Steven Ross Smith
fluttering. 48 the writing. it is not an adornment. not hobby. is core. is not what you do in the wistful morning. or those scribblings late at night. it is you. you in the current of meditators. you who reach beyond entertaintment and investment portfolios. you who seek the unquantifiable place. beyond the bleak and selfish. you live out the writer rather than fit him in. you are not a time slot, or keyboard or genius. damn cold today. you could tell by the stinging ears, numb forehead. this line of thinking stops you. no inspiration here. who cares about the weather or your snagged thought lines? certainly not those birds - house sparrow and northern flicker - jockeying at the bird bath. they see a world completely different from your own. they understand Wittgenstein. they will perpetuate in spite of, or even without, your strained thinking. everything slipping through the sieve of time. you have not been reading enough poetry. too much aboutness. only as an infant did you live in a state of pure experience. with the mouthing of language began loss. it is all you have. it is nothing. with each word you move farther from experience. hence the wisdom of the sile!nt orders. knowing what you cannot know when filled with words. full of words. full of loss. speaking of a place made up. built on words. that substanceless substance. Sorrentino loves digression, the looping leap even further from innocence. Sorrentino who reaches across the water to be young again. to rediscover orange before he knew its name. pure. when he could laugh. before the words and memory soaked everything into their serious holes. porosity. you crawl down the tunnel of a sponge. your tongue dry. hardening. the flicker tilts his bill to the sky, his head back. at thirty below the water feels warm sliding down his throat. are you making all this up, because you can say it? what of this scene without its words? what is being made up that you have no words for? you laugh at yourself. you are no philosopher. you are a dull mind. your tongue is dusted thick with toxins. Robert Johnson is still singing from his grave. dust my broom. his tune fusses at your ears with something beyond the words. might be pure. pure digression. watch for it. I want to watch says Emmett reminding me of Peter Sellers' Chauncy, who likes to. and in another garden Gunnars' rose nods and feathers its scent into the air. and all this? all these black strokes filling this white space. this clutter, detritus. who cares? it is all made up. up, Emmett pointing at the light. nothing but light. mere spectral waves and minute particles. all make illusion. Wittgenstein again, everything we see could also be otherwise, and if this is so, description is a lie. but you know this. lying through your teeth. biting down on the emptiness. you speak quickly to deceive the tongue. to fool yourself back. the aftertaste is dust.
|The East Village Poetry Web