Cleaving Sudanese Jaipong

Idjah Hadidjah

it’s the flow—and form i feel
comfortable with—it’s interesting
it’s got a three-way narrative—it’s entertaining
putting together—a cleave anthology
has opened up—some other things too
pessoa and saramago—bolaño and borges
publishing 100—cleave-fabulist poems
the usual horizontal narrative—moving smoothly
two vertical spontaneous—haiku-esque stanzas
flowing up and down—coming out the blue
these vertical stanzas—not always make sense
but who cares—i want them to be free and open-ended
they’re never complete sentences—mostly fragments
more often than not—they LangPo themselves
out of thin air—without any kind of closure
they don’t resemble spicer—no rolls-royce radio
there’s no heurtebise chauffeur—to guide me
thru the liquid mirror—no orphée or billy the kid
it’s a different kind of dictation—the vertical stanzas
they’re just there—regardless of the hyphens
they’re refreshingly—extemporaneous and gay
i love their simple impromptu—their novelty
especially when i’m down and out—feeling blue
it’s like finding a shortcut—to jackson mac low
no diastic divagations—no secret seed texts
it’s more like the sad sing-song—voice of idjah hadidjah
drifting in and out of—sundanese jaipongan music
it’s like pretending to be—miss merrill in the evening
beneath the changing—light of sandover
opening up the ouija board—on the bridge table
unfolding it slowly—along its ancient cleave
letting the planchette, my dear—be my mouse
then waiting to see—what the other side has to say

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