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1400 degrees fahrenheit


1400 degrees fahrenheit
love sonnets to hades or something like it
1 am vision quest & illogical rhythmic mathematics while avoiding solar flares
state of affairs when last we leapt
from the second story


Your eyelashes say yes.
Blink irrational numbers in moonlight,
3.1more kiss from bixbite lips.
Energy equals mass times the speed
of your mouth feathering the broken edge
of a single galactic string sung down
to the bottom of its lungs. Filibuster baby.
If your eyes are flames off a shot of amaretto
then mine are the sum of a lit candle's misplaced faith
in the invisible. Forget that for now
& say the first that rips open your mouth:
this Skeleton rowboat:
this cinema of nurtured incisions:
archicembalo of sharp submission.



Now that we got that out of the way
lets assume a sudden loss of reality a.k.a.
are those night mountains or did someone cut
the bottom skirt off the sky?
You say: Tell me why the evening
sleeps in an iron lung?
You think you can hear your thoughts echo
off its chestplate. Said it sounds
alot like you only older. Exactly.
Remember when we bone-danced
to rung drums on a ribbon of broken bottles
& beat the night's distaste for vowels
into our chests? This is all like that.
Or whatever our blood did to hitch a free ride on the flounce.



Woke up wearing a poncho
of crisp Atlantic exhalations,
even the memory holds you like nightfall's
last iridescent arm mystically endowed
with levitating Chinese lanterns. It's all just divine amperage.
Turn lightning caught like a spark
in your eye on its side:
you'll find a crack in realities ozone fine flesh.
Rain on suede-nacre hair. 3rd law of thermodynamics
pulls an 8 on its side
& forces a million joules
thru the backspatter of the big bang's
bastinado. An unexpected strappado
piled ziggurats & ziggurats of faithless.


After that we all knew it would be a long season in hell
blowing coals into a fly's cornea or an octagonal hall
of mirrors crushed as a plaster of paris fist.
Oh heart! You can't die before you're dead. It's genetic.
A gesso lemniscate formed to a femur.
Alabaster monkey lightning & evolutionary gleam
on a cat burglar's expertise in underwater jogging.
Visionquest with me baby. See the earth as a teardrop
that never quite rolled into to the fire & this world left on ice
in the coroners office can only breathe
a bottled blue. Heartbeat, heartbeat.
Still as warpaint night, it cuts the tongue out
from a coyote's scissored lips.



The angel of lost grottoes & invisible mosques
gets caught on the edge of a broken wink
in a Plasticine pane & keeps quiet. Shhhhh, no talking.
Never whisper about the antimony outline
on the floor where we found pure vibration
in the marrow's milk. Turned to unspoken ash right there.
Bread in the bone buttered by an imbroglio inhale turned inside out.
Trust peccadillo & a simoom on my breath.
Sincere as a gravedigger's search for buried treasure
& a filigree of bone wrapped on plastic bracelets,
 read: take me to the “contagious hospital.”
It's all speed. A filament of motion. A symphony
of rewound smoke dancing a backsplash thru memory
trapped under your tongue. Gargle to me baby.



Human voices purr, a chant left to wind.
Listen to a black-hole's heartbeat, it never tells lies
about secrets strewn in the graveyard of light.
Flame, dance with me. We become legend.
All factual & fatalistic.
You don't know? Epicurus was right, dinosaurs & iridium
don't mix. O but the alphabet condenses like water
from air in a crowded room, a salient thought wrapped in original
cellophane. It is difficult to hear the flashflood of language.
Quiet as rats licking
the mortar inside of Hitler's tomb.
A gooseflesh suffix & a waft of bitter almonds
from a history book. Raise your beret for a glock's checkered
grip & mother of pearl moonprints hiding your name.



Kilroy was here. His dream? A sleepwalker's prayer
for double jointed shoulder-blades
& every forefinger a key to that steel gleam
at the end of a padded room.
Let's assume you never forget
the way river flesh holds silicate
smoke from the desert, every footstep a windfall
of multi-chromatic sand avalanches.
Let's say cactus thunder is silent as a piano wire
across the trachea & a thumb & ringfinger
blood-slide down its heavy edge.
Let's say you're stripped down to a whistle caught
on the edge if an eyetooth.
What do you do next? Nothing?



This makes a man wonder if you can dress
down to ghostflesh & a lace whisper.
Still as a petrified cloud
& a bullet in the chamber orchestra:
can you be more than a wash of syntax,
gangle-flash of synapse?
Let's say you're the reverent arpeggio voltage of the body.
The whirling twirling hocus-pocus of dancing phalanges
& a magicians body double curled in disappearing oak.
He makes your metaphor
vortex into the blackbreath of a ancient simile
that stays out of direct sunlight. 1000 mirrors clutch chests
in heartbreak at midnight. No one looks twice at their own faces.
Now, still a million zeros?



Let's pretend we're all blood toothed fang-dangle.
Pull the knick-knack sing-song rhythm
from a hollow seam in your neck & poof!
Into a shudder of skin wings. Sky a galvanized slag of meat
in June, say 2006. Picture a group of pure idiocy.
Mill around the 2nd of 5 stages
of grief minus an icepick thru my aorta.
Now? Ok, let me start, ahem.
Sure, I practice echo location on the dead.
Act natural.
Try not to think about itching powder made with tarantula hair.
No ones looking. Click your tongue as hard as you can above his grave;
nothing comes back for three years. Measure out sunflower seeds
with the worn brass on a pocket watch. Break like bubble gum.

And there you have it, 3 years this day Ben was no more
and something else beyond anything you've ever seen.

When daylight fails, wash yourself in ritual gunfire.
Examine the galaxy's framan, a tentacular vein curling
thru nightfall. A moving organism moved & you heard it!
Said: Let's use "abnormal locomotion" & bury swords
in the bright sting on the river's belly. Eye to uncarved eye
with a woman permanently maple in a 1800's woodcut
& absentia heartstrings at two minutes till witching midnight.
3 part harmony of a screaming blowtorch & 1 part after-hiss
of snakebit lips. Recipe for organic translation.
 Put another way? People say you have to earn this image,
check Wikipedia everyday to see if you’ve died.
You recite your recipe: welcome the slanted gleam on a scythe
with a fistful of lightning bolts, sprinkle rage, add a dash of desperation
& stir until the light goes out in your eye.



Burn that crave that makes violence
tastes like cinnabrine iron until frothy brown.
Ta-daa, human emotion! Enjoy.
Just remember, 1400 is the exact point
when human flesh combusts & beyond elevation
we’re gods baby.
You’re a forest aflame buried in a cello string
so light me up with speechless metabolic agony.

Last edited by JRPearson, Dec/31/2009, 12:27 am
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Terreson Profile
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


I need to think on this more, which maybe is not a good thing to have to say about a poem. All the same, welcome to the board. JR.

Tere

Last edited by Terreson, Dec/29/2009, 11:59 pm
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Hey Ter, thanks for the welcome. I'll throw down a few comments tommorrow...night. I'm crazy swamped but wanted to get on the new board.

Thanks for the read anyway. John Ashbery once said he wanted ppl to read & come back....I think everyone wants that, eh?

Best,
JR
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


hey JR,

Nice to have you here. Can't grock this poem
though. Felt like I opened a too-crowded cupboard and all the contents fell out on me.

A lot of energy and color here. I just felt overwhelmed and couldn't find my way through.

But I'm just one reader and that's just one response to use or lose.

Chris
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


JR,
The length and the rigorous pull on our intellects makes this poem problematic. At least for most internet sites (I am guessing). Rather than to try to read it carefully, and ponderously, I went through it as fast as I would any piece of writing. I put down my notes below where something stuck out, where it talked to me. Obviously, there was more than this that talked to me. But much of it was obscure, and probably it would require some prolonged attention and some careful digging to fully understand it.
  
Having said that, the writing is razor wire sharp at times, and very inventive at times. I couldn’t get a cohesive story out of it, but then often I’m told there is no story. My notes are below. Thanks for posting and nice seeing you here. Zak

Energy equals mass times the speed
of your mouth feathering the broken edge
of a single galactic string sung down
to the bottom of it's lungs. Filibuster baby. [This could be improved upon. There’s too much technical information in such a small place. But the bottom of it’s lungs is good. Filibuster baby gives it a certain texture, too.]
Let's say cactus thunder is silent as a piano wire[I think I’ve experienced something similar to this in the desert. Beautiful writing]
can you be more than a wash of syntax,
gangle-flash of synapse? [This is intellectual, yet it is still poetic]
Mill around the 2nd of 5 stages
of grief minus an icepick thru my aorta. [This is actually funny (to me)]
a tentacular vein curling
thru nightfall. A moving organism moved & you heard it! [I love this]
Said: Let's use "abnormal locomotion" & bury swords [This seems unnecessarily difficult]
in the bright sting on the river's belly. [I love this]

You’re a forest aflame buried in a cello string [This is powerful and beautiful]
Dec/30/2009, 6:14 pm Link to this post Send Email to Zakzzz5   Send PM to Zakzzz5
 
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


JR--no one else writes like this, that I know of.

the density and the intensity are ridiculous, and I'm sure you know this. I mean I understand it's ecstatic writing. but it's a question of the contract you have with the reader.

I'm tempted to tell you that each "sonnet" block is worthy of it's own canvas and crowding them all together like this, even if linked (and I'm not entirely sure they are thematically or logically or even conversationally/rhetorically might be offputting to the poor innocent reader who knocks on the door only to discover that the vibrations trigger the loosening of the baby grand suspended 20 stories above, now plummeting downward.

I would be tempted to tell you that by introducing a little more narrative thread or linear logical progression and tempering the intensity or diluting the density of the imagery the payoff and reader satisfaction might be greater--not every word or phrase unit needs to be an M80, or every image 50 caliber bullet...

nonetheless Bridges probably told Hopkins that and time has shown us how that story ends. And when you're firing glass or tempering steel both of which can occur at around 1400 degrees maybe this is the way you do it with language? and maybe you're writing for people with such over stimulated brains 100 years in the future that they need that kind of heat in a poem? who am I to say?
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Patricia Jones Profile
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Welcome JR. Like some of the others on first read I was overwhelmed, knew I was way over my head but I loved so much of the language in it, I came back and read it aloud. I still don't understand it, but the sonics are outstanding and each section I read aloud made me glad I didn't give up after the first read.

Pat

---
"Don't you worry--I ain't evil, I'm just bad".
~Chris Smither~
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Terreson Profile
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


JR, I got a three day weekend coming up and will come back to the poem with a brain fresher. But I wanted to let you know, since you have just arrived and in a thread I feel certain you will read, the board does not have a quota system of poems posted to comments made. Quid Pro Quo is the principle and it seems to work quite well, at least on a smaller board. Just so you know.

Tere
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Katlin Profile
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Hi JR,

Welcome to Delectable Mnts. Since this is my introduction to your work and since I am not well versed in experimental poetry (I'm calling it that for want of a better word at the moment), I've decided to read the poem one stanza at a time, concentrate on that stanza for a while, and then move on to the next. My first reaction was that the poem might be more digestable to this reader if it was broken into sections (along the lines of what Dave said), but even though that isn't how you have structured the poem, it doesn't mean I can take it on in that way.

I like the clue Dave gave about this being "estatic writing" and will keep that in mind as I read. I also like the point he made about future readers. Hadn't thought of that. Not sure if I'll end up believing this will speak to future readers, but I'm willing to keep an open mind at this point.

Quick first impressions: your love of and facility with language comes through loud and clear. Lots of energy here. Will come back when I have more time and energy myself.

Last edited by Katlin, Dec/30/2009, 11:59 pm
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JRPearson Profile
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Hey Chris, yeah that's a good way to describe it! Sorry this didn't translate for you...tend to find this style of work has its readers & has its enemies....& then those who could care less. Glad you're honest here! Thanks for the comments.

Last edited by JRPearson, Dec/31/2009, 11:25 pm
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Zakzz, your thoughts are most welcome! I was curious as to what really hit you.....some of those are the best lines here....thanks for the echos....this has a undercurrent of story running thru it....a conversation with a lover...the N is pondering his life with her....the abruptness of death & uselessness of life but in the end just wants it all...burning passion, mostly...

With the time we live in....where we are in poetic history...the narrative is almost dead (as respects to the historical view) or is at the very least forever changed....

This what flows from my veins..

Best,
JR
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Zakk-PS: Auto honed this one for me before it was posted. She blasted the ending to high heaven (& not the fun "high")....so I decided it needed punched up some....glad it came thru..


JR
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Okay, JR. As promised.

Half-way through the poem with a clear head and this is what came to me, this is how I then proceeded. Not to get too nerdy on you but I was put in mind of one of the last century's most famous thought experiments: Shrodinger's Cat paradox.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger's_cat

Obviously I can't speak to the poem's intention, since I am not the poem, but I can tell you what it scares up for me. It put me in mind of lines I wrote in a now filed away poem: 'wave or particle, wave or particle...or is it superstrings?' And you are right. How does one fit words to reality since you can't. If you could the jig would have been up when complex language was made, which they say happened about forty to sixty thousand years ago. That you can't is why we, mostly poets, keeep trying. And how can you embody reality with words, since, language is always and only symbolic of, not a container of, experience. And so we have a paradox, actually a double paradox, pointing to a disjunct between what is real and what is representational and always leading the word maker back to the limitation of his craft, which is perspective. Then I remember what Einstein said about how, in the universe, there are no priveliged positions from which we can look out and take in the whole. Judging from your poem I figure you know why, it all being relative and bound up in the tidal tug of mass and energy and still no accounting yet for dark matter.

Always a step behind the absolute a word is. And looking for an absolute is pretty much like waiting for Godot. And yet words still look to embody what is real. And word makers still hanker after certain conjunctions. I hope they always do.

This is some of what your poem(s) brings up. The poem certainly trades in science discoveries and it suggests to me it is wanting to (what?) imagistically wrap poetry around Shrodinger's cat problem. Pretty ambitious if I am reading the poem well enough.

Structurally speaking (tectonically?) the poem breaks down for me at a point. I would have kept to the sonnet gestalt with which the poem begins and initially says it is how it is going to make its assay. Form still kept to through out, just not its gestalt I think. To me that would have been the elegant way to keep to. There must have been a reason for the shift. But, again for me, the shift vitiates against the poem. But then maybe I look for elegance in poetry when sometimes I shouldn't.

Tere



Last edited by Terreson, Jan/1/2010, 7:13 pm
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Hi, JR, it's sprawling and often inaccurate, sometimes clumsy (IMHO). But there are moments in there that are just on fire. Your stuff is always the Beats doing LangPo doing Rock and Roll. There are ways to dig into this and focus on the negatives, and you know I sometimes do that, but I think you deserve some resounding applause for this big poem. It reminds me of Ginsberg reading the first, unedited version of Howl at that Jazz club and Kerouac beating time on a beer bottle. I'm taking it that way, and, taking it that way, it's quite something to behold.

Cheers,

Steve.
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Hi again, JR,

I ended up reading the poem straight through several times. Reading it out loud as Pat suggested helped. Strong, memorable, one of a kind lines throughout. As mentioned above, your love of language comes through. My overall impression though is that the poem is more head than body, more head than heart. Even though you are writing about high voltage insights and experiences, violence and grief, as a reader, I felt relatively little.* I think this has to do with the amped up pacing in the poem and with the unrelenting verbal control the poem exhibits (even when the topic is the limitations of language). In toto, the (verbal) assault heroic. Speaking of the heroic, a scientific/mystical vision quest confirming we are gods? The shock and awe of the sublime strengthening the self rather than obliterating it?
   
Considering Dave's suggestion that this is ecstatic poetry. The poem moves and dances a syntactical, synaptic dance, but I’m not sure where the soul is? The poem is ambitious with a capital A and is a verbal tour de force, which, ironically, may be part of the problem some readers are having with it: too much of a good thing, overwhelming the heads of mere mortals? Or just the right amount of a good thing, overwhelming the heads of mere mortals? Could be.

I enjoyed reading other people’s takes, seeing the poem through their eyes, finding out what I missed.

*Or perhaps that was the point: the ridiculousness of human emotion in the grand, grand scheme of things: “Ta-daa, human emotion! Enjoy.”?

As you can see, I have more questions than answers. Hope something I've said here is of value. If not, toss.



Last edited by Katlin, Jan/2/2010, 11:56 am
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


JR,

Okay, I decided to be brave and venture a few specific suggestions for the first two stanzas. See what you think. If helpful, I can do more. If not, well, you know what to do. emoticon

Your eyelashes say yes.
Blink irrational numbers in moonlight,
3.1more kiss from bixbite lips.
[Energy equals mass times: I would cut this; it comes across as cliche and slows the poem down too close to the beginning.] the speed
of your mouth feathering the broken edge
of a single galactic string sung down
to the bottom of its lungs. Filibuster baby.
If your eyes are flames off a shot of amaretto
then mine are the sum of a lit candle's misplaced faith
in the invisible. Forget that for now
& say the first that rips open your mouth:
[this: cut] Skeleton rowboat:
[this: cut] cinema of nurtured incisions:
[add: this] archicembalo of sharp submission.

[I think that cutting the first two "this" makes the words that follow seem more like first thoughts, which build in precision to the final line containing the "this'.]


Now that we got that out of the way
lets assume a [sudden: cut To me it is more sudden if you just say it: "loss of reality"] loss of reality a.k.a.
are those night mountains or did someone cut
the bottom skirt off the sky?
You say: Tell me why the evening
sleeps in an iron lung?
You think you can hear your thoughts echo
off its chestplate. [Said: say? Not sure why the change of tense here?] it sounds
alot like you only older. Exactly.
Remember when we bone-danced
to rung drums on a ribbon of broken bottles
& beat the night's distaste for vowels
into our chests? This is all like that.
Or whatever our blood did to hitch a free ride on the flounce.

Woke up wearing a poncho
of crisp Atlantic exhalations,
even the memory holds [you: cut? The line feels more mystical/mysterious to me without the pronoun] like nightfall's
last iridescent arm mystically endowed
with levitating Chinese lanterns. It's all just divine amperage.
Turn lightning caught like a spark
[in your eye=could you just cut this phrase? the you is mentioned in the next line] on its side:
you'll find a crack in realities [reality's or realities'?] ozone fine flesh.
Rain on suede-nacre hair. 3rd law of thermodynamics
pulls an 8 on its side [the symbol for infinity?]
& forces a million joules
thru the backspatter of the big bang's
bastinado. An unexpected strappado
piled ziggurats & ziggurats of faithless.




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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Terr, thanks for your comments bro! Great things to see here and I like the overtones of shrodinger's cat!

More later....I'm at work currently!

Katlin, thanks for your read!! Excellent in lone thoughts, if you have time & concentration enough for the whole poem I would live a critical line by line! Thanks sis! Great thoughts!
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


I was having fun, so I did a few more stanzas. All the suggestions are tentative and should have ? next to them, but I got tired of writing them.

After that we all knew it would be a long season in hell
blowing coals into a fly's cornea or an octagonal hall
of mirrors crushed as a plaster of paris fist.
Oh heart! You can't die before you're dead. It's genetic.
A gesso lemniscate formed to a femur.
Alabaster monkey lightning & evolutionary gleam
on a cat burglar's expertise in underwater jogging.
Visionquest with me baby. See the earth as a teardrop
that [never quite=almost?] rolled into to the fire & this world left on ice
in the coroners [ah, i see, no apostrophes] office can only breathe
a bottled blue. Heartbeat, heartbeat.
Still as [a?] warpaint night, it cuts the tongue out
from a coyote's scissored lips.

The angel of lost grottoes & invisible mosques
gets caught on the edge of a broken wink
in a Plasticine pane & keeps quiet. Shhhhh, no talking.
Never whisper about the antimony outline
on the floor where we found pure vibration
in the marrow's milk. Turned to unspoken ash right there.
Bread in the bone buttered by an imbroglio inhale turned inside out.
Trust peccadillo & a simoom on my breath.
Sincere as a gravedigger's search for buried treasure
& a filigree of bone wrapped on plastic bracelets,
 read: take me to the “contagious hospital.”
It's all speed. A filament of motion. A symphony
of rewound smoke dancing a backsplash thru memory
trapped [snared] under your tongue. Gargle to me baby.

Human voices purr, a chant left to wind.
Listen to a black-hole's heartbeat, it never tells lies
about secrets strewn in the graveyard of light.
Flame, dance with me. [We=cut?] become legend.
All [factual=fractal?] & fatalistic.
You don't know? Epicurus was right, dinosaurs & iridium
don't mix. O but the alphabet condenses like water
from air in a crowded room, [a=cut] salient thought wrapped in original
cellophane. It is difficult to hear the flashflood of language.
Quiet as rats licking
[the=cut] mortar inside [or=cut] Hitler's tomb.
[A=cut] gooseflesh suffix & [a=cut] waft of bitter almonds
from a history book. Raise your beret for [a=the] glock's checkered
grip & mother of pearl moonprints hiding your name.

Kilroy was here. His dream? A sleepwalker's prayer
for double jointed shoulder-blades
& every forefinger a key to that steel gleam
at the end of a padded room.
Let's assume you never forget
the way river flesh holds silicate
smoke from the desert, every footstep a windfall
of multi-chromatic [sand=cut] avalanches.
Let's say cactus thunder is silent as a piano wire
across the trachea & a thumb & ringfinger
blood-slide down its heavy edge.
Let's say you're stripped down to a whistle caught
on the edge [if=of] an eyetooth.
What do you do next? Nothing?

This makes a man wonder if you can dress
down to ghostflesh & a lace whisper.
Still as a petrified cloud
& a bullet in the chamber orchestra:
can you be more than a wash of syntax,
gangle-flash of synapse?
Let's say you're the reverent arpeggio voltage of the body.
The whirling twirling hocus-pocus of dancing phalanges
& a magicians body double curled in disappearing oak.
He [makes=takes?] your metaphor
vortex into the blackbreath of a ancient simile
that [stays out of=avoids] direct sunlight. 1000 mirrors clutch chests
in heartbreak at midnight. No one looks twice at their own faces.
Now, still a million zeros?

Let's pretend we're all blood toothed fang-dangle.
Pull the knick-knack sing-song rhythm
from a hollow seam in your neck & poof!
Into a shudder of skin wings. Sky a galvanized slag of meat
in June, [say 2006.=consider cutting] Picture a group of pure idiocy.
Mill around the 2nd of 5 stages
of grief minus an icepick thru my aorta.
Now? Ok, let me start, ahem.
Sure, I practice echo location on the dead.
Act natural.
Try not to think about itching powder made with tarantula hair.
No ones looking. Click your tongue as hard as you can above his grave;
nothing comes back for three years. Measure out sunflower seeds
with the worn brass on a pocket watch. Break like bubble gum.

And there you have it, 3 years this day Ben was no more
and something else beyond anything you've ever seen.













Jan/6/2010, 1:32 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


When daylight fails, wash yourself in ritual gunfire.
Examine the galaxy's [framan,=I don't know what this means and googling didn't help] a tentacular vein curling
thru nightfall. A moving organism moved & you heard it!
Said: Let's use "abnormal locomotion" [&=cut] bury swords
in the bright sting on the river's belly. Eye to uncarved eye
with a woman permanently maple in a 1800's woodcut
& absentia heartstrings at two minutes till witching midnight.
3 part harmony of a screaming blowtorch & 1 part after-hiss
of snakebit lips. Recipe for organic translation.
 Put another way? People say you have to earn this image,
check Wikipedia everyday to see if you’ve died.
You recite your recipe: welcome the slanted gleam on a scythe
with a fistful of lightning bolts, sprinkle rage, add a dash of desperation
& stir until the light goes out in your eye.

Burn that crave that makes violence
[tastes=taste] like cinnabrine iron until frothy brown.
Ta-daa, human emotion! Enjoy.
Just remember, 1400 is the exact point
when human flesh combusts & beyond [that?] elevation
we’re gods baby.
You’re [a=cut] forest aflame buried in a cello string
so light me up with speechless metabolic agony.


Well, JR, I'll tell you what. I read this the way I first read Eliot's "Burnt Norton": for the sense I could get from the sound of it, the whole of it, riding the waves of language, not dwelling too much on the parts I didn't get. I read BN that way for years; it took me years to grow into it, although I loved it from the start, and what I didn't understand drew me back, intrigued me, because the language itself was so rich. I think something like that might happen with this poem.

BTW, I could feel the emotion in the last stanza, this last time I read it. emoticon

P.S. Coming back to add: Okay, I get why you wrote "when human flesh combusts & beyond elevation." Beyond evaluation too.


Last edited by Katlin, Jan/6/2010, 5:53 pm
Jan/6/2010, 2:03 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Dear Katlin, apologies for the lateness of this reply but be assured I have been reading & rereading your thoughts about this. Wonderful read thru! Gave me much pause, helped me flesh out a few ideas I thought the poem had nailed down! I am indebted to your hard work here. Heartfelt thankyou sis!

Best,
JR

PS- I revising this as we speak. Gonna shoot the finished version to The Paris Review...see what happens..
Jan/8/2010, 12:50 am Link to this post Send Email to JRPearson   Send PM to JRPearson
 
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Re: 1400 degrees fahrenheit


Best of luck with your submission, JR! I would be grand to see this in The Paris Review, wouldn't it? Oh, yeah. emoticon
Jan/8/2010, 8:51 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 


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