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ON THE COVER
What Massive Deception! What Malevolent Drivel! What Malignant Dogma! Whoosh More Doom! Whack More Disease! We Make Death -- Watch Many Die. Weeping, Mourning, Dread. World Mass Disgust. Way More Divided. Way More Debt. Way More Destruction. Wasted Murdered Detainees. Wild manic denials. Women Mowed down won’t Make Democracy. Wanted More Draftees!
POEM FOR A TALL WOMAN
If you have ever seen the green in water that is forever flowing out to mystery and adventure then you know something of the colour of her eyes. I would not talk so foolishly but there is a space in me she steps into -- a tall shadow, an absence that howls like a grave or a dead wind when she is not there. I am a fool for her, letting all of me be a mile-long night breeze if she is but a straw held up -- a single golden hair I might rush over forever. I love Marsha Kirzner like the taste of my own spit, like my own blood in my veins, ready to melt in her heat like snow carried south and dropped in Pacific surges, my mouth dissolved in tropical mangoes and sweet papaya. She is another tall self I keep inside and lean on like a prop -- a magic self that sets me whirling and dispersing -- an anchoring self like a two-ton idol thin and heavy in the bed, me fastened to it like a small burnt lizard. Let me just hold this mantis woman in my arms, this tall beautiful fire with green eyes. Let me just lick the length of this green blade, this lightning filament of her love and I will sizzle with it, a long green furrow in my spirit where a jade lake reaches for the peaks. Her hand is a leaf that can calm the passage of a storm and yet it is a leaf that sings in its work like a reed made of Human flesh, a musical flesh of gasps and sighs -- a high sweet strand of water like a violin string. Aaaah draw the bow down again my loved one across the heart, across the soul, draw the bow down again and play forever the long sweet notes of our love.
I will teach you that it’s not enough to be infatuated with the word. You are in a textual relationship with language. It’s not just about you. You have to be sensitive to the needs of the word too -- then maybe it will receive you. Otherwise you are doomed to its hardened exterior. The word will not open, the word will not enter you. This is the most common form of textual difficulty. Perhaps you are rushing the language. You may have to take your time with the poem. Or maybe you're taking too much time. You have to be like radar to the moods, textures and shifts of the lingo. And don't get possessive. When you're “with” the word you're with every word that word has ever been with. Accept it. All words are contextual free spirits. Practice on the smaller forms at first -- haikus, aphorisms. It will seem impossible that one day something the size of the Iliad could enter you but if you are patient -- if you hold the words in your mind -- if you let the word touch you -- energy will enter. But you must also enter the energy. Hold the word as the word holds you. You must be taken. If you just take what you want from the poem then you leave unresolved charges simmering in it. This is how textual difficulties start. It is necessary to attend to the urges of the poem and to do this you must be patient and unctuous. You must focus and receive and let go entirely into the movement and rhythms of the poem. The key is mutuality. To get to where nothing comes between you and the language. To ride naked text, tissue to tissue. Wedged into a book like there is no exit. Full textual engagement will often and some say should always lead to those epiphany moments when insight like white light shoots up the being with a burst of raw alphabation. But remember, as important as it is that the poem satisfy you, this will only happen when you satisfy the poem. Only then will it fill you with the glories of literature. Only then will you be on your way again to a full and happy text life.
Of course not all your textual forays need be bound by such sweaty and arduous parameters. The lure of easy and casual text is everywhere. We've all experienced text in phone booths and washroom stalls, text up against the wall, or on public transit. You can't get away from text and you don't want to. Some people claim too much text can make you go blind, but the truth is text is legal and safe. In fact people have sacrificed their lives and freedoms for your right to experience almost any kind of text when and where you like. In general though it is good to give your words a periodic check-up. Let us compare dictionaries on a regular basis. Let us verify the language. Purify the word. Remember to exchange armadas. To do time in one another's subs. Whether you absorb the word or the word absorbs you. Every time you speak a camel treads the needle eye. This is the true traverse of the double-humped dialectic. This is true textual intercourse. I give you my word.
PARALLELVIS UNIVERSE 2003
1. The Zelgs speak in a language that is a cry. To hear them converse is to listen to the wailings, gargles and gasps of those undergoing terrible tortures of the soul and body. To go amongst them, even in their merrymaking, is like walking the corridors of an actual Hell. It is with shrill enraged lizard screams that they greet each other, shouting till they cough up blood. And in instances where most people would choose to whisper -- moments, for instance, of privacy and intimacy, the Zelgs will holler at their loudest volume (about 10,000 dB). For them to utter some small, sweet nothing like "I love you darling!" is to bellow like Prometheus on the cross. Although the Zelgs are fine and sensitive creatures, it is obviously very hard for Earthlings to communicate with them. Listening to the simplest and most superficial discourse is heart-rending and will incite the compassion of all but the deadest and cruelest creatures. Nor can they understand our small chirping and gesturing, thinking instead, that we only truly communicate when we torture each other.
3. ON FAST-F**KING
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