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Sunday, April 16, 2017

Sound the Alarum!

The problem is that the daily record is artless—is feminine—
the blood on the crotch is blood on the crotch—the diary
a day clot—I attempt constantly to start over—monkeybread,
who’d have thunk it would taste that way—a movie about
two journalists breaking Watergate—today is Easter, as of
today, the United States has killed over 250 Syrians alone
in the month of March, more than any other terrorist group—
they exit in a dead march, the final queue in King Lear, why
the image always sticks—the issue is how facts eke through
sunlight—no way to avoid this—artlessness as critique for the
way we must live minute after minute—the launch of war,
that we sit on the edge of the world, we must rely on love,
isn’t that what one does—but it has never been like this before,
it is never quite like this—why the daily record terrifies so
entirely, its unique hold on time minimizes public record
somehow—like right now I am listening to the new Future
Islands—I am thinking about a young buff Dustin Hoffman—
the world quakes and I don’t know it over the speaker blasts—
how easy it is to be inside oneself without entering the body—
I’ve become conscious of my present condition, my
inability to manage a pretty image, maneuver technique into
a siren, the way the word alarum manages to be both pitch
and beauty stamp—alarum, alizarin, an acrylic I loved only
in how I uttered it—I spread it on a canvas thick as a lie,
used it to make a dark sky darker—see, we need the archaism
of red, don’t we—so here is an image—a wild turkey crossed
a busy road right in front of my car and I thought to get out,
gaze at the slow waddle, they really do waddle—what are we
to do with the animal that does not walk in the immanence
of death, that does not smell the copper dollar frenzied in
burning gas—where is the mercy in geography—what do
you remember about the day—and did you drive around
the turkey too idiotic to be vulnerable—I have no idea
what a turkey smells like alive—I stayed in my car a long time—

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