Saturday, August 27, 2005

Hermes 3000

My thoughts aflutter today
fixated on getting the Hermes 3000
fixed scrubbed rubbed oiled

agonized: my feelings --
dogged dreamish fractious
fueling my dreams feeding
my four-leaf clover ambitious wishes --

the whole mental construct
frangible as dried spaghetti
a broken freight train with
frequent stops a milk train of
memory a free and easy foray into
maybe this time maybe this time
the machine will dance with
the highlights of imagination
and two-step the fragments of poetry
into a rag-time frieze of perfect pitch --
chocked with Balanchinesque movement

but why why why get the Hermes 3000
fixed rub-a-dub repaired squeaky-clean
to hear the clack clack music the clack
in three-quarter time; to hear the magical
staccato Morse Code of making poems
with the beat beat beat of that ole
alphabetical rhythm each
stroke put down sensually
a little romantic interlude of fancy
harking back to the gone with the wind
days of setting type by hand: I imagine "Yes"
as if I with Gutenberg were in the same room
and the smell of ink and paper and
well polished gears and keys and the
free lance nature of listening as well
as dreaming of thinking out loud
and playing the alphabet equated to
pounding aurora borealis rhythms on a drum
and Geofroy Tory busied himself
designing resplendent letters of the alphabet
in the far corner and time & artisans
were alive again for a while a little
as if now was then and then again

who knows why or when or what
I just want to:

Hermes 3000 repairmen are
hard to find
& going to a place called
Apollo Typewriter Repair
over the Parnassus Heights hill
out on Taraval

does have a ring to it.


more later.
I'm on an adventure
sunny and autumnally summery in
San Francisco today


I don't want to walk without sunshine either --
attention falls between forgetfulness and certainty like
a fire-youth walks on water hankering for star-filled midnight

Tallulah Bankhead in Cleopatra: (it is written) barged down the Nile and sank
exploits of trumpet virtuoso his rigid upbringing sinless passion
axe-blows bursting from log as for instance little abstract rainbows

"I" anchors reader immersed in darkness he navigates his very simple boat
turtleneck fashion St. George confronts a dragon the divine bark afterlife
serpent with two heads and four paws: he who unites faces dug deeply into rock

dancing on roof dressed in Malevich black
overheated sky angels prayers wipe off silence
orange lilies in Amy Lowell moonlight gibbous moon tonight:

sky operatic cast in stark bone-white cold combined regally
noble blue virility stallion bark of midnight sun mummified morning
this is body of If and remains in world of dead

I've lost track of night sky where stars where moon having moved
having stayed having stilled knowledge of our unknown mission
why is our army so large why have we not achieved victory

If we can know our response, see in ourselves what we have received
from a work, that is a way to understanding abysmal depth of sky
weave a rope of sand grow grapes from thorns cry for the moon

male divinities on their knees with arms raised in adoration I miss you
deceased sun vanished after-life tonight nocturnal body brilliant
it is here some will remain devoured by revered memory by mere black

everything happens to everybody eventually we know our work we receive
we perceive we remember to bear an oar travel together in vestibules
yesterday originates in tubular anus of an oyster spirit and matter

mind and life: ready it was ready readily readily refrained from it to
within hearing mainly as if in presently if it was left to them usefully
usually very easily in referring in fact in fact to it. Any award will do

kill each day darkness bleeds around our sleep crocodile eyes barking
dogs across town some hint hiss of a bus passes empty full of light
driven across sky blindfolded remembered no more beautiful lines

perceiving is the same as receiving and it is the same as responding
boat is burning like a huge torch we can't put the fire out it's too late
process of life reaches to the farthest star a matter of light

we had nothing to do with starting a fire a monster did it you can swim
we have reconciliation to hang on to we are in midst of reality
responding with joy "Ms. Lane have you heard from Mr. Kent?"

this square is a living regal infant a first step of pure creation a
surface lives it has been born gentle wise white a square gesture of distinctions
without difference observed knower known no longer stand apart

comics you've been collecting are now worth a lot of money:
reconcile inner life with outer experience: no more likenesses of reality
nothing but desert: inner oscillations of night sky: stars

ashes cover the golden body of a male deity: dances: a thousand and one
nights a thousand and one questions a thousand and one monsters a thousand
and one answers full of impossibility: crocodiles, dogs, humans asleep

each morning there are teeth marks on his thigh he reincarnates into a body
he remembered having the day before yesterday he attains its memory: life keeps
out of mischief and a similar but different question knocks polyhedraly:

can you see anything ahead? I feel I have been standing sky-clad on this cold
damp beach waiting to find who locked the door. I feel that nothing exists
but then void presents itself. how will I learn to swim to bark to live?

nothing can be construed as a clue. great Jupiter. where is my walkie-talkie.
will I speak this language? a great deal will happen. our predicament will
occur again tomorrow at the same time same way. we have become valuable

what will my cat look like in the fourth dimension? a famous question not mine.
deeply abysmal night sky moon driven penetrating to hidden noumenal reality
underlying phenomena: initiated on amethyst altars tied in spider web

I can play piano and outwit desperate criminals and make it sound glamorous
with big blue eyes and tall; learn to climb; think with the head of a crocodile
or dog and disclose a living sense to that silent self you insist upon calling "I"

little busy-body named Moon continues oaring through sky
yapping at stars; sense of infinite is first and most terrible trial
before initiation on the Island of the Blessed; dress in purple spider webs

I am become Death destroyer of worlds: I have a rough idea you'll break
rules you meant well we liked you. stay away from white in Morocco
violet in Egypt black in Greece. Nothing is expression of absolute like zero.

ashes cover gold; our life is a radio station; I am not the doer; but what
of that silent self; we are a mystery hiding human image from ourselves
sky-clad or dressed in Malevich black enacting a role he not I became.

Kasimir Malevich's Suprematism, 1920 watercolor/gouache on paper.
11.5" by 8.5". Los Angeles County Museum of Art purchased with funds
provided by Day Sage Tanguy, Rosemary B. Baruch and Mr. & Mrs. Charles Boyer.

-- Jeff Wietor


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