12.13.11 @ 21:27♥1
i’m really interested in information and how we get/trust the information we get/trust. also, i love wikipedia. not because it’s real or right, but because it is, in its myriad falsity and authenticity, always true. i love it not because it is reliable, but because it changes; because it helps us understand and draw connections while severing any real ones. i hate it for all the same reasons. it is very hatable. and lovable. and unavoidable. so i’ve been making some poems of it:
THERESA HAK KYUNG CHA
This article is about Theresa Hak Kyung Cha.There is no (disambiguation)
Much happened.
Much happened before Korea
and then there was Korea
and then the halves
which was the mark of the thing happening.
Much happened.
Of which you and I were parts
even before we were you and i
when we were still Joan and saints and Yu
and even before that,
back, to when stories had beginnings.
And of which we are more so now that we have bodies.
Much happened which is impossible to pronounce in the same language under whose signs we say love with capitals and with mouths—
What God let you die that way.
_
LOVE
This article is about the intense feeling of attraction. For other uses, see Love (disambiguation)
Oh the mammalian drive.
Which is also a crater on our only moon,
a river in Taiwan,
a catalog of singing to the highest power and the lowest.
Shape-shifter love, what word swings circles so wide and so varied:
I loved a father.
I love a mother.
I love that partnership makes survival more likely.
Love the second hand. Love the fruit bat.
Love all the whispering that comes from totems I cannot see.
Eros. Oneness. God. Love the transportational/
transformational tug of Boston’s T
Or maybe it’s just the dopamine, norepinephrine (no-ra-pin-ef-rin), serotonin, and
pheromones driving through the blood I share with the mother like a bullet.
Either way we grow more nerves.
We get to say God is love, God is love, in Latin, Turkish, Greek, Japanese, and Persian every time we slip a finger into each other’s bodies, and join, in circles so wide and so varied, Darwin, Erich Fromm, and all the Canonical Gospels.
Your body is Rome. Your body is Roma. Amor. Amo. Your chest is Deuteronomy, the thrum of pumping immunity and the mosquito hawk.
Let the falling toward each other disambiguate here:
Oh mammalian love song, whale call, quick pull, all the universe is tethered through thesingular axiom of the one plus one. Every finger to finger here, in the hot steam of the yellow shower, high-fives infinity.
Sing advesa. Sing mettā, Sing every whale, American basketball hero, sing George, Nancy,
and Robert Love. Sing mammalian absolute values and the proliferation of every sentient being.
Sing, little heartstring. Sing.
_
NORTHWEST PASSAGE
For Daniel McGowan
This article is about the historical sea route between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans through the Arctic waters of Canada, Alaska, and Greenland.For other uses see Northwest Passage (disambiguation)
Fully navigable. That is to say, we can get around this, too.
Only just not all of us.
Condolences white bear. Super sorry Inuit! Two of a kind of only one kind: the penny and the oil drum.
When God closes a weatherdoor, He always opens a window—
Fully navigable.
That is to say, finally.
Finally the word means the thing.
Passable distance.
Circles inside circles.
Unless of course, you’re not a swimmer.
But think of all the new ways to use archipelago in a sentence. At last we find it time to open all that watertalk we jarred for seasons without.
And we’ll need it. A hundred words for snow. A hundred for the deluge, for the too much
and the too not enough.
Example: Vermont swims with the fishes.
Texas dries off the map.
Make it rain.
But what is the dance for making it stop. What from here where ice reads only as the pink mass of satellites. Where we still say Eskimo and love a good adventure, even us, who dream in greyscale, the pornography of black bloc spreading across white land like the Little Ice Age. Like ink.
Until we dream: we close the gap.
With violence.
Which is also love.
12.13.11 @ 21:04♥1
12.13.11 @ 20:58
12.13.11 @ 20:57♥1
12.13.11 @ 20:56
12.13.11 @ 20:52
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
- Robert Haas. from ‘Praise.’
