dear shanna,
you can listen to an mp3 of that 37 second recording of Walt Whitman at the same time a lover listens to a re-mixed midi of here comes the sun. this is the human possibility
full of politics of the ear’s occupation mostly. Hazel says, as I brush her hair, “you are only allowed to think of an event as a tragedy once you are already dead”
in this America which lasts exactly 37 seconds and is difficult to interpret
these were the best intentions, and also, the voice’s congenial classless intoning, and knowing also that there are around us these specters of the once vastly perceived
and ample: law and love still, willed
to us, this -- my friend -- an anachronistic inheritance, or, ruined broad forethought, or national art / these commons kept in a mattress like a currency of a confederacy never formed.
I will say straight out my morning has been spent vacillating between the routine of shipwrecked despair and the storm itself wrecking, undecided about the durability of either.
I walked aboard that ship, itself long ago shattered. things were different. I once was at sail robust and undiminished, probably a boy
and then most scars and also holidays and every unformed infant impossible, my very form -- a boy’s and sailor’s -- allergic to despair
and how so unplagued by tragedy’s definition I was the one dreaming in each bed into which I fell
and me, Anne Boyer, falling, also, in the sunlight, into a reverie against alien architectures and simultaneously into a boyish engineering
of those remnants by which I now, at least, form a substance, imagine an unalien end.
you can listen to an mp3 of that 37 second recording of Walt Whitman at the same time a lover listens to a re-mixed midi of here comes the sun. this is the human possibility
full of politics of the ear’s occupation mostly. Hazel says, as I brush her hair, “you are only allowed to think of an event as a tragedy once you are already dead”
in this America which lasts exactly 37 seconds and is difficult to interpret
these were the best intentions, and also, the voice’s congenial classless intoning, and knowing also that there are around us these specters of the once vastly perceived
and ample: law and love still, willed
to us, this -- my friend -- an anachronistic inheritance, or, ruined broad forethought, or national art / these commons kept in a mattress like a currency of a confederacy never formed.
I will say straight out my morning has been spent vacillating between the routine of shipwrecked despair and the storm itself wrecking, undecided about the durability of either.
I walked aboard that ship, itself long ago shattered. things were different. I once was at sail robust and undiminished, probably a boy
and then most scars and also holidays and every unformed infant impossible, my very form -- a boy’s and sailor’s -- allergic to despair
and how so unplagued by tragedy’s definition I was the one dreaming in each bed into which I fell
and me, Anne Boyer, falling, also, in the sunlight, into a reverie against alien architectures and simultaneously into a boyish engineering
of those remnants by which I now, at least, form a substance, imagine an unalien end.
2 comments:
oh i will have to write you back, anne! xo
but i already have a poem for today. about to post it.
Post a Comment