Penmarks scald the scuttering scatterment of the little figured men tiptoeing carrying bushels of wicker frames, under curved woodlike hats, hunched, and harrowing forward through crunchpity crisplicky snowdrifts. A swerving eyeview jumps backwards with violent voracity and the curves and the waves of a surging history of forms, the tickletime of change and the rises and shatterings of architectural structures like cold ideologies. Still they picker about. Still the full furs hold in the breaths and the blood and the oceans of warm life from the teeth of the wind and the callous drive of feudal conceptions of time and nowery.
A little Arcadian arrow sizzles through the steaming sky and palunkets down to the front of a boot, haltering his step and he stops and looks up and outward, over the horizon, towards the source of this senseless attack...waving poles in the air from under orientalist skins of Manchurian leather, they threaten an invasion. He calmly gathers up his dogs and children and withdraws. Better retreat 200 miles than spill the blood of your loved ones to gain a sorry soiled inch. One day we'll come home heroes, dignity intact, head high with straight backs and twisted memories. One day all the violence in the world will be squashed like a scuttering cockroach under the black fatigue of a roughstanding hawk. One day. But for now, he gathers up his children, muttering 'what, then, have I to prove?'
There is not greater illusion than fear
No greater wrong than preparing to defend oneself
No greater misfortune than having an enemy.
The bugle calls out in the distance and immediately a swarm of ten thousand rusty knives comes soaring through the treetops. He dives down and takes cover under a softly knitted sweater, holding the tear-leaked children close to his body while the knives pelt like ravenous hailstones and their bodies are torn to tunderous bits.
Blood washed out of nowempty eyesockets and the warmth steams away into white blue and now red snow banks. The banks melting under the strain of the hot-red pools washing over, and the Manchurians crack their throats open with howls of teeth cracking execrations. The earth shudders under their pounding feet. Meanwhile he floats.
Long lost, the children all dissipate into memories of the sentimental and meanwhile he floats. Riverrun away through thicking air the void precipitates into whatever it now deems fit. Sinewy shreds caught under cracked open fingernails, nailing down the Absolute everythingness of the have to be. Doctrines become latrines and the cracking branches are fanning out in the rushingroar of the stamping howling candidates.
Meanwhile he floats. Up and back, over a smiling countryside - the drooping backed hills sleep on for miles and miles. Sleep envelops the whispering divisions and branches retreat into seeds, whole species rise and fall with architectural ideologies. Arrows decay down with the worms that have no progeny to pass onward to. Onward from...from where? Meanwhile Marx Freud Darwin and Saussure melt into flowing rivers of human fat, bubbling and yellow with creamy white streaks reflecting prismatic rainbows like lovely winter oilslicks. The day is here! The day has arrived! At long last! We can finally breathe easily...emancipation...this I proclaim from a fuzzy little foxden somewhere deep down under the tired concerns. Deep down under the dancing waves of jazz curves and spontaneity, the dancing tides of moonlight reflected over frozen solid ponds. The cornet climbing tenaciously up a mountain of evened out odds, humming softly to herself, climbing not because there's a top but because it feels so hot and good to move her body. Quietly she moans and the melting bubbling river is a sea, all washed out over floodplains: this is the rise of the millennium! The is the catch as catch can, caught up in our throats and weakly yelping out the stifled sigh of a new beginning, stuck somewhere out on the edge of the end of the middle.
-t c moe
3 comments:
Woah Travis, that reads like you overwork the form. It's practically the longest haiku ever written. I mean, if you break it down it would be like a master work. :)
However, I had no idea what you were talking about. :)
Hope you're well,
Michelle
Love the last line.
The piece sounds very much like the discussion from our recent conversations. I hear your story, a politics of the Dao, a fleeing from corrupt and tireless actions, and all the while floating through that cacophony - but interestingly, a suggestion that he is a victim. The rise of the new millennium is a great topic to introduce here thematically - a call of hope but also considerations of the feudal conception of time. Looking forward to our next meeting.
Well, it's although apologies here, a very disciplined take that's extremely Japanese and feudal in the sense of people are just basically dots in the landscape. Not much detail or personality, symbolisms with less beauty than the last leaf. It's really good and original, but not terribly stirring or personal. Great cinematography, no narrative or emotional appeal. More of an emotional wasteland and a kind of pagan piping to some ethereal never-never land.
While I like it and it's a nice evolution from existential suffering. Nature is fairly mundane and while you're not exactly talking about yourself, it's still a bit too narcissistic and not very human. I have to say, you're one of the few people I've ever met with a truly natural syncopation. This is opposing your self, truly what's more impressive is shorter sentences. With a briefer quality in ideas but more intensity. It's too cluttered and impossible to absorb. On a professional note, great, it's very impressive. However, you're clearly being too audience oriented . Write something you truly enjoy writing, this reads laboriously. I'm sure it wasn't easy to compose either. I view it as a misdirection of energy and too much genre oriented. There's some synergy but it's basically a workaholic culture-obsessed guy doing something that people have been very lazy with. Or where people have a lot of time to sit around producing relative crap. Not to say that this is bad, but it 's just a sacrifice of your energies. It's great that you're doing new forms, and that you still have the drive. I'm actually only being harsh because you might be one of the most natural poets I've ever met. Very rare.
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