Metal holes gouged in a blue sky and a few sprigs of torn grass … Do you live in a tree, Laura? “If that’s his face, what must his scrotum look like?” Would anyone really wear a stuffed crow? Food that doesn’t rot is poisonous. Free Weld el 15. This Monday, June 17, I didn’t show up at the police summons … Through the window we’ll see that's just Jude, she’ll have more eye and the haters will hate that but then for faff’s sakes we’ll be alright and come around and stop the hate (“and there are windows”)? Our descriptions are engorged with magic. We like to hoe gardens change our clothes and plunge into ourselves being personalities. The clarinet is physical. Then it becomes music. Go. Rub a plasma TV. Gravity is vertical as a wheel is round or an awning is yawning and our thumbs are busy. According to someone named L.E., “A poem can often be made much more successful if the poet puts into the poem, freely and unselfconsciously, all the birds he wants. Once the poem is finished, he then simply discards all of them.” Or not. To quote Sampson Starkweather, “Browsing through used books on 32nd Street, I heard a young man say into his cell phone / Hi, is this the number I’m supposed to call if I find a dead bird in the street? / Later, I saw a pigeon lying in the gutter, some boys without shirts on / were poking it with a stick. … I got this magazine in the mail, where some artist or photographer or whatever manipulates her shots by placing fake painted birds onto real braches in real forests to get it ‘just right.’ This has to do with desire. Light. Dead leaves … At AWP, I went to a panel on birds in contemporary poetry — / the truth is, I was late and they wouldn’t let me in without registering and an ID badge, so / I missed the whole thing.” 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. We have to get into the plant in order to release the paroxysm. The hybrid’s soft gland-growth has grown an Indonesian jungle tree on the inside of the body that will carry our red heat above the cities where the war is blossoming. Out of the core the velvet butterflies explode strewing contact across Kermadec and Ylajali. That is what I think when the keel strokes across the deep grave’s ruin palace and colonies of moray eels and corals. Out of the gland-darkness rise the fumes of burnt vanilla and molten ambergris; purple acorn bolts and pulsars throb wildly against the machine’s bottom mill. A charge grows out of the steam from look to tunnel look. Where the Gulf Stream turns in the tropics in toward Asia’s happy, sinking cities. What he saw inside was a burst spectacle, a room filled with stinking pus, flaps of skin and tissue driven into the walls, a room which pulsed and seemed to be digesting a horrible gallimaufry, the fur, bones, and innards of an animal rotted beyond recognition, a boy so skinny his ribs, wrists and legbones had finally splintered through his flesh, a girl with bulging eyes and wrung neck, a peltless dog whose every muscle was being slowly worked from the bone, a suppurating wound without a body left to speak of, bits of shell, tooth, hair, tongue, claw, and fat bobbing and resurfacing in the fuming fluid which bathed everything, bathed even his own eyes. Then he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and he took it all into his mouth, the room and the world, the causes and their outcomes, the couch and the game, the gun and the stash, the fix and the flesh, the anger and the relief, the hope and the violence, the illusion of adulthood, chief among which is childhood, the growth and the decay, the decay and the rot, he took it into his mouth until his mouth was warm and leaked a little and bulged at the lip like a piteous frog’s. Is this not what Hegel attempted to illustrate with Aufhebung: “surplus, subtraction, sublimation”; or Derrida with his deconstructive method and the “re-mark” and so on and so on? It sounds like buildings falling down, again and again and again, in slow motion. It sounds like an elderly man asleep in his armchair with a shoe box full of neatly organized medical bills in his lap.
[Note: Sources: Donna Fleischer, “A Jar”, in Indra’s Net, at Scribd; what someone asked a Colombian friend; Robert Archambeau, “A Wedding Cake in the Rain: Notes on Auden’s Face”, at Samizdat Blog, 21 Jun 013 (“ … asked David Hockney after first meeting W.H. Auden”); JBR, re Johnny Depp’s Tonto costume; Brenda Iijima, FB post, 21 Jun 013; Hind Meddeb, as quoted in Pierre Joris, “Letter on (In)Justice in Tunisia by Hind Meddeb”, at Nomadics, 21 Jun 013; Rowena Castillo-Stickney (correct last name?), as transcribed by Taina-Karru-Olsen, FB comment, 21 Jun 013; John Olson, “Experiments in Smell, at Tillalala Chronicles, 21 Jun 013; JBR, L.E., and Sampson Starkweather, as quoted in Starkweather’s “A LIMITATION OF BIRDS — after Landis Everson”, at TYPO 12; Aase Berg, “Ampules from the Lust Garden of Suffering”, Joyelle McSweeney, Salamandrine: 8 Gothics, as quoted in Johannes Göransson, “‘I Play with Death’: The Gothic Prose Poetry of Negroni, Di Giorgio, Berg and McSweeney”, at Montevidayo, 21 Jun 013; Frank Smecker, “The Tangle and the Groundhog by Frank Smecker”, at Zero Books, 21 Jun 013; Brad Zellar, “Soundtrack: On Listening To Barber’s Adagio For Strings After Seeing The First Firefly Of The Summer”, at Your Man for Fun in Rapidan, 20 Jun 013]