A Note on the Text
The good poets defy things
with their heart
This is how a fragment
enters the people
Don’t say beauty say the beautiful
say the people
Say it is through chants that writing
entered the people
Their imagery and love of nature,
englutted flowers
This place of fleshlessness
Here is my song
the only recourse of sun
Even its smallest syllables
can be sown into the mouth
It is on the tongue the sun abides
Two syllables fastened
to each end
To stretch the vocal pattern
Its linenlike thread
Bardo
I’ve spent my life
in a lone mechanical whine,
this combustion far off.
How fathomless to be
embedded in glacial ice,
what piece of self hiding there.
I am not sure about meaning
but understand the wave.
No more Novalis out loud.
No Juan de la Cruz singing
“I do not die to die.”
No solstice, midhaven, midi, nor twilight.
No isn’t it amazing, no
none of that.
To crow, to crown, to cry, to crumble.
The trees the air warms into
a bright something
a bluish nothing into
clicks and pops
bursts and percussive runs.
I come with my asymmetries,
my untutored imagination.
Heathenish,
my homespun vision
sponsored by the winter sky.
Then someone said nether,
someone whirr.
And if I say the words
will you know them?
Is there world?
Are they still calling it that?