under a spell — Four girls go for a walk as the others fall into a deep slumber. Ants and lizards and birds crawl on their food and around their bodies as they sleep. The girls who climb the rock are in some kind of trance: as they climb they remove shoes, socks, corsets and the rock itself takes on an animal-like presence — it has a gaze and a breath. Analogies: furthest and closest the Seraphim / like dark matter, of incalculable unknown density, / not giving off any light, but not absorptive either. As far / as our equations allow us to see, garbage has to be the poem of our time because / garbage is spiritual, but everything equally “awesome” gets boring fast, and finally has no impact. Django’s revenge just tails off into nothing — I can hardly remember it. Django and Broomhilda are somehow going to escape from the Deep South on their own after wasting everyone at Candyland, and lead really cool lives somewhere. Maybe head to California, open a store on Melrose Ave., sell the Django Look, corduroy jackets and skin-tight pants … ? “The fix has been in for a long time, and not just in Philadelphia.” The smoke from Taha’s massive cone joint flowed through the cabin of our silver Hummer. The A/C was on high and blew long fingers of smoke to the back seat. We were all mellow. Taha’s aviator sunglasses hid his tiny black eyes as he cranked the volume on the Arabic Reggae beat until it became painful. Then he floored it. Jesus Christ, he’s PTSDing again, I thought as the speedometer cranked past 100. The rose quartz quarters. It obligates. It obliquates. Around an axis the crystal twists. The crystal finds an assectation in this text. The rock assesses — and corrects. Smoothing from the cut a curve of surfaces caresses and assents. It stays assayed. A true bequesting must remain unsaid. The crystal is oblique. The crystal was obliged. It is expressive, biomorphic and easily anthropomorphized and yet, at the same time, the most remote and indifferent to human wishes … the most like a body the least like an organism. It is always more important, more interesting, more capable (full of rights): it has no duty to me whatsoever. The tone is fading imperceptibly as I watch. The opalescence spreads with the color’s obsolescence. The rock is a clock. It marks; it keeps; it bides; it takes. It weights like something else on her mind, but it can wait. The skin’s elasticity calibrates a kind of long-term dermal chronologue. Impurities in the massive material fibre the fleshy hue. The rock’s muscle relaxes. The rock is elastic. Edges distress the desk. The crystal scrawls where the base has scraped the laminate. The rose leaves lesions along the plastic. The quartz abrates.
[Note: Ginger Stickney, FB post, 6 Jan 013 (Ginger adds this comment: “… a loud squawk. Love just love autocorrect”); John Ashbery, “At North Farm”, “The Skaters”, as quoted in Michael H Miller, “The Meaning of All This: Talking to John Ashbery About His Past, Present and Future”, at The New York Observer, 1 Jan 013 (meat is a JBR blurred reading autocorrect); JBR; J Hope Stein, “‘Picnic at Hanging Rock’: Porn +Botticelli + Frankenstein = Relationship Predictor By J. Hope Stein”, at Delirious Hem, 6 Jan 013; Peter O’Leary, “As Twilight into Noonday Knowledge Gyres”, as quoted in Robert Archambeau, “Peter O’Leary, Luminous Epinoia. New York: The Cultural Society, 2010. 98pp. $21 / Norman Finkelstein, Inside the Ghost Factory. East Rockaway, NY: Marsh Hawk Press, 2010. 66pp. $15”, at Chicago Review 57:1/2; A R Ammons, Garbage, as quoted in John Gallaher, “A.R. Ammons in Chicago Review”, at Nothing to Say & Saying It, 6 Jan 013; Eileen Jones, “Free Me from Django Unchained”, at The Exiled, 6 Jan 013; Bruce Dixon, as quoted in Danny Schecter, “The Middle Class Has Been Saved – Or Has It?”, at Disinformation, 6 Jan 013; Marc Garlasco, “On the Road with Libya’s Lions of the Desert”, at Vice, 6 Jan 013; Craig Dworkin, The Crystal Text, at Compline, 3 Jan 013]