From “Pause the Document”
last march
es marzo marzo es
marzo es marcha
es amarse es marte de la guerra dios
amarte es a marte y es marcha
marchan los días y la batalla
sí la batalla sigue sí hay círculos
que nunca se cierran círculos que se cierran
círculos que se cierran círculos que nunca se cierran
hay círculos círculos y círculos semicírculos o circunferencias incompletas
hay círculos que son círculos que son ondas en lo menos hondo
de las superficies líquidas que son olas y círculos que son ondas sonoras
círculos sonidos que son idos o son nidos
hay círculos que son nidos y hay círculos que son idos
continuándose en círculo en espiral
los círculos nunca se cierran
last may
Funny, I wasn’t thinking of communicating in a language other than this one, but here I am. Feeling formally restless and leaving traces.
I can’t get into it right now, so I’ll switch back and forth, if it’s okay.
In the spirit of the diagrammatic, sitting maskless under a blooming tree at a coffee shop.
Not a European copper beech. There’s no room for such majesty in this enchanted catastrophe.
He was speaking about the words’ disobedience, about how poets work by not working. Meanwhile the world’s machinery was running its course.
When even shadows peter out.
The possible end words in a looping poem all related to nutrient broths, nanoparticles, and mRNA. Not surprisingly it ended up turning into an anti-sestina.
Before February’s disorientation there were family pictures in November.
You were shown the future of fitness on mirror.com.
As with all mirror reflections, the image was flipped—a translation.
The future’s only visible retrospectively.
No, not last night. In the afternoon, when she warned us that things would be getting intense.
The lightbox announced a “trend watch” in all caps. Under it, the same unhoused woman from last night, her belongings in plastic bags spread out around her.
The underground is the only true measure of the grid.
Another incident derails the day again
Describe the incident.
An occurrence of an action or situation that is a separate unit of experience.
So it takes you out of the flow of existence?
Something like that, yes, although it is usually familiar and doesn’t feel separate. It’s actually woven deeply into the fabric of everyday life, but still manages to feel isolated from everything, unlike a current.
What’s your currency?
No crisis.
Is that the cruel optimist in you speaking?
Absurd. What’s for breakfast?
I take care of you. It’s a sign of respect.
Unrequited.
Mutually so.
Bad better than best. That’s what Rodrigo had suggested.
The reference to Beckett was obvious; still, he thought the connection was brilliant.
Quería que me volviera más mala.
When John spoke of Rodrigo I thought of peacocks.
That makes two Rodrigos then.
Me lo dijo un pajarito. A little birdie told me, back when birds of the resplendent type could talk.
Epic commute, and still the continuous loop of the present.
Such were my nonmusical subtitles for Richard’s Psalms for the End of the World.
Ninety more seconds to go, then the return to psychogeography.
that march
A glove is no banana peel
on the sidewalk.
Uncoupled or twined, sighted
often. Recumbent,
released by the hand’s reach.
Signaling to passersby,
left behind, discarded—either
way, overlooked. Speaking
gestures of waste, how we protect
ourselves. One becomes many,
spreads.
Nitrile among utility
markings, masks, trash, in lots,
parks, amid shopping carts and hieroglyphs
in a different key, stains.
Ghostly ciphers of fear.
Mimes in a minimal choreography
of absence. Dormant,
thought infected. Fallen
blossoms, mock
birds.
es marzo marzo es
marzo es marcha
es amarse es marte de la guerra dios
amarte es a marte y es marcha
marchan los días y la batalla
sí la batalla sigue sí hay círculos
que nunca se cierran círculos que se cierran
círculos que se cierran círculos que nunca se cierran
hay círculos círculos y círculos semicírculos o circunferencias incompletas
hay círculos que son círculos que son ondas en lo menos hondo
de las superficies líquidas que son olas y círculos que son ondas sonoras
círculos sonidos que son idos o son nidos
hay círculos que son nidos y hay círculos que son idos
continuándose en círculo en espiral
los círculos nunca se cierran
Funny, I wasn’t thinking of communicating in a language other than this one, but here I am. Feeling formally restless and leaving traces.
I can’t get into it right now, so I’ll switch back and forth, if it’s okay.
In the spirit of the diagrammatic, sitting maskless under a blooming tree at a coffee shop.
Not a European copper beech. There’s no room for such majesty in this enchanted catastrophe.
He was speaking about the words’ disobedience, about how poets work by not working. Meanwhile the world’s machinery was running its course.
When even shadows peter out.
The possible end words in a looping poem all related to nutrient broths, nanoparticles, and mRNA. Not surprisingly it ended up turning into an anti-sestina.
Before February’s disorientation there were family pictures in November.
You were shown the future of fitness on mirror.com.
As with all mirror reflections, the image was flipped—a translation.
The future’s only visible retrospectively.
No, not last night. In the afternoon, when she warned us that things would be getting intense.
The lightbox announced a “trend watch” in all caps. Under it, the same unhoused woman from last night, her belongings in plastic bags spread out around her.
The underground is the only true measure of the grid.
Another incident derails the day again
Describe the incident.
An occurrence of an action or situation that is a separate unit of experience.
So it takes you out of the flow of existence?
Something like that, yes, although it is usually familiar and doesn’t feel separate. It’s actually woven deeply into the fabric of everyday life, but still manages to feel isolated from everything, unlike a current.
What’s your currency?
No crisis.
Is that the cruel optimist in you speaking?
Absurd. What’s for breakfast?
I take care of you. It’s a sign of respect.
Unrequited.
Mutually so.
Bad better than best. That’s what Rodrigo had suggested.
The reference to Beckett was obvious; still, he thought the connection was brilliant.
Quería que me volviera más mala.
When John spoke of Rodrigo I thought of peacocks.
That makes two Rodrigos then.
Me lo dijo un pajarito. A little birdie told me, back when birds of the resplendent type could talk.
Epic commute, and still the continuous loop of the present.
Such were my nonmusical subtitles for Richard’s Psalms for the End of the World.
Ninety more seconds to go, then the return to psychogeography.
that march
A glove is no banana peel
on the sidewalk.
Uncoupled or twined, sighted
often. Recumbent,
released by the hand’s reach.
Signaling to passersby,
left behind, discarded—either
way, overlooked. Speaking
gestures of waste, how we protect
ourselves. One becomes many,
spreads.
Nitrile among utility
markings, masks, trash, in lots,
parks, amid shopping carts and hieroglyphs
in a different key, stains.
Ghostly ciphers of fear.
Mimes in a minimal choreography
of absence. Dormant,
thought infected. Fallen
blossoms, mock
birds.
Source: Poetry (April 2022)