Return to Left Curve no. 24 Table of Contents
1. To be said through and this heard from afar rabbi over meadows of light shaking walls of trembles I have swain hook, I have momentoes of clams, the right cross will have nothing to do with tomorrow. In this darkest of all lights destiny rules and hammers lie down beside sickles, brokenness opens the gate the song is imprisoned behind where shutters are closed and the ram's horn bleats, and trylon and perisphere the sepia film rolls through on the screen the burning wheatfields in harvest, the camp-starving eyes, a child's pee-puddle on the moviehouse floor, a rainbow comes down the aisle to marry the splinters. |
2.
Who then are the ones
to come now
ones and zeroes rule
the digitalidion?
And if my words don't desire
being seen up there or saying "Over"
with every breath,
can I fall through my open
and be one?
Fain would.
Who goes there
returns in glory.
Head on my sleeve, I sit
in a dark corner, looking out,
waiting.
Young old soul,
this is the archaic now,
stillness grows stiller inside
and we grow it stiller still.
Not by telling, nor even
by naming as if one were at home
in the world, nor receiving
voices from where one can't imagine
(that come closest!),
in this turning within the turning within,
counter to even seeming,
I falls over
and into the whisper of drift
over the scape of frail hope
given back beyond
the telling
nourish of
flourish in
the absence of everything hale.
A thought breathed upon a mirror-
millennial questioning,
might and ought,
irresolvable.
And you lying on your side
hope I can
with you at the moment: We
is understood homophonically
out of itself running
as if to a dawn:
your dream.
Mine, of unknowing
the insatiable when enough.
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3.
The ones long ago
are here. Who longest ago were
sent are here.
Out of the blue
brotherment
scattered and estranged,
strangers fragile yet clear
dew of reserve
upon one's morning
and of the ether of prior
to even ur,
whose paths reveal the forest
is the tree.
Where
even the hint of the thrum
of dithyrambic Enomena,
where the tangle of paths
to the gonads hanging
from the groin of branches,
and the clit of an eyebrow of moon
stroked by the midnight finger,
cicatrice of inlet and the lapping
of the waters, night rumps
and palms rising and falling
to the rhythm torn from the violent
throat of a bouzouki,
where the hoof is cleft
and the tongue
and the open between
the scattered limbs re-membered
shoulder to shoulder all night long
along the horizen to the first
shining.
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4. Because at any moment that is the moment, this, and my flag a curtain of darkness you take out of me where others took after. I won't come home until I have and then I'll be there. Perhaps I'll knock against your wood, but better inside, down on my knees. A strange serenity, as if all to be said has been and now what interests is the stillness stumbled upon when the urderground is turned. I lie about and feel I'm simply still, not dead but still, like having no will and it's alright, like feeling like falling almost asleep, words seem to have left, as if these are not what I mean at all,- Am I or am I not? In this stillness I make out your own. All that-the past-the war- the nazi haunting-years until finally my eyes closed and opened upon the new millennium firelessly. The curtain blowing softly in the open window. You turn. Who are you? I don't feel like projecting. You begged me not to go, then pushed me to. |
5. Not what is called suffering, this trying to beyond without any prior, this flindering off. Go on, continue, the path to the circle around the self is a line. The future shimmers ever so gently. Back rubbish is behind, archaic now declares its still truce. If you listen you'll be heard by what needs most to be. These are calls, but not electronic. And the hills of hair and the hills of teeth are out. Nor are names of things or lists in. If I try will I be tried? The paths already are stepped upon. No meeting, The change is one of hardly explicit. Let mind be washed clean by the ashes. On the way back all who have influenced will be gone through. Then nothing but you, and you are that nothing. Your hand an instrument of it, your mind a space where it whispers: we're going into leaving all behind. The beginning which at any moment stems from the beginning from which there is no stemming. On the way back, I'm suddenly fraught with a fearful sense of the leapless. By no means other. Nor is tall wind of verbiage appropriate. On the way back from the shadow of light cast by the future, to be one of the stillest witnesses to the stillest stillness. |
6.
So young, how may they know
I fell in love
with the other beginning too
and don't even know what it is
save that it speaks through you too.
Not the things you've brought,
not the fruits and vegatables,
not even the words you speak
when we're as close as this,
but what turns you
away from everything but being
in your moving motions
deepening still,
seemingly impossible.
I almost don't like it,
it evokes, or seems to, nothing
but itself in you. But recognizable.
This is crazy.
Where have the names and praises
gone? Of the sensual parts?
Of the intimate darknesses even
of words? Even slang?
I don't recognize myself.
What shining?
What horizon?
It's like I've left myself,
a couple of shoes on the sidealk
talking to each other.
Then who is what I am where I am?
Impossible.
Not left over, but from there.
This can't go on. I know.
It's the other beginning, but of what?
No mind as I've known it.
Then you, alright
I'll say you, but no sooner said
then deepening stillness is felt
in which you also are not
so much as a,
as an
--not even the name of a gender,
yet a poem as such which opens, yes,
but not to the senses as such.
Sounds nonsensical. If I tear
this piece of paper in half
and begin again trying to tell
how I fell in love
with the other beginning,
the deepest indescribable ahead,
turning away, leaving a space
where.
--Jack Hirschman
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