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Five Poems
To my beloved sense of security, it’s your perimeter
that draws its corners like a belt when it comes down
to eating frozen foods out of the ground, each unenvelopment a finer slice of skin, hooped up inside     a shuffle to which turns quicken around the other way, like Artaud said about dead bolts, skull-clangor, that rings out. I thought I had been assigned a means to implant what was see-through about the facilitation so as to avoid having to clasp at every revolution for what spun into an amalgam of reachable shiny things, a lustre-knuckle so perfectly poreless and supposed to be included in the play-by-play plan, billed as magnetar, it was before us supposed to throw immense densities (think how an army grows, ±derivatives and more!) into orbit at a push, instead blink blank, a shared check deduced from the degree and number of squints and the corresponding wished products or information, but in a laminate to speculate and place in and out of tranched deposits, to punctuate ascendant moods with icon bursts that etherize, to direct wheelless traffic in and out of the park holding one’s piss, the bullet points growing to extinction like bush-antlers. Where the seafoam goes to die if
you watch it
long enough

In a cold war field counting grasses, bull thistle, to look through the air since yesterday with added particulate matter blown in westerly so the almightier sun’s redder edge the thin, crisp inward and why not stare, fixed at the thumb, speech ahead of our time in a snatch, over, under the dilapidated barrack roofs I snapped a shot, the bus driver pulled in at the last stop snapped a shot, something about numbers, then, 44, 48, kinda, weird right?, the blow-up of any concrete unfolds a plot, of the plot just so it’s wider than the eyes by a curved radial, it’s over where one hand eats and one hand is forced to clean the shit as it runs off, runs on, staggering current, even as stooped frames of specters garnish the scene with expired coupons and popunders, from the corner investors are bought in with the pitch of solvency, “potato chips make you thirsty, and Pepsi satisfies thirst” stuffed in a ribbon loop through the ass, an alacrious figure eight an intimacy another landscape away pressured into a can, now exploring electron beam curing, when I thought I might get a meal out of it, the relative near distance crescends in rounds cobalt blue cadmium green and just so I appealed to your equal disdain for reaction and ambivalence toward novelty, demand more pointed attention to the continued settling of exurbia, yeh, an entire superstructure of various particularly fashioned sentiments, illusions, modes of thought, views on life erected, sovereign landowners struck on a Land O’Lakes label, am I merging with those secure wands of light, something else? Two lines down a pair of compasses, only a partial read of thermospheric density, how to calque orbital decay? Your respect for the formational drive of historical determination, or at least that’s how I found you quoted, lacking credentials to access the original: “it really seems that no other option is open, (wirklich) but to be crushed by habituations, and positives . . .”

My years of lazing under low-hanging clouds, punctuated by soundless flashes, like one spaced-out single summer afternoon, watching the billboards expire to the development of new alarms, slashed electricity, drink up, oil down, but the murderous sun still spins a blank. Here and soon there alerted by another gasp of dispersed light traveling over the ceiling to the bare heaving walls, a convolute specter that announces how it will forever beam just for another second or so, another spasmodic turn of the kaleidoscope, undeveloped film rolls, dried-out weed—does it make me paranoid?—only to stare off, where the groans crashed in then followed eleven steps, collect the unemployment with each pass at go, back up for another, squirrel, busy mouth high up swaying the mulberry tops, the thing the thing to do with each inch after plump purple luster-form, speculate on that elsewhere, photons not yet up to speed hilarious, stuck where it don’t look so good with a thanks to the cashier upstate.
     Now come down on autumn, chopped stumps and all that ash, the long and shorter of it making demands of an idea world (so as to fashion: more of the same). It was supposed to be lapping in horizon, the pinch of its descent, forgetting what happens after this period. Knives out, under the mold turns up some bread, take it a plunge in deeper, in past the perimeter guard, say hit the switch and watch it run.
     And who’s to know whether there’s enough live crystals still alive to reproduce and spread new pleasures I or you will dream dreamed dreamt, a whole conversation ago, wild orchards ago, downpours ago over the mounds and pavements moving forward underfoot, consulting with scattered necromass, for how much carbon and how much for water, across the estuary empty suits virtually invisible to the eye count up from here, here to wonder whether there’s enough storm blowing that way to disembowel the buried flavors.
     When the mouth forms around a pain, from under the cover of a black spruce, its boughs hoist and settle in the breeze, where the white curbs close around a gap in the sky and fill it in, pump-like—it was there for not one more word to say, shut out completely.


You could say it’s the middle of the street, but as Lucretius theorized, when seeing you’re seeing your eyes, partially, family, familiar lens, where did I leave   my last hole, the one I’m talking about you know, leathery hyphen, post-plastic, incorporating realistic noise effects, writ down, same thing. Because the painting study of the painting went in on space for color, it opened up the airy touches of elemental gauze we do not weave, electric ground, particulate matter, film wrap of the everyday, every hour on rinse, recto, rinse. Rerouted to avoid ambient traffic, it’s my boss on the phone in my headphones, one more input variable, added up again and again, nothing happens (and more labor); in material terms, there’s nothing there to arrange, weather-dependent, the places have been set in advance and so it’s eat the last salmon.


Imagined it the same! . . . when the station switched over, newly branded, on air
toggled the shift in availability, how to phrase the end of the day elastically,
without the enumeratio and sticking to the story, but to find oneself only
going further back like a staircase winding wider and deeper between
familiar institutional floors, a descending language of like to like.

Everyone was saying the same thing, speculatively, that everyone
had to better deal with the differently growing elements if they wanted
to have another chance at seeing what had been kept from them in the dark
between the rolling film, buckled beside my applied statistics, my AI passing
sights move on me in splices, where dead starfish jumpstart electrostatic deicing.

Like Goethe on campaign feeling his wheels under him, apprising granite, sandstone, clay, and marsh
geared to speed, the directive to disencumber what moves on the surface, maps into prepaid wallets
a blur, commercial pause, stampeding truck zoomed out to uncover flatter screen, living room,
desert, dining room, roof on fire, a product made to maternal words bearing statuary left behind.
Squint at the clock face on homomorphically encrypted Terms of Service, no making it out.

Was I reaching for the padded gel of your hand,
through the plastic bit display that had been sent flying
and foot frenzy in the aisles, [. . . realism], as we caught ourselves, contrapposto, on wet
cement, with a sudden want to be captured there backlit by the sun, imagining our silhouette’s
sharp edge would smother and dunk us among the pools of shadow, lit with less long-distance longing.                  

As it happens, the diuturnal horizon already started its sucking away motions, back immediately
to our circumstances, so that hospital floors loom elliptically above us in midsummer breeze
where police idle, an informal greeting from the radio, an expression of conviviality within
the edificial rigamarole, or was that the birds defending the area? in any case, the swish
of pantlegs has built into an oval pitch on horizontal axis like a glass wafer tray:

music on repeat, of three-legged dog gait, honey, where are you?
The water looks somewhat sickly from this defunct coastal strip, where the filter
collapsed into an interior limit, verifiez vos, prüfen Sie, check your settings.
Where was the pulse, held onto the banister as the autowalk speeds along with stats on death,
the best of the best of times, the worst of the worst of times, all the time of the time of times.

It was learning for my thumb, forgetting for what. Holding, focus on the movement and thought,
hold action open long enough to keep open, all that while invisible sand punctuates
the working hours like abbreviation over and over marked primary growth
and the road its on, slow murder playing in the car—
metal sensation, compound bones, tastes.

Jonathan Larson is a translator-poet living in Brooklyn. His translation of Francis Ponge's Nioque of the Early-Spring and Friederike Mayröcker's Scardanelli were both published by The Song Cave, and his translation of Mayröcker's from Embracing the Sparrow-wall, or 1 Schumann-madness was published by OOMPH! Press. In 2025, Winter Editions will be putting out his translation of Nathalie Quintane's The Cavalier. He is currently working on his own book project titled Negatives, as well as more translations of Nathalie Quintane and Christophe Tarkos.