Friday, December 5, 2008

Cleaving eigner

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 1
—for charles olson

i keep—coming back
to the–geography of it
the street—swampscott polis
the porch—summer darkness
sitting here—memorizing it
my first memory—a radio poem
after Cid Corman—turned me on
no bare incoming—novel abstract form
more a welter—of events
in the middle—of a Greek battle
more than me—my broken body
a cleave of words—a new geometry
plus this—I was one with my skin
swampscott—I pressed backwards
leaning against—my typewriter
made polis yield—outwards

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 2

off-porch—islands in the trees
wheelchair spaz—hardly maximus
a table—a portable royal typewriter
each key—obeys me sometimes
indenting—saves time & energy
all the way—not to the left margin
i had to learn—simplest things last
cerebral palsy—made it difficult
a wheelchair—got me off my hands/knees
when i was 10—in my wheelchair
bored—sitting on the porch
my uncle gave me—a typewriter
from then on—words/index/finger/one
maximus—postponed me
a long boyhood—exiled from language
undone business—stretching out
polis wanting—to map my body

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 3

there’s—a dark side
a noir side—to cleaving
three-ways aren’t—always cool
two verticals—one horizontal
aren’t always—staircases to heaven
sometimes things go—downward instead
spiral staircases—get gloomy doomy
creaking down—from spooky attics
tourneur-esque—twisting turnings
the house of spaz—a haunted mansion
poetry—a crypt of purloined letters
not all of it—roger corman quickie
redone by—campy vincent price
sometimes—yog-sothoth chaos
frothing—in primal slime
lurker—cthaihu wrong number
poe and lovecraft—jukebox portal
cyclopean eternal—tentacles

maximus / gloucester / swampscott 4

maybe cleaving—doesn’t begin
with the self—but rather language
wiser & older—than just the self
prior to it—primordial strange
so that writing—is like reading
suspending belief—becoming other
being not-I—fairy tale enthralled
cleaving the past—coherentless
what’s the self—got to do with it
wordplay—serious business
for a spastic guy—like me
an “oral history”—on paper
there’s this illusion—moving words
that day to day—psyche is optional
the overtones—of a denser shadow
in the room—a charged waiting
a habitual—proprioception
my body—in a wheelchair
a stream of others—saying
where have you been—well
we almost—gave up on you

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