from In a Certain Light...
Out of My Head
(or Drawing in Writing)
Out of my head the grasses at the edge
of the shoulder just before the bank
drops. Beyond the clay shelf.
Where the water touches.
Tules only hint at vertical movement.
Trees rise readily from the muck
such. N mountains repeat themselves.
Why can't weeds?
Weeds do.
Oh.
--
The tree refuses to be completely a tree hooking its symbols to distract. It doesn't do.
Meanwhile mistakes are forming a side thing quickly brought under the pressure of the muck uh
ditch.
Or an altar on a cloud in a pond securing the moment becomes the captain of pilots on a test
flight toward the sun.
Becomes the light of the Mediterranean (or its map). With plenty of fluid writing until we
awaken and applauding lightly witness the Composition.
--
That's weird: rubbing a grape through its plastic.
--
Computer of Dead Reckoning:
Who's coming to meet me as I am coming? It is the sprite with the bananaskin hairdo, making
great strides out of the ripple effect of ranges on the peripheries of wide valleys... the clown spirit
handing me a handshake.
I'm lost in the small farm towns and I can't see me. I don't see me graphing out the gulley like
several attempts at rivers --
At long last those who advise for centuries down the road in the decades we live in move out like
a dividing line heading up the mountain... leaving the tents and corn stalks and plug-ugly gullies.
--
Continuing from the Worm:
Casting about that digestive tract along false parallels out to the weather-eaten outbuildings
(wind-, sun-, seldom rain-eaten), the straight view cubes out at the high point of dot perspective.
Dot perspective, not dot perspective. Having seen only properly in moving multiples of
perspective I have re-sorted to aha! if at all possible.
Hm.
The woman waves to me in her sticklike manner, holding a pumpkin, and maybe a stick.
Hm.
Under the great tree beneath which the table stands the fruits laid out and the antique cash register ringing.
Hm.
Her hair looks like Ernst's mop-head.
--
Under the great tree beneath which the table stands... the fruits laid out and the cash register...
answering maybe vague traces in plain view edged by smudgy trees, or obscured by outbuilt
edifices and ambiguous wormshanks of all manner,
there on the closure of hints and probings ready to go on the specimen slide under wavery
perspective...
under the splashing, scratchy, weaky perspective.
--
Hiccoughs
A Critique of the Language Fit
........ One's eyesore is another's landscaping. A prick below the surface is possible. The
favored child asks for love directly. We come to our conclusions individually. The beauty of
having is enough. The neighbors come in through the open gate. Their children find the loose
board. They cover the playground with dangerous behavior. Or seem that way to the
inexperienced writer.
........ Breathing in one's fire feels underwater. Hanging one's earth in the air proves
immaterial. Cool to crises, recede to heat, well then, when the tissue snaps and the twigs fall
differently on the north as opposed to the south corner.
3. Form a story, form a story.
3.
a) When I crushed her on my sleeve, she released a last chemical moan. Her sisters,
tasting the air, made a slight fomentation before the rosebush.
b) I knew I was a goner. Even the sun refused to tsk tsk. In the process I lost my
innocence and some personal belongings. The walls fell off as I rushed out of the
building, clutching my notes.
c) You couldn't have said it was a happy moment unless.
You said it.
........ It's strange to come to these ideas and not to. Behind the traffic a concrete dome of
theory sluices forth its politics. Do they find sustenance? :That's a question. :That's a
statement about a question.
........ The frogs wanted a language, so they petitioned the sky, which dropped an inert
material into their habitat. The frogs petitioned the sky, which sent an angel with a butcher
knife. Their culture improved, though their manners did not. Nor did it serve as an example
for descendents not of their genetic code.
Or someone else can.
Horror Meat
It's on everyone's mind. Maybe something grows from it.
Real estate agents tout it, art galleries serve it a openings. It's always juicy, never dry (by
default); gelatinous the adjective.
Only the children do not know this meat.
The children who play at the base of the grounds of the lunatic asylum, without it, the meat, ever
passing before or from their lips.
Its muscle-sheathe clothing, its lightning joints, monument bearing false witness, striking at the
ankles, interrupting institutional workflow.
In myriad daybreaks.
Slumped over the propagandist's presses.
Shoulder, haunch, knuckle, lowercase letters.
Thawed open. Flaking rashes.
Neither duck, elephant, nor parrot.
It does not dawdle on the wall, pick the fourth step, read the meter, point to the poison, reproach
the father, sing The Ballad of the Sticky Monkey.
Imaginary Book
I write an imaginary book. There, I'm done.
A house full of objects you so much want to admire for the good host's sake.
Unlike that.
Until then, wowing myself seemed reliable entertainment.
You couldn't see the evidence, but the wide mind gave a reading.
I was shunning familiarity, committed to staying with vaguely worded self-instruction, like:
"Weight loss is way down in the physical world...
"Some pretend to know its political properties..."
--
As always.
The obvious was not respected and had to be repeated.
I cast about for repetition.
I cast blame.
I cast credit. I painted it over with explosions.
--
Now moving a head decenters the plexus and O the feet are wide apart on this issue.
In this moderate middle only mildly temperamental center a great shift has occurred.
Is it naive? therefore to be judged by how it approximates the sophisticated and fails? in a
charming manner? Is such acompartmentalism possible?
Answer!
Within a boundary, Everything is possible, except (per happens) Everything else: intellect,
meteors, the yearly rice, possibly one quadrant of the typology (or topology) can't find its
coordinate: North, top, imperialism globes through the mighty Whatever (Earth a celebrant):
Marriage the obscure and Astronomy: Dust to burn: Closer: Smithereens!
Ivars Balkits has most recently published works on the websites for Merge Poetry and Silenced Press and in Ta Xronika, a bi-lingual newspaper distributed in the Hersonissos township of Iraklion prefecture, Crete.
