the season broke onto regards, while streets were stippled. Avast hard farthing, that undue piece, that screen across the nether. Whichever prong side with the sorrow, those oceanic miseries of genuflection, that scuff of language. We sent a throng into the merger, strong case for a body politic. We set up a recon, a daily brim, a buoyant little lattice. Then the days were golden, for range existed in terms that would relinquish finally. We would read every word, before and after, even the haze and canyon. Here we found a document:
the praying monster occurred at status round, process heard of, verbal rendering stricken off course. Gestures swell to maximum, almost settling into New York. We can buy the island with 2 more complete payments. Here's Walt Whitman, in time to the late news and tune:
my aches and endless breeding stirred, and love, gust, it was all the same. Then feeding the hazard just a slight, then rockets towards the Republic, then a minor destiny fattened with scholarship. I tell you, it could happen.
Then Ted Berrigan roamed a trifle:
as if scuzz were no better. As if church all across the meandering, without a parking lot safely funded. We jammed a dawning thought on doughnuts, fucking the symptom for a princely sum. You bet your ass.
Then Bernadette Mayer:
surely the coastal waters, subsumed in literature, practiced by anyone. Surely too the strong guff of ghosts, monkey business, surreptitious practice on the sly side of meaning. everyone goes there, almost, and no one runs across the street so merrily as this one joke of a word. No, not that one, a believable trip.
Then Frank O'Hara;
then nothing less, and if I could dance, all the preening stars of Hollywood trouble could send their artists into the salon. Oh salon, itself a tributary! The gold of haste, the treason of spur, the gallop up the stairs to identify a plush carpet trust. Is this really the last days of anything?
Identity can be patient, after all. The streets are thick with what people do. They even say they did it, sometimes, but that's often a lie, often a perfect misconstruing. What legs the subway has, and what junk heaps come to the tall hotels, buffed into conviction. Illuminate the world with a special broadcast, about the city and even the few people. There are seven people in New York right now: seven. What seems like the rest have not unpacked.
Then John Ashbery:
I think I could lift a hand, or two, or even walk across the room. I think I have said enough, or two things even, in a fuzzily lit room. We are not doorknobs or excavation sites, when we talk late at night about perfect coffee machines. We stretch limits into anything, explaining the molten coffee rings on our most cherished books.
Then Anne Waldman:
scream consists of daily rags, not ragas, petulant combinations resistant to change. I've had enough of effrontery and the triage of jagged sidewalks. We won't be postal orders tonight, so why pretend there's pizza in the kitchen? I'm going home forever. I'll be back in half a sec.
Excuse the purpleness of this dawn, which could have been more rare in a grainier red delivery truck colour of divining fortune over cold waves. The ocean settles some bets, pays off, looks gorgeous like a truck instead of information. The harsh effort of street lights floating out to sea in lonely image, confusing but swirl, you won't relieve yourself of your drama. Then the waves smack something soft, like the rest of your love. Then the waves swarm the sandy palate of shoreline, the nibble we can invest. Then we look across the bay or shortly see more visions. Viking ships and native canoes and what not in a flood. There's more to carry, more. New York is toasted lightly, sprinkled with something to instill a right respect, and left to be enjoyed. We're ready as we wake. The smell is existence, laugh the poets, fresh in beer and it's 8 am. 8 am is an attitude, muddling much of the wanton job but still: look over the trees to see the real manhole covers. Forget the squirrels and pigeons and remind yourself of religion. Religion's door needs a covering chance, just so you can turn a phrase away from the obvious. That's how much the city cares!
Then trust these others, but leave them nameless:
gunk on shoes! Trucks stopping in the air at midday! Churches full of swept floors! How much more after leaving Boston, Omaha or halfway homes in mind or body? You spurn some frequencies and lavish presto marks on others. The champions run to the corner, buy bread with ritual, chew their own ideal, and spit in the gutter as planned. This city stuff makes us fractious, and no one wants to be vocabulary, alone in the way of all things. Here's too much, it just might be enough.
The city has a berry, round as completion but not very good in the sense of bringing rain when we come toward the light. We need a few things and hate a lot of jabber. The talk inside is just a bit better, when we drink coffee forever and order the sun to stop. The sun stops now, but night is in no hurry. Fog plumps up the cardiac insistence on fanning the flames. The flames will start the sun again, even as we weep. We do weep, it has been a long past, of complaints and mixtures and just the ordinary. We let the city continue its survey, because we haven't any power to command. We just run across the street, feeling guarded and swelling, then run back. The street is no process but an organic thump. The drum goes into the books, precious and scattered and righteously annoyed. the drum has a hold, firm and brittle. Like we're going to scream out orders to dance. Well we might. We might settle our love with the rest of humanity, finding the upper limit ridiculous but no less attractive. Are you listening as you read? Then you must seem to care. And having done that, seemed, you are ready to rush. Rush is for prisoners like us. We've felt the city's nearness and distance, twice per second in consecutive adherence. Trust language to go where it goes, and trust people to follow meekly. Why? Because everything is red.
One might as well ask the poets to surprise us. They may, or they may guard the pass.
No comments:
Post a Comment