part here, part there, past
his prime but plugged in,
Poem tries hard to do the right thing
the paradigms of mid-day
traffic just look bad
but remain in motion; Poem sighs, edges out
on his refurbished bicycle using
proper hand signals and a dash
of theatre
Poem is off to the printers and he
is an informed shopper,
rubs the linen texture between his fingers,
and looks for post-consumer
recycled paper whenever he can
the Age thinks it’s in transition but
Poem knows there is no such thing
if the moment exists,
an object is hurled out of a club-cab
and the object “certainty” is not in flux
it hits him in the forehead, beneath his
properly adjusted helmet, and Poem
falls beneath the wheel of what
when his eyes open Poem looks up at
a kind pizza guy
cradling his head in his lap;
there is something familiar there but
publishers are a restless lot and
Poem must hurry out of consciousness
he winks to the bystanders and takes
one final breath, there
June 22, 2006
June 16, 2006
The last entry, by Ken Belford
We were talking about water the other day,
and I thought there’s a fictional literacy
called access, that some of us get there
by going a different way. Some doors work,
some don’t. People used to think narrative
depicted subjects but now it’s about
the gestures of avatars. Old meaning is
the assimilation of the words of others.
It’s a kind of camera surveillance, so
I alter my behaviour when I’m shifting
around town. When asked, I say
my server is down. In the old oral texts,
results are rewarded, and the words
made flesh. Teachers point at the page
and point at the text but today
I’m thinking the metaphor of flow
has to do with slow. I mean, this looks
like a poem on a page but there’s a world
of difference. My narrative is waves of meaning
crashing through a watery code. Sometimes
meaning is stupid and reading is painful.
With you, clusters of tiny, new perceptions
shift and turn at once and I don’t know
how it works, but I can see it. I can see you
in the river and as crazy as it sounds,
I can hear your cries for help.
and I thought there’s a fictional literacy
called access, that some of us get there
by going a different way. Some doors work,
some don’t. People used to think narrative
depicted subjects but now it’s about
the gestures of avatars. Old meaning is
the assimilation of the words of others.
It’s a kind of camera surveillance, so
I alter my behaviour when I’m shifting
around town. When asked, I say
my server is down. In the old oral texts,
results are rewarded, and the words
made flesh. Teachers point at the page
and point at the text but today
I’m thinking the metaphor of flow
has to do with slow. I mean, this looks
like a poem on a page but there’s a world
of difference. My narrative is waves of meaning
crashing through a watery code. Sometimes
meaning is stupid and reading is painful.
With you, clusters of tiny, new perceptions
shift and turn at once and I don’t know
how it works, but I can see it. I can see you
in the river and as crazy as it sounds,
I can hear your cries for help.
June 12, 2006
Poetry Wars and Their Causes
what was observed & left
unrecorded, the microphone stand
askew and the patent ideology echo
no one
noticed
blog spit or a tribal
boundary the words, a territory
in air, the vibrations of loud
and errant and staked
a variant on chairs, the left/right
chime—
slide into a poetics
of urgency, an unplaced micropolitics
a seepage
out
June 1, 2006
Adventures of a Poet at the Forestry Expo--Part 4: My Felling Head, Ornamental Cedar, and an Insurance Salesman
(click pics for larger image)
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