CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive
|From Think Tank
In the soft folds of derivation,
the spheres ring out, but muffled.
That music, that music of affluence turned fluid.
And narrative illusion breaks down metaleptically
transforming expectations of early and late.
A man walks into the ground.
Has now made “his” what is simultaneously “not his.”
Run to the seawater, seawater boiling.
The lobby of the library,
harmonizing and gay.
Not by concrete but by owl-light
Coming now to a higher perspective on the various circumstances of our shared life,
there’s the fifteen-year-old grandson of a very good friend
standing impossibly shy, pretty, and skinny on the corner by the jazz bar,
something unrecognizable in his ear (a piece of chalk?). May I
take him home?
His grandfather’s commission: Teach him to recognize the Devil; the Devil has a name, and that name
is crystal meth.
And are we not
always wielding two shields against the two fatalities of every
day? Craven and in full bloom?
No: “participant observation among the artifacts of a defamiliarized cultural reality,”
“Quit sniffing the rattlesnake!”
Rarely do I in dreams or reveries
indulge my steady
The left side over there, it’s
uninhabitable, it’s as resistant as a man’s
broadcloth deltoid. You know which pores you can get into and which ones
are only good for secretions. Even with your most feathery
tips you’ll never manage a
break-in. Not drink that juice. Jiggle foot. Suck pen.
No one gets into this
Not by concrete but by owl-light.
Here and there things are made, but how?
“By a future mouth without teeth?” These
unrevealed days lie reading the forehead of an eerie young girl,
lie beaming in the deaf rippled bay,
lie flat like a party where everyone cried,
had nothing to do, no will to invent, no wish to go outside.
Like alkali from ashes, leach
the wet heavy pubescent trees of their ire.
A man walks into his coat, his puppy-happy hands in his
hair. Little I celebrate the coincidence of my birthday,
injured by sands blowing into my face,
while the gap man, great CEO of caesura,
tosses his son into the sea,
the sea where bagged seals rot.
& the windowpanes rattle in the bad news/good news format,
a way of displacing or troubling the triumphal narrative of the emergence of a
Nothing betrays us
A man walks into a table
A man walks onto a wind-driven
Have come closer, now, more than ever, to streaks of water between panes of glass
Somehow I have to get out of this net
To open the curtain, to reveal another person
or the signs of another person: brick, paint, glass
Even as the ladybugs, the squirrels, the ducks, and cousin Jonah
sleep, even in the quiet that is the sleep of creatures,
scandalous breasts and rock hard jaws
maintain their positions, their purpose
What, elf, is the purpose of you? The seriousness with which
you are learning to dance. In the thirteenth century!
There, at the peak of starvation and disease
within a hut or a hovel the candles were lit
Somberly, elbows linked, we stepped forward on one and on three
That cloud glows poppy red
and the duck folds into shadow
Just one more cherry with its seed sucked out
Julie Carr is the author of Mead: An Epithamion, Equivocal, 100 Notes on Violence, and Sarah-of Fragments and Lines, just out from Coffee House Press. She teaches at the University of Colorado in Boulder, lives in Denver, and is the copublisher, with Tim Roberts, of Counterpath Press. Other poems from “Think Tank” appear or are forthcoming in Mary Magazine, Realpoetik, Slope, and 1913: A Journal of Forms.