So some guy says
“You just know the poem is going to suck.”
I is the fantome hanging around you: placeholder, shapeshifter, object of desire—so wants to dazzle. Awake, a constant solace. In my dreams, guaranteed admittance to the club I belong to.
Not bad, but dangerous, takes over and runs things, studies things, names them—acts of violence. Refuses to compromise, signs at the bottom, takes the lumps, chooses which ripe peach, and is gone. You’re left with only the memories.
How are big thoughts about language, thoughts about big language, or language or thoughts about big (about the unmeasurable) like cigars? It’s their terrible clouds of energy.
We have language long before we have thoughts. (Pipe dreams, broken stanzas. You think they are long enough and you end them. They go on for pages. All that is known about crystals.) But laughter? Doesn’t that come after?
What is poetry doing in the universe? What is the universe doing? Does poetry do? Is the universe in? Asking a question is often the most effective way to establish a relationship. Ever notice? What happens when you verb a noun? That question makes me so happy.
On the way home what’s great about Miles Davis is his sustained argument about cacophony and significance, mmmmmm. Here’s one for the life-word list: stochastic. Thanks America.
- Login or register to post comments
- PDF version
