‘Tankful’

(& if they dare,
the system, the tangled boundary
(that has no place in what we learn as place)
deflates, at every encounter point
    --George Stanley, “Gentle Northern Summer”

 1.

The Esso owner shoots me
a scowl when I ask, ‘you 
from around here.’ He is changing
the till and thinks I might rob him. 
I consider

                 tracing the tributaries, the small
flow/large currency, where 
the caches are, the upward 
ascendancy of cash, torrents 
from the station, 5th & Central, 
to Vancouver, Calgary,
Toronto, New York, places

                                      we go to 
vacation, enjoy the amenities
(after all the fill-ups & hotel
expenses), the infrastructure
bought, at both ends,
by poor envious us

i would wish 
not to be used 

The gas plant chugs out
across the river, the local
thug & his territory—the truck
is god,
icon & driven.


 2

Back in the day,
the logs hauled by horse,
those men like the local grocer
bulldozed under by the 7-11
on 20th (the VLA lives on Mars
bars) & the power of conformity, all the

                        fast food and box stores smile,
‘give back to the community’ in charity,
overload the landfill.

If I bought in bulk, 
would knowledge be cheaper?

We send raw logs, fire them
straight out to China
(me, little, trying to 
dig there—like the trees)
& buy the kids meals
with plastic toys made in China
(the logs clog the system
in return) &

deflation occurs not at a point
of political catharsis

                            but upon the collapse,
the breaking point where nothing
is left, and we leave, get in the car
on empty.

Poem’s Shelf-life

He’s approaching forty,
anthologized three times, an intertextual
allusion four times, translated
once, achieved internal peace
often,

measures like skin.

The Psychiatrist Reconsiders Poem’s Case

The file closes; there is much
to discuss and the session is near done.
Outside, a small dog, perhaps a poodle or
bichon frise, is barking in a continuous staccato.
A styrofoam coffee cup squeaks.

What is it you really desire?

There is a history to consider here. A change
in the room; has the heating come on? Legs
repositioned. There is to be a debate on the nature
of avoidance. The psychiatrist reads
a note at the top of his page:
“Read as if for the first time.” A candle
lights itself. Street noise enters the room and
the session is near done.

The high water mark, by Ken Belford

I like poems that aren’t related to everything 
else, where near things are more related 
      than distant things. Where you get the idea,
 
      the Prof is in the puddle 
          and it’s miles between measures 
                                      known as turning points 
                        or borrowing. 
 
Geography’s descriptive 
      but explanation isn’t possible, even 
                  with theory, which only works if 
 
every place is the same.
                                           For forms are made 
      in the idiographic school of poetry 
            assessments office in Fort Pierce, Florida,
            nowhere else. That’s because 
                                      land values decline with distance, 
 
      or, putting it another way, 
theory can have no geography. That's why
there’s no use hanging on to sunsets.

What is a poem? How are they made?

by Ken Belford


Nothing can be done to save you of poetry.
Poetry is 100 percent communicable.
Even one poem is enough to begin a cycle.
Ingestion of infected poetry results
in permanent death, but injecting poetry
directly into a dead brain is useless.
Meat inspectors, when not looking for lesions,
laugh at the poem and spit at the poet.
Poets posses no powers of regeneration -
poems that are damaged, stay damaged.
Poems travel through the bloodstream,
from their point of entry to the brain.
Not waterborne nor airborne, poems use the cells
of the frontal lobe for replication. This is why
no poetry occurs in nature. Warning
against an act of poetry would be useless,
as the only people to listen would be unconcerned
for their own safety. A poem is safe to handle
within hours of the death of its host.
Children have been infected by brushing their wounds
against those of a poem. In the pastoral areas
of the east and west, studies have shown
that institutions can sense and will reject
an infected poet 100 percent of the time.
Unless someone teaches a course that feeds on living,
human poets, there will be no life in their poems,
no warmth in their words.

He Evades Genre Again 3

An alter ego or shadow-become-self wallows in the textual minutiae—this is not a form issue or a boundary. Something hovers in the periphery of reading. Where are you looking? Several windows open on your page; there is no narrative presence in the narrative. Evasion is such a word; my motion is unframed. There goes the turn now! The question becomes unclear: how does one write? Take the text in. An endless sequence runs the risk. Even the sentences are changes, corrections, revision, less than. You see, Poem is. Boredom disappears into notions and pages fly. Full stop.

He Evades Genre Again 2

An alter ego or shadow/self, swallows fly in the textual minutiae—this is not a form issue but/rather a boundary. Where are you? Several windows open on your desktop; this is narrative presence in the narrative presence. Evasion is such a strong word for it; my motion is frame. There goes the alter now! The question becomes: how does one write flux? Take the text tissue in one hand. Even the sentences are changes, corrugated, less than cerebral. You see, Poem is nervous when under surveillance and legislated. Borders disappear into nations and paged. Full stop.

He Evades Genre Again

An alter ego or shadow/self swallowed in textual minutiae—this is not a form issue but/rather an issue of boundaries. Where are yours? Several windows open on your desktop; this is narrative presence in the narrative present. Evasion is such a strong word for it; my motion is frame. There goes the alter now! Take the text tissue on one hand. Even the sentences are changed, corrugated, less than cerebral. You see, Poem is nervous when under surveillance and legislation. Borders disappear into nations and pages. Full stop.