Authors: Ann Lauterbach
Tags: #Poetry, #American, #General
with a child on her lap
sitting on rugs
what is she doing
in the middle
might always be cold
what is she doing
sitting with a child
on her lap
alive in the cold
flat as the moon
it can never be
she is always
goading the ill
by day or by night.
into a woody scene
the painted epilogue
Burn it for heat
and burn the
currency of emeralds
for new life.
bound for dispatch
and so cling
to the tiered ensemble
during the spell and
Up here in the ancient gold trimÂ Â Â Â Â Â the news not yet visual
so that he or she or we are invisible to the naked eye
whereas the gold trim on her gown is etched
falling down along and over to the hem
like an evening sky.
Or like nothing yet announced
so the missing and the present are singular in their dress
as we await the address and the black
river of reading aloud over the phone
George Eliot's intervention between the walls
so that we walk through them as if turning a page
we agreed again you and I as we have agreed before
you are not going to be with me on the other side of the wall
despite George Eliot and despite Daniel
in his pink house with the book
whose cover is reiterated on the wall
the picture of the beautiful woman in black
who had to decide whether to be her portrait
or to be someone else
not like the mother or the sister
not like the man in the hotel room in his bathrobe
with his whore and his
so that the only thing to be said
you cannot do that with me in the room
the walls of the room and the long view across the river
where there are others in their rooms
and the house from the other side of the river
as the life within is immense.
These intensities Â their wake Â the jar
snow on dry leaves Â
the jar dark inside within Â in the dark
body o body not that anyone is here
the thick stiff night's
as of now Â how it is spoken
the slide between
the mere passage
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â fret
and surely the blind spot
emphatic Â Â these intensities
not sheltered not yet drawn
by the most implicated
what it looks like
to halt Â Â Â Â Â crassly halt
and the new digital figure
semblance ushered from sequence
avenue or image
sucking at the animate
these contagious exceptions
even so the turbines hum
licking at stone
the contagion of stone
melded onto a screen
as if intimate
as if tempered
as if conditions prevailed.
Let us move more quickly, night,
now night, star-encrusted, opulent.
The indictment of thought
is an opal's smooth version.
Guard our sensations, be copious
or at least perform adequate
vistas. I saw a pair of eagles
from the train. The train trains on.
They, their sitting.
Night: longer than their perch.
We: gathered and copious.
The eagles: a pair.
I warrant the arrest of the boy
who shot another boy in this sad.
In this sad, would you have said no?
Bickering, passing the gun, a game
of pass the gun.
There are gangs.
This is not a lesson.
A transformation of the subject
into another subject. Not to insist.
Velvet Revolution, Velvet Underground.
Lou, hello Lou? Can you hear?
I am here in the dark church
imagining an improvised history
as if channeling the news.
The eagles sit at the edge of the river.
The camera is out of earshot. Jack
Spicer is about to speak
into the nearest phenomenon
while the deer
while the dear
and a new equation
only you in the pews can solve.
Are we lost among our subjects?
The lone bobcat
Andrew and I saw
an ancient and incendiary
commotion. Hunting season
under the big tent.
And then there was a magician
strolling along in broad daylight
with something up his sleeve.
There is a silver zebra
on a silver tray in a gallery in New York.
to Michael Joo
Maybe there's a top at the end of
the world made by someone else.
Maybe it spins and becomes a blur
of river and sounds
windy. And the girl
who arrives and who gets to hold
the top at the end of the world
and to pull and push
so that it spins into blue rivers
seems never to die.
A train passes on the ridge.
The hemlock branches wave.
Shame vanquishes the old school.
Truck stop rape. A or the women
falls or fall under the wheels
of chatter around truck stop rape.
Besieged by glare; the untidy
aperture of historical accounting for
truck stop rape. Flare of paper in wind.
Some sirens, some typing on small
handheld instruments. Minimal
delay but very little inclusion beyond
truck stop rape. Everywhere she saw
eyes looking back into the harbor
where there had been an accident and
no chance to escape the truck. Stop rape.
The world allows Â stop me at any point
I am so sorry Â
idea symbol procedure
allows for Â tennis Â Roger Federer
try not to consume the view Â I am really sorry
after the fact Â Â Â after Â Â more than a few
flying in the face of necessity Â Â allows
for error Â invariably corrected Â the world
corrected Â I am very sorry stop me at any point
down below captured Â Â Â Â Roger Federer
the world allows you ask Â what is this world
clarity Â Â a procedural game not Â if then
not Â Â consequential Â Â openly
distributed Â stop me at any point Â motion
transparent Â Â Â you can see a match Â Â Â pass
to pass Â Â Roger Federer Â Â Â or hear
the noise of bees Â Â Â Â Â Â Â oceans of bees.
to Nick Keys
All these Â Â concrete Â Â things
habitat of improvisation
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â phenomena Â Â Â do not grasp
under the catastrophe tent
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â or truculent Â not following not how
the brown lisp
tunneling up through spawn
as if duplicating
not the stiff buck
pecking at our wares
and the beautiful illusion
sea in cloud
basking on its throne
in the forgotten
as the already
in the black hall
the relinquished sequence
abundant with numbers
patched on to the original
sent out as flood.
And the ghosts of Galileo
are meeting in a room
reserved for those
in mourning for
acts of insight
They inhale clouds
that promise a more
than mere death.
There's a knock at the
has come to join them.
She is clothed in
like them, is
invisible to them.
She speaks slant
lines only the birds hear.
to Ron Padgett
and a painting
are in love
it takes a
for a chair
and a painting
to fall in love.
One of them
a black ground.
once had a
but it was
to Anselm Berrigan
Track the quick-footed
Slack crib, fluid in another
mystery. Repeat after me.
There was a form after all
but not recollected.
Never look back. Do not sleep.
Skinny little day. Shadow
under the streetlamp.
Girl slender also, girl advent.
Repeat after me. Turn
slowly to look back
to where the footprints were.
Seek brevity. Don't look down.
There are some evolving stones.
The sky? There is no sky
only the task ahead.
Ahead, the easily erased.
Repeat after me. Count her
astonishing steps, feet
in snow, feet in clouds.
Do not look up.
Cold ricochets a blistered void.
We're in the ghost field now
driven across the drain bed
into the bowl of a spoon.
Things collect. Drops, etc.
blown into images, pink and red.
Don't look away. Do not sleep.
Repeat after me. Never let
her hand touch your mouth.
The long elation of our candor collapses in a small yard.
Backwoods, incessant beats. Backwoods, the very nerve of fidelity.
But say something else. Say the graphic doodles
our condition into froth in the arguing hills over there.
The days perish, wanting simplest ties.
And the flexible branch lifts and falls, a kind of wave.
Sooner or later we will enter Abraham's drum
and the wet slide of his hair
will abolish our simple roomlike conditions.
The invisible slope will drain into drops
while Abraham beats and beats his forgiving set.
Are the ancient songs contested? Are we too long
in the cave, on the island, in an insular, petty drift?
Questions are stained cups. The heart skips a beat.
Abraham wanders off in a mood of melancholy triumph.
The others, his mistresses, huddle on the floor.
His mistresses are part of the inventoried world:
they can be counted, they can be sent away
to join others, parts of others, they can be treated
like sentences in the inventoried world. See?
Their rush of silver and skin,
their elastic torsos bending,
their sonic reverb, gaping mouths.
Soon, they will become an incandescent spray
that Abraham will arrange in the harbor.
Do not shut the windows. The sounds from the sea
are important. They resemble notes, or drops.
Abraham resembles Abraham but is not Abraham.
to Abraham Gomez-Delgado
as a vanishing
so be itÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â a vanishing
not political the day was not political
although misery of exception although
there are those soon to be
in the little dialogues with
a Â starved
among a twilight.
The sexual apricot depresses me.
Come forward little migrant
Come into the iterated
without a face, but, yet, with
Glorious structure of inner abatement.
O give it up!
Give up the image!
Give up the announcement of the image!
Give up the spectacle!
Give up the announcement of the spectacle!
Give up the thing and its image and its spectacle!
As we were saying by the unlit fire one night, as we were saying.
And the swimmerâyou know the one I meanâhis torso!
Like a ship!
Having dreamed of my dead sister
raging with urgent
conducting us through intolerable
passages, now forgotten, I
have burned my right hand
small dark clouds above
the river I cannot see
while listening to
a scratched CD of a Haydn
piano sonata so that
and having spent some moments
thinking of the vision
all that is unforeseen
as the world now
becomes without sequence.