Distribution Automatique

Sunday, June 29


Post-Modernism Tilt As Such

Many voices- a voice
that speaks and a
voice that sings. I'll
date it later. He
glanced it over, it
seemed familiar. Once
remembering dreams. A
pause. Then tensions
gripe at me, suggest
annoyance, irritable,
changing. A reminder
to irrigate, watching
drying longer, the
longer I remember. Oceans
past, waves lick my
feet mentioning the
east, the sun also
sets, clearly in the East.
Prelude. This
day, naming. One
bed, not two. Attention
to the fact that...
spreads. Leaving
names out, the
reiteration sponsors
pleasures, apart from
watching. That scrambles.
Historical radio
passage solipsizes
neologisms. Polite
denial, a curious
passage, tilting to
the previous memory-
an experience doubling
the meanings by hinting
at an earlier fragment
of harmony. "The peace
implied by dust,
meandering around an
excuse for asterisks"-
says the clerk
awaiting a charge
card. Oops, a quote,
perhaps a false note
here, falsetto quaver,
mumbling unconsciously
the words to an
old pop song she
heard in her childhood.
Get a leg up there,
but avoid any risk
you can. No, I
don't mean that as a
suggestion, this is what
the dowdy woman
was saying to her
husband, in other
words, not quite
noticing the palm
shadows right in
front of her.
Noticing instead
the ackward gait of
the maid quickly
walking along the
balcony connecting the
rooms. The reader,
thinking by now of a
great French author,
reminds me to have my
lunch. He's all a
part of this nostalgic
utterance, as if I
could massage my own
back, words soothe the
tune, tickle it into
something slightly
frantic- like a
confused arpeggio, it
jumps like a porpoise
right out of the
page. You see? I
wasn't lying at all,
I meant every word
I said, even the
ones that seem
derivative, because I
listen to music so
much. Several
writers who read this
however, will complain
of the presence of the
author. Were I to
describe the craggy
coast, however, and
keep to the compass,
pointing my mind
invariably toward the
surface topography, I
would fit right in,
uncovering inch by
inch my very own
calligraphic identity.
But who cares-where
would I go from there
but to a monstrous
repetition of thematic
elements that thickens
books but lulls me
to sleep? I could
title it as
such. Hence the actual
unconscious meaning of
my name- to plumb
the depths. So fashion's
shallow. The urge to
operate, dig
out the pus, widen
the horizon to
uncloud that ugly
derrick spoiling
the landscape.
I stride rudely
through the gallery
loudly criticizing the
painter's recent work.
Just gray lines on a
black field-jagged
gray lines, slightly
curved ones and straight
ones. The black goes from
flat to glossy- just
like the magazine which
will soon reproduce it
with appropriate titles.
The great adventure
is to escape his voice
dogging me at every
turn. So I curse him
in his own voice and
he is satisfied. Whose
is it? Just because
we both speak, we
hear each other,
accidentally. It
cracks occasionally and
lets in a numbing
light that finally
pursuades us
both to leave,
abandoning the gallery
to a silence
loaded with
symbolic overtones.
Finished yet? Not quite.
You're like someone I
met years ago- I
don't mean to intrude
into your thoughts but
what would you be
doing here if you
didn't expect that,
at least occasionally?
Who has
changed so much I
don't quite recognize
you and you appear
instead to remind
me of someone. Still,
if we don't actually
talk, it's more mysterious-
this is why I
changed "you" to
"to"- because, for
one thing, the whole
passage affects a
curiosity that isn't
actual, like time
instead, it measures
rather than illustrates.
This face or that
babbling into the
screen- they just
speak, not symbolically,
father giving me
original information by
example within
his role, but
breaking into the
rhythmic hum a
beep that means-
"keep out"- your
borders, exactly.
Should we confine these
just to say, come on
in, the water's fine?
What are you writing?
I'm writing writing.
Ever see a kid that
swims with his legs,
just his legs?