Buddha, also, dies to save you.
The twist, though, is you must kill him yourself --
And know you haven't been saved from anything.
". . . speech does not only register or express a traumatic psychic life; the entry into speech is in itself a traumatic fact. . . . speech does not simply express/articulate psychic turmoils; at a certain key point, psychic turmoils themselves are a reaction to the trauma of dwelling in the 'torture-house of language.'" (Slavoj Zizek, "The Poetic Torture-House of Language." Poetry. 2014 Mar. 566)Speak, tell, say.
AutumnSaint Cuthbert and I were at the edge of consubstantiation.
"...we come by love,"and laude, laude, cum laude, we love to come
"and not by sail..."as much as by sale.
Augustinethe Hippo to Anselm the Giraffe.
Whether the evening stoppedby for a beer so the two of us could keep each other company
what little windof sentiment
had driven mebefore to my defective Volkswagen to go in vain search of Imogen
or if a sudden changeof plan just happened to bring her my way, the increase
in pressurewas just enough to send me packing, though I was
the bowties, polka-dotted, paisley. Which to take?
as, smooth, it mademy hand describe the arc of Imogen's dimly recalled rump.
its way around the cap d'ail, towardssundown at a cocktail party for elderly Republicans. I discard it.
The esterel, with its red peaks suffused--despite the best efforts of the good people Playtex.
Beneath thetires, the red clay dirt roads of Butts County, Georgia.
red dust of Sciroccos, Ito what this embarassing passion amounts.
will not attempt to say
But I do knowFive years have gone by now since my brother Benjamin died.
progress was slowly ended.
and the driftthe ship of state
of that small boat
became the same as wavesof despair on sands of negation.
slow movement toward the shore, where I could seenot far from the parked Scirocco, hidden in the dune shadows.
at least, grown luminescentas my radio dial was at 2:00 AM midway between Macon and Savannah;
blue,but so is failure, so is decrepitude.
the slender wordsand the broad inarticulate noises
I voiced then, seemed to fillpants with newly erected hopes
only seemed, since the land breezebillows even where flaccidity reigns. An hour we are there. Two.
recirculates in Autumn, still, the bowtie's smiling garish dotted arms reach out, one toward blouse, one toward skirt,
was moving,driving away
and I heard before my ownthe morning, telling me I'd forgotten to get my bowtie
and knew that song from memorybecause the landscape over which I have traversed my life
but changed now, as I drifteddown inland back roads
topoints far from
the shoreand farther from the sure.
Last night I, indolent, thought of free verseflowing like Aunt Jemima's Lite Imitation Maple Flavored Syrup onto a replica of the Statue of Liberty, damnit
almost as an escape, but knew my wrongwas not the product of two wrights, Orville, Wilbur, and the escape of cerulean yonders to which far too many yesterdays lighted us.
was near intentional: I thought of treesespecially those Imitation Maple trees
whose branches lace together, holding upcrystals, sugar crystals on the edge of Tuesday morning's blue plate breakfast special, constituting
a twelve-tone structure.And she turned to me then and asked:
Does each limbAnd I said this was a false either/or. Not because it was possible to be neither, but because it is possible to be both.
relate to laws of chaos, or is any free?
Tonight, I think of fashion shows: how eachtime I look at her, I'm struck (like a plastic bottle of syrup on cool-colored linoleum) by the falseness of her cloven dichotomy. The creator of the universe, she said: A
designer looks for some materialdialectic, but since God is infinitely more indolent than free verse, history is left lawless, just one more gaddamned fluke after another. And the classes -- the elite
of advantageous difference, and the crowdof disadvantaged sameness -- are no more plagued by contradiction than I am when I can't decide whether to fuck or nap. Indecision looks like contradiction only when a group
of mostly journalists looks on, then writesits gray on gray, signaling the senility of a way of life. Karl really was, as the old joke goes, the funniest of the Marx brothers. Can it really be coincidence that you speak through Harpo as you speak for Karl? The gods, they plink
a note on each. Their models, slimmed and cokeddon't represent reality the way they used to. I can't full-dance the wide, wide world, and you can't
half-dance the narrow runway, and the lightsof reason go out, one by one, until finally we manage to get along just fine. With those lights gone, there are no more essentials. No central essentials, no foreground essentials, no
background essentials, bringing out stringed heelsand other assortd low-lifes.
and shadows echoing each other downtwelve-tone structures, twelve apostles, twelve days of christmas, the twelve members of the O.J. jury, and other
twelve-boarded planks. A choreographershe was, before going into the syrup business. And each Marx, whether making "Das Kapital" or "Animal Crackers,"
finds movement in their chaos, while I leanhalf-dancing, half-trying, half-assed making it,
half-languid, near the back wall, noticingWe'll have to go out the same way we to came in.
our darkened exit doors are bolted shut.