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for it to mean hope it meant, then

This new side---oh, oh, oh---the new side . . . first of all,
to make it, force it---to will oneself to drudge up the dead !@#$
space in even a few solitary atoms, aimless ones, kept in a land
of aims---desirables, motions---long-ago, petered-out, to rove in a massive trembling, backwards, yes, to wherever dirigible or cluster of times or
of unions of time, again---is quite a schlep---is comparable to something impossible---like, for example---to retrace footfalls that had been

finely printed on a thin---also---transient layer of dust, down an infinite
corridor, dark corridor, and all the way back to before
a method got plumbed out of the trail, and one
was left no need for footing anymore, having gotten
wings, with enough pin-striking-!@#$ shots
in the dark . . . to ask, how

ideas of order came to be again,,,

again, and therefore for thoughts to meet to the very grain, yes meet, yes, meet
again as they were, a disassembled, unkind enigma of pieces, images---but somehow this
a purer way, dissembling, too, any scheme . . . would have originated
in the mind, perhaps, as a
dribbling of puzzle-pieces, an image of some renown on the cardboard---clueless clues---these beads start traveling, begin to travel with an accelerated urgency, caught in the exaltation of embarking---on a journey, tiny holes

in them for a journeying string a long
string to hold them in an indirection,
until the earth gets a new side.---An unknown,

facultative as fate. Bean-counter, old
abacus, calculator---and, to
laugh at the truth, to say it is made

of the hills, and to say of the moon upon them, it can set, if
only for the purpose of bringing out the sun---and, bullshit, to say, it

sets, the moon does, too, just to

upbraid the sun, appareled once again in a nightly hugeness;
or, jostle the sun to plume out in whatever heat given to the usual
junkyard---melting melted rubber---a brief, dim shewing of itself
elsewhere, now back on the other side of hilliness---the ears

of the sun burning pissed-off out of their molten
shells yes yes like a paranoia, and to pinpoint some jealous,
bratty snoop: somewhere, somewhere, in the looking
of that cratered white thing: whom stole

its culpability to rise, the sun to rise: well: to bring flames,
again---fury's unconvincing rest, degrees of a muscled-in yellow,
struck of a lash of yellow by the minute---a wane of light---a
supplication to the blurry gods drawn into the day's regulation
of day might well be mere, might be a merest thing, yeah, some

interrogated thing, made hot by the sun’s expulsive wreathing
in space. Made "Too

much words at too much times." A certain knowledge: demagogue
yet fully to consider where rests that 'last one':
that 'height of heights'---the bored

thing on the top. Shifting out an irritation on top of a
patterned pile. The final one. At throne there, and from there
to rouse up the kind, pound the dias,

irksome, likely---
douchebag---consider, what is the brightest type of moss, instead: I know,

. . . .

the kind greenest under a bevel bridge, at the throat of a spring. Spirit
blunders on the manifold hilt of a vision: frustrated purity: trespassing of
the dark over into a sunny impetus: there is his grasping: a space in meaning
for a more descriptive passing of the time: requisitioning what is left of a word

it could have been, spirit leaves it at no definition, leaves the word without
words, poisons all the birds to a believing the loss of an ability to fly. What
seems a quid pro quo, but somewhat sensibly grave discussion, gives way
to that temper of spirits, any; relates to more in conversation than in organic,

reticular weeds over stone. A fearlessness, secured in the gut, emitting poisons,
lead wings. But all this that is spoken over the truth is spoken anyway in a barely-
-audible tone. It lends an idea to something wrought of a heavy, pink eternal, outwards
like a deranged zigzag into a/the horizon mottled with clouds linear and slow as time:

whatever begun begins, punctuated, ended at a time most formless besides what
is sought: in enumerating the past and future: by emotions struck in whatever-
-orangey balance: lighting a silhouetted, brown-mange leaf, the circulatory system
of a single huge maple leaf, trees at the top mocking fallen brothers: heroism,

. . . .

once made the wimpier image, breaks elements of beauty previously hopelessly
circumscribed in a prejudice as to what is beautiful: leaves around what should
remain dignified anyway in nameless giving freedom: dignity gives us nature to bang
against in being too much for creatures, crouched feebly in a small,

shacked-up shame: to not think on insignificance: no wonder we all hold fast to-
-our own aesthetic, right? One snapshots the bare rockface gone down off a line
of trees, inarticulate, verdurous: a threshing force hustled quick into whatever
forms of nature I know the name of not, just know how what is is stung to nerves

marred already black as jet. And the bushy fathoms there, too; happiness unlicensed,
and the large flat granite thing like a bruise the sky makes come down in fraught
winds chiseling out the side of a hill,---what obviously is a very large rock buried
under the ground and fleet with dead grass in the spring, yes, as if it were

autumn, as if it were always autumn---and, that vulture's corpse did not too rot
in the too-long heat of the sun. That butterflies cared for freedom enough to stay in their-
-little pods. Or that all this strange impossibility out of suspicion might rend us clean
with encroaching, orange tints---not boundless, rather, seeming boundless---

. . . .

the sky a great, solemn CATHEDRAL, hammering like a noise to remit the noise
of a breeze---caught too well to hold the planet in place, a place wherefrom
the rest reach up in copper: yes, and bracken, thorny wood. Belching steam out
the slits in chords---and to congregate well---fitting with the bells like sways

on a metronome. Wait at the hills, wait for atonement at the steep neck's top.
It is for the bold to leave the swamp for; they leave their bodies back there,
there, on earth. The total things to be just tall enough to carry something
shorter to the godhead and hold in place where it is they all reach up to.

The jumps and falls before this other side of the gorge. Making one
feel for the hauled chains, you know; they snap on concrete in echoes,
sadistic ones; artful variations of the same confines: looming on looks
up from the peopled orb that makes the orb swell: this dust-mote-planet

to nod for nods back, like two examining the made mystery, abrupt,
interposed between observer and observed---really, perceived danger,
a veil between all outside places, eyeless places, and the lidded stars
blinking their kernels: each one a waif, a bead held in the quietude

. . . .

of fascination: thoughts come, in looking on what it---'it'---is once gutted, left
emotively: the tongue is a plumage most graceful, you know: a caress or
lick perhaps of the right path, pah: time, left the least green---a mechanism
space left for dead revealingly in scraps. Asteroids, comets, shafted carbon

from another source. Though, that portrait

is for me to describe, in the ways I understand. The fairness of a completion
haunts my fingers along---a different, straining keyboard---fingers that
spread to the webbing to clutch the sky's broad, knotted brain. Some kinda

elegant nothing of inelegant impartiality; that is, not right, not
right enough for this narrative. Here:

is nothing in that dignity to be
supposed; that is, what knows it's untouched
before a brain couldn't put it clearly, are such things
alright after the bomb? Things-
-alive work for their unrealness;
ecosystems, cities. For

the lone wood here it is a plan based in reflecting the-
-sensation of wideness with a larger scope: vistas, unremembered ones, or
ledges off into the rheum---things wide of the things at a glance, loud with

them though so as to make one turn their head away to follow whatever-
-inviolate material, thought the grace, the grace a moment before, before
the thing is planned in the sky then falls in endless torrent: before it is proven:
before, before it is proven in drops, proven in the dropping of thunder out

. . . .

the magnetism of hard, voluminous rain, still not even found where one might
be in the field yet---not even in the stillness. And things rest like this, and maybe,
no storm. Then again, a confidence could gain in the omen despite no omen; is in
the detailing of environs---weed, rustic morel;---tells naught but what that's

based on the pitch of sight, creative or otherwise. The pit of one's eye, that's
how and wherefrom one might see in blindingness past the tarpaulin sky makes
infinitude to glance that which seems the more farfetched to be---proven---even
in the cues one could take from a highfaluting-gallivant, inept, projecting noisy meanings between gasping for air---going out

It's trade of light for shade. No glum orbital could rally countenances
To spend out each day and night a different darkness or a different light
Of suns, only man is to shake it's head out of marveling. The soliloquy

He makes in his head of the horizon is weaned of its illusory self-reflection, and what

. . . .

The sky has now is a general burnishment, taking note of an affected

Vivaciousness in the burn to conceive

Of bringing in the tide of fallen day to drop back to the side of the world
Waiting, asleep, for it.
Of sunlight in the right places, even when not around; the just moon just
Hushes it all. Sometimes the sky can walk around to greet
These unlit spaces. Heated to spin-
-The hued apertures are in place, yeah, word: they give and take a bit more.

Respectively, side by side: meridian of the highest reach: an exigent---
One to shift the tides---the other made and warns the world afar: in

The distance, a sky makes of warning a climate
Screwed up into the blackness to keep there:
For us, and for so long:
Who will outlast who: which one to identify as enough to be a ‘who’

Besides those light of any omnipresence feeds: planet woeful,
Made soon that by the pallor of weakening suns, made mellow in
The twilit azure too: drapery ummm that a drugged,
belligerent moon hustles to beneath the pestle like as to

Crush mortar with work: hills disturbed, hills made of light, and,
Together, somewhat obscured, lifting out a casual observation---off

The scene, an idealist manqué---to never quite understand---tricky
With signals. Go lastly to the markers of drifting dawn you shine;

Be the grand kismet: yeah, you heard me: to prike out on galloping bells: they clang out,
Those massive, celebratory digits the sound of god makes: the sound

Like big bells snapping
To: thumb through this, and find a marble tally for reminiscent

Peoples: is it to stock up to what who made this tiny, gliding place: is
The hilliness of spaces mere adultery of place, the place in valleys,
The ground lowest to the heart of some unintelligible molten place:

Forever, forever in memory, the godhead, good god of death: and honeyed life’s giving self: truth, homeward travels, colored with

Hope, a blankness, till abstract fulfillment: of whatever
Thankful event: whether gotten from way off the odd shores

At perverse deltas, to too-flat oceans : or perverted calm,
In seeing the sunshine on everything through a mirror : et cetera and sense, a channeling,,,

Doom, doom and sense, and sense, mosaic-wonderful. The

Culture, or whatever; what is ya feels
Cultivated, and by dodgy words doomed
To refuse a planet

To shew itself if shewn through eyes painful eyes: and the plaited
Ghosts on the mountains, see: this new, old pattern of orbit, cursory,
To crane all backwards in the view again, circles round to the

Refraction, seeing it: o blessed unity of
Eyes: mobility as this from one who sailed on the wake, and

To heel before a departure of-
-Lightness. And,

And see what’s there, before you, on the real. See me before

You, planet, see me looking at you, you verse
Or strange prose; my own
Forgetting a lassitude enough tossed
Away to sight at the least trees, as opposed to forests. Lame. . .
Though, I am coming to like timid little unities more than a grand focus,

That anyways only deranges an whole,
Unspeakable whole. Speak yourself,

Belabor, find your encoded nullity, then regress
To childlike states, ironically a way to maintain dignity,
That is if it be done as a retaliation to a
Force of control in your life that is-
-Outside of your control: well then: chalk it all up to most
Effusive lessons to believe---but not stir---lessons about tapering
Wind to something the shorn lamb or whatever: and greenery in the skull,
Bled rapidly as vine to strangulation: out each of
A thought’s rising would come
Browsing multitudes of what goes out all easy by
The valley’s dip: swatch and shade coalesce, like

Some work in paint: marigolds and tuft there, pure
In dabs siding along the miniature sandy shores out
Where we sit and view
Themselves who watch it: watch reeds rift in and out
Of crosswise wind: clutching in ossified bold: o this pallet
Of colors shaped stroking
On the bushy berth: corbeil woven
Big for the mind of man to sprout his own flowers from, a place
Whereon drip the rains and from the canopy thus
To the saturated floor, caught in there
After the storm by thousands of leaves down in a pretense. Few

Drops could swell that small a creek---to think!---zooming in, the deluge
In a single tide and effort of white-lashed water.
Make the effort to drown it all to the last island! The field is grey or too strung like glinting beads, on

Gentleness. Gentleness in the purifying dark; let it come
To mean that, hope it means that. And then
The like, u kno water on the brain of a

Drunk in the desert. Night comes to the woods,
To image rest in the unrested minds of those.
Let the wanderer seem to engulf his own shadow
Down the path: with shadows set on the path
In nighttime: and only farther down the road:
And to others, only: while he puts the grass
Upon the skull of some dusty field: the winds blew
Like a gruff presence, urgent with inaudible
Muttering: an intonation: one of engulfment, I suppose:
But: what is night: once the blows stop awhile, trust
Is put once again in the new wind, wind, approaching
Now---and the relief of that!---Saith the reeds,

Hunching out the water down sort of linear margent
For miles, a few; a few timeless miles. A carefullest
Handling of air to soothe each grain of life across
The pastorale: a humble song, this is: for most
Miserable folk living like pioneers, though, in
The health of an established culture it is a culture
Of distance: an agreement to drive the wedge further
Between what one might name of the woods around,
Clasping the vines of their own aesthetic, a different
One, a different misery to chime in muddy moans;---
The character of fate, the fated organisms, faceless,
Wonted of breath, an easy breath with which to
Cherish breaths at large, a broken river lifted by the
Rain sometimes. The modern men and
Women of the race compile the appropriate data
For their fixing of the world in place: like
The first ones alone in the wood,,,
One that assumes to the flourish of whatever
Moment's trickling, collecting. One might, one might
Feel the air even in unclenching one’s jaw. Air, obliging even
To smooth out over the slightest relaxing of springs or also
Repositioning of muscles, to their better
Place. Air,
The speech to lift lungs forth to hush
Anxiety until anxiety deposes
Itself, pining after an hermitage ago, of a laced world,
Funny like billows after a softening air, a taste
Only the tongue has of distortions, like a plea
For calm, as if the wind say, "Let me touch you,
Let me not pour over." Zephyrus not to haul the air this
Time tonight, not to haul it forth in force-
-Like the chill of omens underfoot, struck out on foot
To whisper forecasts yet unseen, maybe never
To be seen, to diminish thankfully far enough
Away to---secretive---energy---the darker for
It's secrets, yep; not to tread differently, but to paw
The dandelions everywhere; secretive, perhaps,
Float seeds to flower in a field big with bloom.

. . . .

A structure winks in the distance light out of a
Single opening;
The river washes down the blue hill. With hours-
-And the woods’ inarticulate rhythm. Carpentry to hammer with
The blinking of a massive eye, per se. Follows, a flame
Of them; o terra infidel, the-
-Sphere, gentle one in the blackness lighted
Here and there by the lamp of the moon, well u no,

Bye. Pissed off, ‘it’
Goes down to drink off that which is shored
Against, that protection. And
Like blown glass, shapely, visible wind
Shaping round the movement, featured
In the night's ways. Periods of time, less
Time, more time, shades, shades of time,
More moons and suns, more changingness
To light, terms between folks and desiderata
Stuck sheltered off the path in some woodland

. . . .

More dug holes in the raiment. Settled in the fields,
A network of stars. Below the uhm, dirt to the carbon of dirt,
Frayed ends sticking up like weapons
For the artful and the glassy, perfect air. Monday

Rolls round, takes the week by storm,
Wounds the day split; splits the creepers
Down to the base of trees into dirty, groundless
Dirt. The base of dirt; messages frail
As glass. The lines bound to breathlessness, to be, remain breathless,
Randomly, beating, beating, rhythm crosswise to
Blow out finally the asphyxiating skins-
-Of the fixing tom
Poor thing

Last edited by satanicdoctor, Nov/1/2012, 11:48 am
Oct/17/2012, 3:32 am Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
arkava Profile
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Re: for it to mean hope it meant, then

Doc, just a quick look thru. the pt is i can read any portion of the poem and come away with a sense of its poise and scope. there seems to be several registers here. swatch and shade. it's the desert fathers speaking, but from a diff sort of desert where use value dips and crawls thru the valley. the best part is the voice here. reflective, sometimes tongue in cheek, part bitter and always hopeful. some of the concerns and language here set me thinking about zukofsky but maybe i am just reading into it. if you are looking at publishing this poem i am sure you will start pulling down some bits and somehow paring it down to something it's not. but i like the form it takes rt now on the page. every bit--diatribe, aside, argument plays its role. thanks for posting doc. will try to comment on this further, but for now will be reading this.


Last edited by arkava, Oct/20/2012, 9:33 pm
Oct/20/2012, 9:23 pm Link to this post Send Email to arkava   Send PM to arkava Blog
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Re: for it to mean hope it meant, then

i love the title as well. for it to mean hope it meant, then. like hope itself has use value. or maybe there had to be some hope in the first place, encoded, to make us hopeful again and again.
Oct/20/2012, 9:35 pm Link to this post Send Email to arkava   Send PM to arkava Blog

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