for Marjorie Perloff
My parents simply could not
like a vortex purge
the cyclical fluctuations
of the japanise pavilion
where you see silk spinning.
In China the bat
is a symbol of happiness.
I mean the line between
sense and nonsense is of course
a narrow one. Rocks are emitted
by sentences to the eye.
My mean my parents went on
occasional trips into
the countryside which is what
every Austrian does on a dreary day.
And sentences pile up so high
you need at times to drill into
them to discover the existing modes
Molly Bloom is on her bed.
To tell a story is to find a way
of knowing how to reach
the world. Philosophical analysis
does not give us any new facts.
I mean, I wore my Davy Crockett hat.
I opened my clothes to the moon.
I negotiated with Mussolini.
Anyone can deal with a set of
“disgusting old rags.”
Sentences are sometimes digested
by the rocks of civilization.
What time the next train leaves
or doesn’t doesn’t
matter. I tried to find the hourglass
but something got mixed up.
We took a photograph
of the wrong house.
To deny the normal
of arcane vocabularies
To mime the coming awareness
of the mind is to face the
glut of impossible wrong turns.
Eyes are often encapsulated
into rocks like little steins.
And we grow weary of the trip
toward the necessary confusion
of the destination we know
we have started out for too late.
What time is it?
Molly Bloom is on her bed.
Yes, and the integrity
of the spinning is growing
ragged. I can give you only gossip.
Since in the view of many
of our poets the world doesn’t
truly make sense, we have to mime
the mind awakening each morning
to realize we took the wrong turn
in the middle of the night.
You can’t negotiate with a dictator.
And civilization generally rocks
its way back to sleep despite
the vortex into which it has been
thrust. I still have it in the closet.
My Wittgenstein to tell me
what I can never ever know.
There was a japanise lady to selling sings.
And the noise was overwhelming.
My mother brought us several cakes
and books to keep us calm. We were
so very quiet that we slipped
into Italy. Time stood still:
I had no thought for the next day, week,
or year. I don't recall wondering what
our new house would be like,
where I would go to school.
Molly Bloom was my first teacher.
Yes, she was. Gertrude Stein my second
grade teacher in the new American school
where I could no longer negotiate
with the handsome cowboy I would
soon discover at my side. He was so
very charming and so beautiful I said
and I said and I said, yes, and I said.
The world does not truly make sense.
Rocks are nothing more or less than stones.
Philosophical analysis does not give us any new facts.
To call the bats "disgusting" is to neutralize their force.
September 28, 2021