keeps going and… going and…

Spoondeep

II.

 

“Each syllable an instance

of ourselves bodied forth in the

dimness…

…the voice which occurs all the time

while everything else is happening”

-Ron Loewinsohn-

Here I am drawing on Zukofsky

on Wittgenstein, Blanchot

all the others too

because language

is that pre-fab tool

that we fabricate

for ourselves

as it manufactures us

.

            Help outside

no help

coming through, as it does

inside, after all,

helping to shape

and discover,

lending forms

and definition

to experiences

otherwise improbable

ineffable

unknown

.

            remaining still

outside words’ purview

but almost communicative

almost expressed

anyway, all ways

that come down to

into, as possibles.

.

            Rearrange.

.

            Bakhtin, semiotic Ecos,

Sebeok, Halliday, Firth and Peirce

not forgetting Uexkull

nor leaving him aside

in his thousands of worlds

circling our own

so Susan Howe and Lyn

Hejinian, Arakawa and Gins

add…

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SnapShotting Summer

I lived for awhile in Grand Rapids, Michigan, attending graduate school and being regenerated and grown in-vitro like a culture into the family, religion and industry of literature.  I’ve recently stumbled across a photographer’s blog who shoots many subjects in and around that West Michigan area.  If you browse her photos over the past week or two it will provide you a feel for snapshotting summer…and here are some verbal renditions…

STRASSENFOTOJOURNAL

“Dozing in the Heat: Grand Haven”
by Cornelia Lohs

Snap-shotting Summer

 

Ever the distortion of mind.  With emotion, contortion.

At times, a necessary snap.

.

.

A young woman peddling her bicycle, unclothed for summer.  Body moving like taffy on its paddles.  Just as pliant, just as tight, and just as supple.  As salty, as mouth-watering, as sweet.

.

.

Tumbles in the machinery like loose screws, clanking and rattling around.

A clicker, a habit, desire.

.

.

Sun sears glares upon moments, lasering trains of thought.  Dis integration.  You stumble, you wobble, you very nearly fall.  Erasing inspiration with foul mood.  You adjust.

.

.

Scars like the outside, on the surface of the brain.

Called memory, called dreaming, called thought.

Or so you imagine.

.

.

Pool or sprinkler, sweat and breeze, you forgot.  Moment’s season’s change, and you were happy.  Somewhere in mountains, or North by the sea.  Without belongings.

.

.

It emerges like a wire, a monster’s bite.

You’ll call it “me” or “I” and it’ll stand for something.  Continuity.

An inventor’s dream.

.

.

Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

.

.

“I” continues to sit and walk, lie and stand.  To eat.  To breathe.