Working through the language and form of these poems for five years. To me, they feel like one of Niedecker’s rocks in Lake Superior, registering geologically the time of their composition: the box age, the adjunct age, the traveling age, the ice age/buffalo. To you, who knows. **// automated labor–material, affective, reproductive, service, production, immaterial–//** I’ve got a lot of admiration for the power of rapid, proliferative writing and publishing. Can only hope whats become a glacial pace can become a sluggish friend to that kind of work.
Happy skimming off the poetry–reveling in:
Jessica B Weisenfels:
on the county line
to songs he wrote
on a mortgage I paid
why do fools fall in love
why do fools run the country
why did one summer you live entirely off ice
With the amount of vaguely related information she could bring to mind, she could solve any number of constructed puzzles, weave in the loose ends of nearly any plot. Or she could not.
Me (hive-mind and honey me)
and me like Golden Brosefs:
twin narcissus and emergent
boids, irreducible as densest
To have a culpability. The dirty calmstriations. The sun hue struck
wisps in clouds. I had learned how to mouth my name.
Call this a way out.
Trees fellated the wind, fire fellated the treetrunks, the wind fellated fire forests. Fire and trees aren’t enemies, but they’re competitive; each of them wants to show his devotion to the wind, and each of them wants to demonstrate his devotion to the wind is the greatest. To fellate To
is their labor and only sin; this is how fire is made. Dangling porcelains, white and green
clouds, a bear who falls asleep with his hand in the pot of honey.
Dangling porcelains. Fellatios are given. A stem grows in front of me, everyday a little more,
like a violet alphabet of algae embedded in the waves of a lightly cruciform sea.
White and green clouds came
Then the nostalgia began
All my love letters are written
in sans serif fonts.