Had some rough thing happen last night, going to send you the book. That’s what I said to my brother in an email, putting the comma between two thoughts that didn’t seem to correlate. The comma supported something, though. A tick tock. If nothing else. There is no adjustment to make, for what is one adjusting to but otherly adjustments that one cannot catch up to, so one is always behind, singular, solitary in the open, as are the others? That’s often how it feels to me, living here, against “the others” or with “the others”. The nurse would misperceive this as wallowing, and his flapping hands in the air would bring further exhaustion into the world. I’m pulled more and more away from “this” world into something other. I don’t know if you feel the same. But this last bit of problems in the months prior has me lasting with some roots in other realms.
I’m amazed at how often a poem is claiming some news to share. Some insight. Some image to figure for. To stand enthralled. To be awash in the subtle differences of words. And yet they use the same letters, just differently. There are several things to say to poetry about poetry, and yet little of it matters. I guess that’s where I come in, without a dent in my hat, or the silver sieve migrates away along the wall, leaving me gawking at passages. It moved me, one said. But where? How? There was a swirl inside. It touched a space one passed through, a usual inspection point, forgotten and filled-in with whethers and if sos. Not much to acquaint one’s self with, by the impression of meaning to say something apart from what it’s unsaying. That’s the pivotal part, or perhaps only in passing—how much is being unsaid as one is saying. Or through what one is saying. The letters darting apart.
So synonyms. Skeletal art. Hospital invoices. Wind in the trees, the husks of the palms on the ground. It was the sense that something back there had happened, something amiss, or something constrained, like a hedge. I drove north of town and saw the almond trees surrounded by ponded water. The buttes came into view, the cattle here and there. A vacancy, then. Or again. They would call it the talking cure, taking the cure. To be cured! To reawaken, so that the moon was no longer a loser. Its dead mouth blown off into the black. Then, the medicine, and the people in threes leaving the bistro. Religion was wherever it was meant to be, in the creases of things, irrelevant, unless noticed, and then only briefly. Like when one sees a hawk on a phone pole—immense, unforgiving, solid, winged.
I couldn’t explain how hideous it was: the long afternoons of paranoia, worried about every flapping bird. But it came and went, too, the solidity folding up, the ashes of existence finished floating. I could hear my voice in my head—it was clear, mature, matter of fact. There were compensations needed, the arms of others, that kind of rubbish. Be quick about it if you’re needing to kiss. Marigolds, the doffed cap, various cartoons. That’s what it kept returning to. No staff member knew what the answer was, as they fidgeted with beverages, slices of cheese and meat. Was it a German enclave? The white rooms and the whispering sheets. The dolor—unimpressive, in disguise, aslant on a coat on a chair. To bear witness. To what?
The features of the land lay in folds of fruit trees, nut trees, wild green rice fields. The poor slept on the shores of the rivers. All talk of skeletons, half-remembered mimosas on boats, the skies over Syracuse—death—would be placed in reserve. The cars crowded the streets, birches in-between, and rarely the anger of the void tore loose. It was all apart, or simmering. The makeup on faces, each individual decision as to when to drink water—would it be now? A concentration took place, eventually, in the airport, falsifying vectors, trim people, cellphonic nods, to point to a living system just within an inch of any. Well, that took me away, that thinking, to being, and whatever dark target I became, I became.