Hi. I’m struggling today. I am trying to make sense of Sandy for a poem that I was commissioned to write. It was silly of me to say yes because poetry dear anarch, is something I have foolishly ruined for myself by trying to make it a place of sense and beauty and formal cohesion. This takes way too much time. There is no time. I mean that: there is no time. It’s not irony that is over, it’s time, time’s order, time’s sense.
Let’s get a little personal. I confess I get personal with all of them and with the young ones too. What is left of formality—the no show—that is not so calcified and rough. It’s funny Anarch. you are both rough and tender, little gestures that make faces, grimaces and scowls and very often the sly knowing grin that dares us not to feel insecure in the face of knowing so very little.
Your way of wording, fronded and shredded and combobulated and serried. Do you mind I don’t look you up: Ordovician. I know someone named Ordover. Relative Ordover. I am your mammal. Fall me. My chakra. By you left ajar.
It’s not so very embarrassing after all.
I will sing to you. (Or, you to me.)
The poem I would like to write about for this is [non-metaphorical furnace]. It’s true I don’t know what to say. Anarch what is it I mean by saying of nothing that it is true. Yes, bloody and full of piss and sex is refusing these tidy restraints. You have opened mouth and let in some furry moth maggot of mind. Do you gather. You smear. You melt monad. Glandular and fuzzily fierce. Piss as piss is/mattering smear.
Eat. A history:
What beats you makes you beat. “…publicly/unmanageable thought-life.”
Chemical sugar over stuffed cut healed subjected shined burnt perforated tessellated.
“A long lick.” A little diabetic.
A lot homeless. That over zealous zealot mounting, the contemporary perish in hyper chest. Ample in acreage tonnage message.
“…bobbing empty plastic water bottles” “speedy & trending” “World-mothering air—”
Okay. Not to lose. The storm. To storm.