Poems. The threat of poems.
A literal mind wants literal reality. It wants language laid down like a
perfect grid over the world as it is. If you give a literal human
something else, he suddenly pulls up his horse, jumps off, and runs back
in the direction he came from. He's stage-struck,
and not happy at all about his little jaunt in the high country.
People say they want to experience what is outside the reality machine,
but when you give it to them they object. 'That's not what I meant.'
They actually want something that looks and sounds and feels like
ordinary reality. They want the method and the
system of ordinary reality with a few odd tidbits thrown in. If you
move to another arena of harmonics and dissonance, where the
interstitial connections radically change---poetry---they balk. They
wanted to go in orbit around the Earth, all the time looking
down on it, and you took them to an X frontier on an unfamiliar shore
where the moon was moored in the dock.
~~~
Shivering in the green water,
Wriggling in the net of desperate oxygen,
Rolling prisoners,
Foam falling from their bodies...
Summer nights
I sat on the front porch with my mother
Rhododendrons were thrashed by slow comets of rain
These are the letters of my ancient fathers,
And these are the letters of the roses
Blowing across the rolling apparatus
That moves the sun,
Shining through old windows
On old men.
Now they shake off the rime
And stagger up from their trench.
They form a subconscious moon
They enter a sleeping shepherd boy near his flock,
To repair the damage of centuries.
glittering garbage
of fantastic dream
on its way to a factory
on the antediluvian shores of a breastfed paradise
I have no arduous duty in the
library at Alexandria
I'm there
to
expose
shatter
the vanishing point architecture of eternity |
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