Indivisible Indivisible
The unit of measure united in the particulars inevitably leads to divisions; part of medium is to be indivisible, so divines the medium. He says, "I am neutral. I am neutrino & pass through objects to stay objective. I limit myself to experiments involving infinity—that is, unlimited license to be licentious: does it matter to murder matter? And is it murder to dissect what matters—how will I discover what is murder or what is matter? As a matter of fact, the uptilt creates a steep plane interrupting the plain, a stratum revealed as part of many strata united and thus dividable. As a stratospheric shower, particles aggregate into one granite unit. Is wave action just another wave to that which is indivisible?"
Jul 14, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Marcella Durand
from ‘Lone Coast Anacrusis’ from ‘Lone Coast Anacrusis’
—"mu" fifty-third part— Some new Atlantis known as Lower Ninth we took leave of next, half the turtle's back away. Whole bodies we saw floating, not only heads... Endless letting go, endless looking else- where, endless turning out to be otherwise... Woods all around where we came to next. We'd been eating wind, we'd been drinking wind, rumoring someone looked at God eye to eye... In what seemed a dream but we saw wasn't we saw dirt sliding. We were back and all the buildings were gone. What were cliffs to us we wondered, blown dust of Bandiagara, what the eroding precipice we saw... Ground acorns ground our teeth now. All but all gums, we were where the Alone lived, came to a clearing lit by light so bright we staggered, Nub it was we knew we were still in... The mountain of the night a mound of nothing, Toulali's burr what balm there was. Toulali's burr what balm, remote though it was, lifetimes behind us now... Voice laryngitic, lost and lost again, blown grit rubbed itaway... Someone had said something came to mind. Someone had sung something, what its words were no one could say. Sang it bittersweet, more brusque than bitter, song's cloth endowment stripped... Choric strain, repeatedly slipped entablature. Given... Given endlessly again... No telling when but intent on telling, no telling what. Wished we were home again • Refugees was a word we'd heard, raw talk of soul insistent, adamant, the nonsong we sang or the song we nonsang, a word we'd heard we heard was us... Wept in our sleep, again one with what would never again be there, raw talk rummaged our book,the backs of our hands written on with cornmeal, the awaited ones reluctant again... The city of sad children's outskirts we were in, woods notwithstanding, woods nonetheless, bright light the light we saw as we were jolted, raw talk spiraling away... We were there and somewhere else no matter where we were, everywhere more than where we were... Where the Alone lived we donned abalone-shell ornaments, light's clarity conceded, night yet to relent, Toulali smoldered on, semisang, semispoke, wrestled with his tongue it seemed... We trudged in place, barely lifted our feet, backbeat hallowing every step we took, moved us albeit we stayed put. We were where we were, somewhere else no matter where, evacuees a word we'd heard... Stutter step, stuck shuffle, dancelike, Toulali's croon enticed us, toyed with us, ground gone under where we stood
May 20, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Nathaniel Mackey
Aug. 5 Aug. 5
Aug. 5 When a man is asked to sing of his anger the risk is that without remorse virtue dies War then is in the face, in this homelessness, the despair which couldn't wait couldn't ask for We don't talk to each other anymore we email global reach managed minutes morning to noon in the hospitals we are all old forbidden to talk of lost sons, asked to smile Enough, they'll hear the news, men in photographs die and nothing will seem simple, their faces especially where sorrow stretched everything Maps point to? and defeat looms where? out there where? Here the naked body is where terror lies Guilt builds monuments, the way we spend our time
May 12, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Eléna Rivera
Get Out Get Out
Can you feel your confidence match the billowing crowd? You even feel cocky, believing you've earned the admiration of a few. It is, in fact, what it appears to be: a voice fastened to paper very carefully, a cry cut from its mouth. But then, you think, who is that you're talking to? There's no one here, just paper and ink and you. What is this pathetic game? Get out. Go find a friend.
Apr 14, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Craig Morgan Teicher
Morning on the Island Morning on the Island
The lights across the water are the waking city. The water shimmers with imaginary fish. Not far from here lie the bones of conifers washed from the sea and piled by wind. Some mornings I walk upon them, bone to bone, as far as the lighthouse. A strange beetle has eaten most of the trees. It may have come here on the ships playing music in the harbor, or it was always here, a winged jewel, but in the past was kept still by the cold of a winter that no longer comes. There is an owl living in the firs behind us but he is white, meant to be mistaken for snow burdening a bough. They say he is the only owl remaining. I hear him at night listening for the last of the mice and asking who of no other owl.
Apr 5, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Carolyn Forché
A = A A = A
Mine to ask a mask to say, A is not A. No one, ever the contrarian, to answer. The moon is both divided & multiplied by water: as chance, as the plural of chant. O diver, to be sea-surrounded by a thought bled white-- a blankness as likely as blackness. What is the word for getting words & forgetting? Might night right sight? I, too late to relate I & I, trap light in sound & sing no thing that breath can bring.
Apr 5, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Andrew Joron
Set Apart Set Apart
Set apart from the compound friction of forest, a rough-barked bur oak, mostly trunk, outlives its understory. A sapling in 1700, it rose like smoke from leaf litter, a totem for those who told tales vertically, every episode the offspring of earth and sky. Carotenoids flare through its vascular system in slow time, releasing aromas of black tea and tobacco. Winter-hardened, the oak endures, a column supporting nothing but its own fixed extension. The fine point of a feeding warbler-- a drifting spark or cursor-- ghosts its crown.
Feb 17, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Devin Johnston