Читать книгу The Sleep That Changed Everything - Lee Ann Brown - Страница 9

INSUFFLATION

an act of blowing on, into, or in

a Christian ceremonial rite of exorcism performed by breathing on a person

the act of blowing something (as a gas, powder, or vapor) into a body cavity

It remains (Alice Notley) read poetry

and imagine yourself writing it

A poet is a mirror, a transcriber (Susan Howe)

What are these winged words

(Jennifer Moxley)

Other peoples’ vocabularies did this to me.

Auspicious Window

Between sky & town

Birds sing Bells ring

Venus ascends the Starry Stair

While afternoon comes upon

Our fair histories

Sensitive plants touch but

Stay open past twilight.

Between rearranged lines

Walking, lives a moth.

A flaming sigh

Takes us past our

pain almost

Human Lucky

A brief Communication

Fortuitous Window never

Written, go on

A Call for Vertical Integration in the Eye of the Storm

Purple & blue Tiffany combo in the

Church of my childhood struggle of perfect

Public meat longing again vine-covered

Power flower conflict hunger for green

Struggle—if this is sin then separation—

Grace abounds even more than bonds—

Doubt boundaries not programmable—

Stretched grace strikes us down—

Social eels demand ransom, children

Do not bow your heads—tranquility of hymns

Is shattered & addressed two days ago I

Saw the Black Ash of a Church Burned on its

Sure Foundation Century old pin oaks scorched

Against stones of those who can’t ever leave this sight—

Who witnessed Who

Drove away during the sermon Burning

Cometary

Come lay here awhile familiar body of earth

swelling sweetness I know not yet

When sexing grows stale so will living so

not yet to die or be bored by bright

eyes in the bias of night streaming

3 am comfortable garlic rose

honey jasper beryllium iridium

insulating who knows what from whom or

what marginalia starts to cook at

3 pm half way cross to one real world

writing flash across the sky complete

with fiery tail Just once is not

enough how ’bout 4 a minute

and look up again tonight

Come here Come tarry

Comet her

Encyclopedia Botanica

or

A Mother-to-Be’s Book of meltdown anticipation and scientific renderings of organic and theoretical forms such as the way flowers lie in the bud: A permutational Cento of Centos consisting of painful insufflations, multiple estivations, the calculus of various inflorescents, my naive set theories (as unordered pairs), vibratory odes in all manner of cross-pollinating color, illumined spores & how they grow in corkscrew contortion, all imbued with entire New Electric Libraries of the Body. Herein find random factors of the strange attraction to “hard science,” but also to soften it, previously FAILED materials and pick-up works, illuminated maps of misreading, specifically, a Trace Study of my Own Peculiar Vocabulary living in the dictionary, reading public signs backwards or torqued in the House (See: “Waking in the Offices of Dawn,” “A Demand for Fried Chicken,” and “The Unhinged Bride’s Index Box”). A deep pillow tapestry, the soft underbelly of the (not guilty) quilt-lined snow on 100’s of 1000’s of flowers packed in wet newspaper to last this linked act always with an Other in mind: molecules being excited to a higher level of activity by heat or unseen stimulations, through any reader’s eye to correspondence’s finger, culminating in a Splice Index for the edification of Ladies, Gentlemen, Sentences & new Punkish Geezers left out in the rain of the Sleep Cake that changed Everything.

Insufflation

for Tom Raworth

Fresh start

she smokes

the color of his eyes

rat, maternal & sexual behavior

in that culture

there was husband capture

the word for inhaling someone else

“stay” plain

an insufflating venture

inventing all the ways of from

as for me and mine

we know how water changes

pitch as it warms up &

connects the poem’s skin up to

curvaceous thought

& open possibles,

pricks up the spring like

songs

my liner notes are

nonlinear notes

Linear Velocity

in a Velocity line

Children meeting

you can only try

Not to subsume

the title into the poem

Words like “crank” & “shift”

“frame”

Thinking as

sexually inspired not so

far from the idea of what

makes me write

Vibratory Ode

Not to work my Vibratory Mode

was one option

I close to forego

What happened to me?

I tried to be like everybody

else for a few moments

out the window

Insufflation

loss or relation or

In your face

elation

suffered inflation

Play it in its

identification

I feel like I can’t read

people’s poems

without loving them

Just having met he said

Tell me everything right now

& give it to me right now on stone

tablets right now please

My other story:

Upon trying to find some Barbecue

in Greensboro, NC on a Sunday night

& upon the suggestion of

a restaurant named I forget what,

She said, “No, that’s Black Tie”

& I thought she meant

“Pigfoot with Lemongrass”

I can tell Electricity

I’ve often been too literal & try

Always to fly over the wings

And what does a body do without its desires?

It tries to get them back (Carla Harryman)

I’m your irreversible Holiday Guest

The phone rang as we walked in the door

Sorry we missed each other

any exchange of info

or Phraseology

I limit my register

Relegation Regulation

Regulating

the specifics of her

encircling the rhythmic phrase

Embrace loneliness & get over it

“What’s normal to you

is strange to me”

Muscle in on

Collage as a grid

I am read

What would you like

(Morningfade)

Too late to lay straight out

Music spins too short to cut back

Amazingly unformulaic exchange of modes

No memory any more than

writing without remembering

Mural pout icy blue irises taste salty

Negative lotion or prosthetic nerve

Too beautiful for use

Exclusive of description

Distant radio blur pensive not

some kind of horrible rhythm

Grinning mask

The black church vibrates

That’s not nice

I’ll tell you a story

Meager income not sleep

Driver to tense up the flowers

Fetch the muscular job

Lack thereof when indifference flutters

Not impressed by personality

Scratch “Music”

Hanging up the phone

Any trick to sit still

Dependent on time not motor vehicles

In the mode of

grabbing the meat

Money exchanged hands

Laying the book flat

She worked it out

The sunlight offered solution

Calling in sick

the ceiling crumbles

Stages of dreaming

travel & funeral

Forgetting the text

Deserted not waiting

a titular running away

Writing for the “ing”

Every click startles my little girl

A father I wish I never had

Back sliding emotion

Curious about devolution

Too busy or not so (with the dailies)

Balance sheets tear my eye

A star staring

Forcing myself on myself

Auto treble singes the cut

Extra “E” why kill a moth?

Harsh detail driven in with a nail

Phraseology stiffens and pumps

Missing its next opportunity

Working together for a moment

As if compatibility were a muscle

Too much resistance

Preponderance too normal

Spoiled bourgeosie me

What could they have but beauty

Backwards medal a moment

nerve out still proceeding

stacatto endurance

tongue tied missive never arrived

or even called

never picked up

as in the machine hung up

not like I imagined

a cricket under the fridge

plate goes back to sleep

“spot” as percussive

derivative protest

byzantine frustration

under any circumstance

either deal or freak

momentum taboos the corner store

Easter morning alone

Setting myself up to be toughened

a spectrum of hair

Unanthologized Beat

spun out into

reading it sometimes to myself

see if I can still

end up waiting no matter what

might as well find a way to work

Need a scar a notice stressed

Struck through quotation marks

Poet’s Complaint

Exercising the drill bit in my mouth

I am past working for the man

Yet must do it again—

Again do it must I

Like every poor sod

Guiltily sapping on lazy-nesses

Bed of down right Southern

Insolence—Mules & Drugs

Sleepy of culture

Culture of sleepy

Walking in pumps sumped

Out to yards of S. O’Hara’s spoiler.

Miss Scarlet Mars on Venus moons:

O Muser be my Abuser!

Wake up—Atalanta’s burning!

When will I again be evicted

From this Divine Sepulchre?

When will I get my jump

Astarted from above?

Athena should be leaner

Brand me again

With the mark of the Breast!

I need a Wing Haven

I need a Thrush Band

Of gypsies holding

Mirrors to my waste.

I need a Lark who sings

So out of tune so as to

Shake me to my roots—

But please can you make it not hurt

So much

Like last time?

Pull my hair only hard enough

To make it

Grow greener than grass

& Death seem so near

But not yet here

Respond to me

Respond to me: how many

iniquities have I and fish. Scholar me

& delicate easterns to me.

Simple curs abscond with you

& are arbitrarily inimicable to you?

Against leaves, what raptors I buy

East and potentates to aim

and stipendly sic’em on persecutors:

Writers & enemies against my sailor lovers

consume me, consume my fish

my many sad scents

Positronic in my nervous pedestals

& observing all vastness

my many cementings

& my vestigial feet meow considerately:

How quasi I redo considerable sums, how

invested, how comedic a tin ear.

shiny jewel eye

with Julie Patton, Euphrosyne Bloom & Meg Arthurs in mind

These flower forms vary to me in ways I can’t say yet but you know already before me in your dress lace—no “A” on the off white (cream) lady bugged familiar to the wall pointing to Big Ohio Egyptian football in & out motion of your arms passion freak—out on our own time—to the triumphs flower—the stole slipped, the slip stole—no limits on the feintly fealty couch—passive as he was—(I’m huge)—the hinge bing-cherried out & tweaked on the Byronic road ironic—drownded in the lake of Prague’s Guarda—Valve without me—he’s—free—and Sphinx-like as I write the night again so quick—The Dion Ferry is X-otic—water taxied over Manhatta’s spires

where (back in time) she was living in Alphabet City with all the little stories she never tells:

While throwing an apple peel over her shoulder she suddenly realizes she’s been living in Description City all along. A big, blue letter “A” is motioning for her over to take off her veil and play, but she says ‘fuck that’ while chewing on her candy cigarettes. The Phantom Tollbooths, otherwise known as the Fuss Puppets, are now warming up in the room covered entirely with writing. One says “Dogmatic No Radio” and another, just “Spike.”

Ms. (Blank) was trying to think but it was real hard because of all the buzzing. People kept trying to get her attention and succeeding. She had started to live alone once, but like honey he started living there too, postponing her growing up for a few more months.

She lived in the zone whose even years no solstice interrupt. A certain surgeon had a beautiful garden there. He stuttered even further when trying to speak his own name. There remains a small scar on her forefinger where she cut herself in the university kitchens. Blood ran all down her apron as she inadvertently hoisted the large carrot, repairing back to her room. A Russian Formalist toy made of colored wood was waiting there.

She converted to Sarah Beattyism, then more slowly to Quietism. Single Girl, Single Girl, Goes where she please. Married Girl, Married Girl: Baby on her knees Baby on her knees. If one more guy tells me they like that song, I’m going to Crown Him (in not a nice way).

Hot nights in the summer bedroom astrological Grand Central Station. Fox Point Kitchen Dance. Mingus was a Big Band trying to affect my body with some immediate gravity. Sex do to me one’s catalogue and while you’re at it Rimbaud. The cats had better but fewer houses. Let all mortal flesh keep silent over that one. The seraphim with ceaseless eye knew their metempsychosis was incomplete.

So formally, she was nowhere yet. But the dream takes its own form, organically arranged like a bento box, that is, organic within the waking grid.

Whitman Poem “Come…”

See the many blossoms of the field:

Each blade shines with an infinity of flowers,

each blowing its life away—

Pollen carried in the wind, Sing!

To the wind, Clover, wild rose, sturdy Mullen,

purple Larch and Dog violet, twiny Jute,

tiny Pipsissiwa all connected underground,

Pokeweed’s vivid juice on my skin:

To all the plants, flowering weeds and grasses:

Cinquefoil, Wild Columbine, Rue, Bergamot:

All Gorgeous Companions,

Let’s lay our warm bodies down on the warmer earth.

Let me lay my head on your chest and feel your breath …

All around us the grasses are blooming as we are,

entering and mixing, one into another!