lights go green &
a republic faintly
discorporates
vox organum
we sneak
into the gallery
cassiopeia
can I ask you
if the ocean tastes you
back
or the earth is even important
flying buttress
buttress golly
voices
rising to a bruised plenum
as robots
map the hills being wept
by imagined
windows
numb vox
casiotone implosion
of the singular
outrageous pixel spray
redoubles the parking lot
the vowels
have rights
telephones undulate in the
sonic haze
I miss you
the movie’s starting
black here black here
heavy thru dark
transcolor transimportant
black hair in the mouth
the cave goes running
everything loosens
everything gives shape to
a chorus there’s a will
there’s a wave
up to black
the opposite of sharp is coward
like a part of a person
something bad can happen to you
nothing bad can happen to this thing
a plow runs down your mouth
a crack opens up across your mouth
a bell rings out in your mouth
an accident blooms from your mouth
a taiga extends thru your mouth
“there is in boundedness something boundless”
it is like a part of a person
the opposite of coward is forest
strata careen into the margins
your mouth & it’s april
I’m listening
you take a black pill
you ride a spectrum say hello
everything mountains
everything listening
if you don’t do something
something bad can happen
to this everything opens its eyes
I am speaking into the pupil
I am jumping into a hole
for Peter Dimock
melos in greek means limb of the body. your arms are. origin uncertain. also in this sense a phrase within a song. one of its fingers. the way we’d say one of its lines.
aoidoi roaming tattered camps, the poet-singers who, collectively massed into a face-shaped cloud, comprise Homer. melos and melos and melos grouped into an aoide are a melody. the coherence immediately as of a body. a song of limbs, tuning sinews, drawn, impossibly continuous. the code scrambles.
what else could melodia have meant? unhearable subjectivity of a sound. melody could be malady, a music of the body’s antagonized coherence. it could be honey & could be medicine, sung or sipped, sun could be melody of a cold week. an ethics of remembering. instances of harbor.
Osip said:
“what Bach, what Mozart does variations on the theme of a nasturtium leaf?”
“the scale for measuring social architecture is a human being.”
with thanks to Don Dal Maso
I want to forget every
word I know I want
to forget every word
I know I want no thought
half-lit almost river
speaking her variant
over the shoreline
the alphabet
swells
almanacs dream
meat into the crocuses
no comparison
like violets no
comparison
dark night streets Osip walks
pine curved
discrete impulses take sequence
in a grammar of
hurting the sky.
I
want I’ll go where the air
is biggest the
word what
I want I’ll go where the air
is
biggest
silo haze
what want
I’ll go where
the air
is biggest what violence what sits
undeparted in distance’s every
song.
the lights dim
I say all your skin I
breathe a red mind
you scrape together tenses
to give us time
enough to hear everything
I
follow the shore
forgetting the morning
salt on the tongue of the wife of good-bye
not this not here not
that thinking as specific
as a foundry is not
all the pronouns not
air or not ore the house
is a drum in a storm
of morphemes not hours
singing to grass made of
mirrors
chimneys sweat her
throats at the window
glitch in a mesh of
abstract harbors no
name for it no imaginable
source for the ability
to say anything at all
spill feathers fuck
in a crawl space cracked
gill falter interventionist
twilight
no bloodspot no crowns
of commingling blood no
cartilage you will be air
in the teeth of distance
here & teach a beating
heart to fear the ocean
no columns fell no before
the show no colophon
no
this is the harbor of
prior receptivities
the lighthouse works
backwards & your
voice is a new name for
everything