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Showing posts from April, 2020

NEW POEM

HOT ZONE CONFESSIONS‘Thomas and Lowell made themselves the metaphor of their poems’1.I am myself the quarantine.The garden spreads childrenIn summer clothes like soresOn a lip. The world quivers,All arrows locked and loadedTo overflow. I don’t quite explode.2.Writing has never been bomb squadTo the great squatting missiles belowOur skins; you don’t avoidVolcanic eruption with lava postcards.Words hurl microbial aerosolAcross the lawn to sicken, invade.3.I’m only paper, metaphor, inky myth.What’s made isn’t mine or shrapnel to own,Contains pandemics in its sly mists.Controlled explosions like punking steam?All dreams are engines to the minefieldMind we try to civilly distance from, or collide in.4.We’ve died in rhetorical verse too often to seeThe trees burst from it like shells out ofBurial mounds; all’s fecundity, even dross,Drivel, moss, or fungal rot. All personal worksSurround me, yet extend, like vines on branchesFurl in forests to the furthermost interior animals.5.Go out, stay …

NEW POEM

CICERO UNLOCKEDAfter  W.B.Y & D.T. with loveCicero knows a soul is there or isn’t thereAnd neither bandage unbreaks the fear;My cat’s coalfired sleeping in a fiery poolPut out in purrs sleep derails, his furThe kingdom of panthers all breeders conferRibbons on; in heaven the dead move too –In puzzled sleep, at their side some ownerScribbling also of the worried times: halfThe world is half apart from half the world’sOther part – the solid heart has come to knowThe dialogue of self, and loss, and selfless loss;As Plato told, and Aristotle tossed aside, in scorn.We’re divisions of an army made up of usAlone; the hill-town’s been cut off from its face,To save the sloping nose to keep the mills alight.Economies of scale collapselike climbing biblesTipping off a feeding beltway to appal the stars.It is dust bowling as dollars fly like miceOut of the cat hospitals to die church poorIn single pairs of lost mittens, disallowed to mournUntil morning’s dark and the mountains flat as ice.We …

Reading Laura Mulvey’s Late Style Essay on Vertigo in the Light of Covid-19

Reading Laura Mulvey’s Late Style Essay on Vertigo in the Light of Covid-19She says that film is deathin its each frame, movinglife into motion by lightso artifice plays on reality,arousing automatons,those herky-jerky objectswe desire to own, infusewith fake breath, becauseto dominate the unrealis what only gods, artists,do. In Vertigo Madelaineis memory, crossed twice,a favourite bridge, she’sordinary spouse refused,credit card declined, turnedas in Pygmalion into goddess;she falls doubly, is a doubleimage and the pain is fetishesare never again what they oncewere in the possessing hand;you play, let go, releasedthe toy breaks on the rocksbelow. Freud, Adorno, the onewho died at the Swiss borderand loved unpacking books,Benjamin, the master theoristof machinations and creation;the late style is, Deleuze or Saidboth knew, an outcroppingof what’s placed behind us,the time before the mastery;the backdrop replacing actualsmashing waves with fashion;how we make up and dressplain Mom to b…