check out this arrangement
Ferns are the joints on a ledge that have an electricity you think through but it could be i am assuming too much, cubby-holed Osiris-- for you, vocalization is guttural, a perch. There is or could be a small hut in which you claim yourself visible-- i am right there, conscious that the moon is just a larger star in drag.
I stay silent in spite of the hum, growing fuzz and puncturing your beacon but I could be failing—stumbling instead, vein of light that supplies the moon, scream more loudly than the gosling. There once was an ending, numerical walls that drew you in—you are there now, hiding in the softest crevice you could find.
Pull me up by-- what? don't answer this as if you were living ozones and you meet them with what seems like, what hasn't been a sentence whose trope of hours . . . and if they are gardenias, a whole sea of them you might stumble among, syndromes and telepathies, translate at will (fists of violets, petals climbing down your water-curves)-- how far are we from snow?
Light plays carnival on the wall as if it was not dying—you can learn from this until night.
The lungs of a language, missing itself, every spring a choice and what i mean by this. I'm not sure-- what i meant was not invigorated by silence.
And you melt me with irreconcilable markings, happen again. The fractions are rhododendrons fighting for sunlight on an autumn windowsill or I could stop and ignite, let the air quench this anxiety. The dream came last night while you were planting roses in another hemisphere because we will until—until what?
The only silence is the sleeping word, gathering sentence, flashing into pandemonium, us, we, all there.
I stay silent in spite of the hum, growing fuzz and puncturing your beacon but I could be failing—stumbling instead, vein of light that supplies the moon, scream more loudly than the gosling. There once was an ending, numerical walls that drew you in—you are there now, hiding in the softest crevice you could find.
Pull me up by-- what? don't answer this as if you were living ozones and you meet them with what seems like, what hasn't been a sentence whose trope of hours . . . and if they are gardenias, a whole sea of them you might stumble among, syndromes and telepathies, translate at will (fists of violets, petals climbing down your water-curves)-- how far are we from snow?
Light plays carnival on the wall as if it was not dying—you can learn from this until night.
The lungs of a language, missing itself, every spring a choice and what i mean by this. I'm not sure-- what i meant was not invigorated by silence.
And you melt me with irreconcilable markings, happen again. The fractions are rhododendrons fighting for sunlight on an autumn windowsill or I could stop and ignite, let the air quench this anxiety. The dream came last night while you were planting roses in another hemisphere because we will until—until what?
The only silence is the sleeping word, gathering sentence, flashing into pandemonium, us, we, all there.
posted by Scott Glassman at 8:58 AM
4 Comments:
I love it in the blocks. This could be Helix #4. I'm going to put it into the mss just to see it with the others.
I like it. What happened to your text at the end? I liked the part about silence.
I think it's two paragraphs up.
I just reread this (11/22/2005) and think it is amazing- distance form this project always makes me love it more and more. I love the unanswered questions most- not because the poem answers them in some metaphysical way (because I don't think it does) but because they feel like panicked exhaspirations that are truly calling out. They don't even know where they are calling. I like it, cause neither do I.
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