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Stephen Kirbach
notes:
Oftimes waiting is in order, and all this against a consistent background
of biotic crisis for which the poem bears absolute responsibility.
Thus, a vast complexity of the world around one might be shaken
so that debris swirls. Pieces then drift in an air seeming fluid
and from which I snatch and place into a poem such unfettered shreds.
I pass through this mash, physically, and sometimes words attach
or rather intersect my physicality with this swirl of what ever
might be happening, and I take notes accordingly, that is, not unlike
dictation. Sometimes phrases adhere to one another from either vast
distances or disturbances, and a poem might be thereby built. Time
is quite plastic and arbitrary in this dynamo of stuff. One brief
note from years previous or even dissociate flesh memories might
attract other words in tone and paronomastic. Reading enters into
this mix, naturally or not, as always sound, meaning, though not
necessarily, logic. Otherwise, I don't nearly understand the workings;
I just happen to middle here. And anyway, (sometimes) things laterally
"fall into place." My goal is an entire revision of the
prevailing socio- political structure, the humanist experiment gone
seriously awry.
1
one
one one one
one won one
one
one wonders
mister one
one mister one
hat
mister
hat mister
mister one
one stone mister
mister stone hat
stone equals stone
equals
one country littered
with stone
mister come on up
out onto the ground
make nothing of it
heave that hat one
stone hey
mister hauls it away
mister goodstone
stupid house
sun gone under a
distant edge day
by day the citizens gather
debris
one day one
gather citizen
citizens I gather
debris
in
the beginning what wasn't
one
either was
or
wasn't
was
but
stepping
one from another
one one from one
on then, and
on stepping then,
an optic no
body
an
opposition
of
will against won't
savage
distribution
infected
perhaps with
oneself
nobody we want around
I arrives
anyway
a
camera
savage
the mother
savage
the
son
an examination into
the murder of one reveals some
one
who vanished
One might muse thereby
odd as
odd today, one mumbles,
other
than X, Rich and I were the
last to see her alive.
But
what can anyone expect? We
recall another century, a century
detrimental and finally remote,
even to those who prospered, and much
to the dismay of their victims.
These
minutes askew, all petty increments
oblivious, perhaps whoever we was
haunts some nerve undiminished, one
eye which ambles, the other arctic
with what it has witnessed.
One
man awakens surrounded by junk in
addition.
Ridges
hump up the highway
which mounts beyond clouds; up
thrust granite drips in the wind.
Time works dispute
then the age. Billy
with his ketchup green, Molotov
purple, gasoline. Today
the decline of the sun matters at
the cracks of an old house within
a network of whistle and hiss.
Bestrew those chosen
figures of wrath
whenever one's dog steps into the road.
Overheard snatches
of kill theory
result in one who imagines him
self pitching fish, body parts,
the shoulder for instance.
The polemical nature
of religious
fervor yesterday, likewise today,
translates as specifically wanting,
protein machinery denial, this
one made of glass, a brittle
fanatic, billboard cadence erotic
production in image boast fix,
for one has no brain, no befit
relish for that which is fleet.
Who yells over the
water some
thing about come with a cage?
The
killer, a well-respected man, feels
with his foot for the soap and
considers his garden gone to
waste in a world in which each
moment bids, certainly, haste.
(after Lisa Jarnot)
Into the hillside,
shove
another house.
Whom
today might one categorize as
the villain? Oh
my gosh, it's
amazing that you
have neighbors
that you don't
know and to think
they would do
that, or how
to explain
oneself, how
one explains him
self, whomever, or
the excuse
of an assassin
seated at the job
services dept.
with a bunch of
others, the wait, water
heard rippling in
the can, stretch
and yawn, these
days
of unemployment,
a
guy's gotta keep his
cap on, hey,
they all
do it, have
you got that letter that
says one week or
less, no, paper,
rustle and, one gut
methane retainer, and
why not, bear
the cap back
ward, given
flush rustle
poor sucker
and flush-
Genetics
brought me to the
edge
of this chasm
- the stink
which rises
- modeled
on the concept
that I - with
all these others -
will be annihilated
at any moment -
horizon an
unattached retina -
a circle of
glint
overhead - whereat
one sees -
reflected in cobalt -
gamblers -
who sit with fists
full of cards - upside
down around
a round
table - wet
rings
condensing
under their
beer glasses -
and they move
in
slow motion - one rusted
hound
a floor mat
- while others shoot
pool - swagger and thrust -
turquoise
dust covers
everything - and
the clacking
of the balls
threatens
slant showers -
Stephen
Kirbach lives in Asheville NC. Some of his poems can be found online
at Exquisite Corpse, Moira, Muse Apprentice Guild, Pom2, Shampoo,
Sidereality, and Can We Have Our Ball Back?.
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