FOR WORD: Volume One
Full Fathom Five
The apocalypse jumps out
of black and white synapses
In the anarchy of the lines
Who will remember them
cities in which the air caught fire
the marvel, the elements
fear transfiguring all that dread
Names for that which never existed
The Sense of Ending
Closed-up in the blackness of a night sky, white cloud-scraps scud across--
Here lies fear, palpable as a heart beat. Never to be undone. Never to
What makes it hard? Is it the end of ambition, the realization
"Brother sun, sister moon."
The sun of hope, the sum of all possibilities
Is it missing what you will never miss,
Or is it the recognition that the end never comes,
Columns of faint numbers that don't add up.
Numbers invented to arrive at a theology of substance.
Enumerators count each soul-ballot lifting each
Each parchment ballot, soul-thin, translucent, ephemeral,
We need a new calculus, a new algorithm, a non-theology theology...
Plantations as Museums
The long straight driveway to a large, white-pillared plantation house. Tall trees on either side like sentries in the thick sultry heat. Stock-still, as in a dream. Blindingly white. Not even the susurrus of the wind sighing through the trees, bending them back. Silence, like the heat, everywhere. Crunch of gravel as you look around. Then the long high-pitched whining of the cicadas in the hot moist air. Then nothing. The long fluted pillars of the large front porch. Doric. Grecian idyll of the Old South. Idle. From the front porch, broad fields as far as the eye can see. Black hands picking fluffy cotton balls. In the back, the weather-beaten ramshackle slave quarters falling down. Tin roofs rusted through. They're outside the exhibit. Everywhere the remnants of what beauty did. Does. Fallow fields eulogizing generations gone to ground. No mirage of the past, just the past. And the present. And the old silence, thickly-layered, everywhere. The startling clarity of a broad old oak tree, alone in the fields, its long limbs outreaching an unrepentant sky
After Reading Jefferson, James, and Pound
The trees are only black, bare boughs
E pluribus unum.
If there was oneness, what would it be like? What would it be like to
If there is likeness, it is the likeness of difference. We have made
A ragout of dreams, madness and fear.
Underneath the strip malls, the tacky sprawl, the monolithic discount
Elsewhere, the fields open up to one another, endlessly.
It is as if we do not believe in what we invented.
Quietness, quietness, our unendurable quietness...
[back to Volume 1]