What a relief

 here is your doe eyed conflict
  away from here in broken buildings

 and what do you cover
      yourself, animals, grinning awareness
  they do not do it primitive
   they do it under neath your head

   here is your polite keyhole
  plugged with grass because you believe
   in nature and leniency

   there is a gas leak

   and when they said to count
    you climbed into the drain
      and instantly aged

        you sell fruit
         oranges, lemon

Desperate and in a frame

  I wore a white t-shirt
and questioned my essential homeliness
I made the telephone wood
a road of pantone stones
 and I spoke to so many new peoples
 who respected my lack of dignity

 mainly I retold books I hadn’t read
  something about a bread line and
ASIA minor
     stopped the tea
    with two large cubes
     and reasserted my
     essential assertiveness

the sky moved here as a projection
 I held a ring of thick keys
 and thought about girlfriends
           he would have thought
            this mattered
 each line undone by kettle steam
 in glasgow’s roads a tosser limped
 little burns aside my eyes
 hungry swans and chicken’s breath

 Going back with a head

              on top of
                            the bar

I raised a liter up of gas

tolerance was breed into this
red boy with open jaw how
to stay alive how to stay alive
truly concentrating— oh a metal saw
this cut across a wrapping putrid
in liberty or dreaming of a fascist france
with peasants on the firing squad and
peasants on the blindfold walk a
thought of fascist artist then
three bricks of paints from little
king a roll of bread sees this woman
face my tumbling off and rolling
spoke this broken fist a shovel pulled
an installation oil reserve my
money’s gone I’m of no class
my money left my sister left
All fields here become quite blue
the thirty guns with polished ears
carry me on my face goes
flat this woman’s face I held
her head up and drank coffee
until I couldn’t hold a plate
let alone a sliding draft
became unstuck I left alone
her pleasant mouth we had
a thought we could not save I
could not save you all I’m sorry
we still will have our gallic lies
we still will have you please come back

 0 —-

our pointisthat
     withnothing done
     allsignals off
    the light shut low

my operator
      I am lonely

…   A nearly nude man entered among these canvases and into these stretches of ice and desert. He drew along a disorderly caravan and walked alone. A voice that came from somewhere else made our ears tingle with a new sound. But in the mixture of cloaks and daggers, of songs and cries, a carnival atmosphere reigned— grace with spirit was especially lacking.
        A very old world was spinning in our heads and we were waiting for a moment when everything would fall.

— Pierre Reverdy, a selection from “The Intruder”

From a new translation of Pierre Reverdy’s first book Prose Poems by Ron Padgett. As I make my way through Reverdy, there are some translations that are absolutely thrilling and others that are flat. Padgett managed to hit every note and I suspect added a few of his own.

Judging by the title of the blog, we have a similar interest in automation.

In Florida, large parking lots are abundant. The more elaborate parking lots that surround malls and theme parks are usually accompanied by very organized French-inspired gardens and rows and rows of lights that never go out. Occasionally, I would spend time in these parking lots at night and so this poem was particularly inspired by those visits. Pinpointing my inspiration is usually a fool’s errand, so, in accompaniment with its narrative form, this piece is unique.

The Parking Lot

Down the third corridor of cars
past the pothole by the inlayed lawn

And then another right depending
on the route and inclination
to the south west adjunct office
where the bolt
is locked and left ajar The primary
shift has been open for the months
I have worked here

there have been no break ins
I have worked here
for as many months as I can recall
and there have been no break ins
because I am an officer of the lot
without arms or station
and as far as I know there have been
no break ins under the passing
doppler waves of distant motor ways

and when my electric cart is done
I am delivered to this outpost
with a hole in the desk for a computer cable
an electric kettle that offsets energy costs
with a board of indeterminate keys
and sheets of mockery
signed each night and perhaps checked
by the man who calls some nights

he calls now
         Henry
which he believes is my name
         I need you to check on the southern adjunct
         before you check out
a time he thinks is soon
before I go there are hours
that playback as minutes
with no change in light

I’ve looked at the stars
and I can’t tell where they’ve gone
since the last I looked
Odhran’s belt is heavy with a sword
and one of these gourds is a bear
I look at the cars and count Acuras
or somedays Suburbans and I see
that they have realigned since yesterday
because some person came back
from a late lunch if they have those here

for my shift, I should explain, the cars
hold their patterns and I see no walking
persons or moving vehicles
and if this is simplified than I am not honest
For my shift, there is a printed check left
in a white envelope under the telephone
and condensed tea from the afternoon
suspending the hot metal branch
in the white plastic carafe

When I turn it on I hear ice cubes
on a hot coil after the foods done
and curiosity wins

I keep a paper cup with wax
lining on its second day
I think I’m best on my own
because I cannot serve a customer
without an obscene feeling
and I cannot serve the obscenity
of conversation, excuse me

much as you’d expect I fill the time
by walking with a flashlight and seeing
the inside of cars filled with papers
and wrappers and strung up CD cases

         I have taken a car I am at a vacuum
         I push apart the leather cleavage
         And thrust in the suckling-worn-
black plastic head to pick up the crumbs
maybe this isn’t so bad after all
and I look in the back seat at a broken toddler’s chair
It has an indifferent pattern, I suspect I am a journalist

so I take time to notice the wheezing bugs
and take notice of a headlight in the landscape
that unwillingly excites my face lifts up
I am aware he is not coming down this section
It is too far to make out his face, but it is a sedan
nonidyllic wheel wells, my full moon, my half moon
how tired I’ve gotten
I head back

And now I drink my tea that is warm enough for two full drinks
and I sleep in my chair
by pressing my long torso against the half back of the rolling chair
by letting my head settle on the wall
by wedging my legs into the top corner of the desk
and closing the door

         when you prepare for takeoff
         sacrificing your neck for sleep
         and the hope that the hours will pass
         and wake up for a weather report
         today we are headed away from home
         where we go it is balmy and still
and there is a sudden urgency to the swelling bugs
         when you wake up you are in the air
         until you see an open window and a horizon
         makes your consciousness seem wasted

my dream is unmemorable, but I fear that
placidity may become permanent
I know that I would let it now
because I have no guilt about unmemorable dreams
and my right arm is asleep so I touch my ear
pull it down and touch my top lip
         it seems like it can feel
         unadapted and rudimentary
         a brush with a thick body
         that has never dried

so the phone rings again
I pick up
         Henry
         were did I have- I’ll call you back
and I hope that he does
I want to bury my head under those bushes
I want to stick my hands in the cold dirt and learn to eat it
Until I am a water tick sucking on all the grit
and grinning with pinned mandibles and only pupils
under those square bushes- I look out again
there is a line of smoke
to the east of here big cello rub

fade in
Water Tick is quiet
he calls the office, the phone rings
and his head is in a camera
cut to Water Tick’s pistons
and cut to the electric cart
and cut to Water Tick’s ride
two white car. a silver car. a bright red car
each of these cars carries a person
         I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again
         the chicken is a carcass
         they fed it eggs and dried out corn
         this little chicken with chalky bones
         I eat the bones and the sick meat
and each of these cars carries a limb

it’s away from the building
but close to the southern adjunct
and all the cars are still
they must be cold inside
this big cow has a hole in it’s roof
black metal windows four feet back
from where the other cars sit
out of line

the southern adjunct is empty
the phone is ringing
         Why didn’t you pick up.
         Is there a fire?
This is Water Tick. I came here from the west.
         Where’s the fire?
         Can you check on it?
I came here from the west.
         Alright.

the seats are gone
it must be hot right now
none of the cars speak
there is an elk on that island
and he will not break eye contact
back in the cart and back to the west

the exterior parking lot night
Water Tick is traveling without a door
to the shack, the lights are out
someone’s cracked each car’s windows
safety glass held in place canyons in the solid
every car is loud right now Water Tick goes in his adjunct
The light bulb has been removed
the phone will no longer dial, the dial tone
is gone and replaced by a busy tone
it can not be hung up the pulsing
hits the exact harmonic frequency of Water Tick
causing him to vibrate uncontrollably
he sits under the desk
his heels bounce on the tiled floor
         his sneakers are black and white
         they seem to be made for walking

Water Tick looks up through the hole where the computer cords
would go and there will sometimes be a moon
but not tonight and Water Tick is glad
the moon is not an obstacle

every window cracked and slowly spreading
from the south west adjunct in a crackling circle
making obscure the windows
and a little story came to mind
from a wax covered letter
from a postcard that never got mailed

         I was in my hands when the Lord came to me in Spirit 27
         I was filled with bones, pleased to select my place.

         He walked in my direction and looked at the surface I stood on.
         How dry.

         He said, Son of man, can these bones come to live?
         I said, You answered what I know.

         He said, They say these bones are more than dry.
         Only Tar Bones can hear the word of the Lord.

         Alright, God and Lord grabbed Tar Bones: Behold!
         We brought spirits to keep you looking up.

         I was in his body, and grew in his skin
         I was tendons in a skeletal mind. It is my Lord,

         I was told I predicted the flow of sound
         together with the Tar Bones running past all crossroads.

         I have them now covering my skin, they are new organs
         pumping contents into my mental health.

         He breathed horror prophecy and son of man.
         I predicted four winds and came to life again.

         Maybe just smoking would turn it alive
         Maybe I learned my breath in these sessions.

         I say: Open your graves! Please.
         Lord God say: I am the tomb people know.

         I can live my mind for you, I can spread this country thin
         That is it, I am my Lord. I promised and I do it.

         In this envelope Mr. Joseph Wood set
         The Lord God’s manuscript.

         I have mountains and have given country for concrete.
         I must be a prince and split my women into men.

         I must march and Jacob must march
         Jacob the transposer living forever

         I broke a promise of peace and lived inside
         every killer with complete compassion

         My people the dirt sifting to the sheet rock
         My sanctuary be in Tar Bones

         These are Tar Bones alive
         My people are in the data.

when he awoke
his thumb was cut open in a smooth line
that crossed this tile and spread apart
the phone was growing into the wall
the spreading glass broke in exponents

still sounds like locusts taking wing
the deadbolt is unscrewed and dismantled on the desk, the kettle is gone
my cup is overfilled
my shift is over
it is still night

As the work goes on, the explanatory text becomes indecipherable as the sound of the room’s resonance creates a lurid cacophony increasing in complexity with each iteration of the process.

I am sitting in a room different from the one you are in now. I am recording the sound of my speaking voice and I am going to play it back into the room again and again until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves so that any semblance of my speech, with perhaps the exception of rhythm, is destroyed. What you will hear, then, are the natural resonant frequencies of the room articulated by speech. I regard this activity not so much as a demonstration of a physical fact, but more as a way to smooth out any irregularities my speech might have.

While Lucier justified this experiment (likely with tongue-in-cheek) as a way to “smooth out” his stutter, the distortions of his speech and each repetition create unexpected and moving complexities. An empty room and a disembodied voice turn into an erratic symphony.

Since poetry presents another space and another disembodied voice, I suggest that Lucier’s technique can quite easily be adapted for our purposes.

For this model, I will use a relevant, if partial, text. My former professor Terrance Haye’s poem “Sonnet” relies on the repetition of a single line 14 times to both conform and subvert the form of a sonnet. More importantly, it’s an interesting poem that also depends on strict repetition.

I have included the poem below for purely academic/remix purposes, which I assume is fine as it is freely available online already. (Though, I’ve corrected the stanza breaks so it appears as it does in Hip Logic’s pages.)

Sonnet
by Terrance Hayes

We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into smiles.

Now, in order to introduce some deformation, we have several options. We can play word games with a substitution of letters or, as seen below, redactions. Please note that in this case I have chosen to use a monospaced font so that the uniformity of the text is uninterrupted.

We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We sliced the watermelon into _miles.
We sliced the watermelon in__ _miles.
We sliced the water___on __to _miles.
We _lice_ the water___on __to _miles.
We _lice_ ___ water___on ____ _miles.
We _li_e_ ___ water___on ____ _miles.
__ _li_e_ ___ water___on ____ _miles.
__ _li_e_ ___ wa__r___on ____ _miles.
__ _li_e_ ___ wa__r___on ____ _mil_s.
__ ______ ___ wa__r___on ____ _mil_s.
__ ______ ___ wa__r_____ ____ _mil_s.
__ ______ ___ ____r_____ ____ _____s.
__ ______ ___ __________ ____ ______.

While that experiment is similar to the game where you change one letter to make a new word, and therefore, scientifically, fun, I’m not exactly pleased with the cleverness of the results. Unlike Lucier’s song, there is no impartial disruptive force (not destructive, as I’ll explain later) guiding the changes. If we instead resort to a more mechanical phonetic replacement, corruption enters the work.

We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We slyced the watermelon into smlyes.
Oui slyced the outermelon into smlyes.
etc…

There are several different opportunities for corruption in this case that rely on word connections, though they ultimately fail to duplicate the form of “I Am Sitting in a Room”. That song depends on enhancement of diversions rather than surrender to destruction. While coherency is reduced over time, the resonation builds from a small point to a greater point.

We can take impartial associations of each word in “Sonnet” and create layers of meaning on top of the poem. Since the internet gives us the equivalent of monkeys at typewriters, we can use a search engine to elaborate each word with every successive repetition. In this case I have searched for single words from the poem and placed a word appearing near them in twitter search results after the initial word. Hard to explain, but easy to see. Let’s get exponential.

Exponential Sonnet

We sliced the watermelon into smiles.
We can sliced tomatoes the bits watermelons
cucumbers into arse smiles good. We rock can
sleep sliced bread tomatoes growing the song
bits medley watermelons guess cucumbers growing
into magic arse needs smiles need good fights.
We did rock ring can shaggy sleep 4am
sliced new bread starve tomatoes
con-ass growing queer the tower song
my bits exchanged medley on watermelons
rain guess airspray cucumbers garten growing &
into time-wasting magic speaker arse out
needs cameras smiles go need millions good morning fights too.
We hope did Declaration? rock boat ring
or can lay shaggy traffic sleep for 4am && sliced
A+ new chapter bread plastic starve and/or
tomatoes eat con-ass like growing $$$
queer army the Russian tower glaring
song follows my customer bits
I’ve exchanged amigo medley
she on peaches watermelons now
rain finally guess …ok airspray thick
cucumbers hate garten gespannt growing
same & (space) into other time-wasting gone
magic 7-year-old speaker brandnew arse
army out my needs done cameras off smiles
Jane!!! go and need and millions want
good living morning trains fights overcome too many.

…that’s five repetitions. Were I to continue this project for all fourteen lines, we’d have an estimated 25 pages of material without line breaks. What makes this form great is that it allows viral language, the original poem and the writer to enter the work.

Each word gives you dozens of results each with dozens of new words to choose from. Should you choose to completely surrender to the form you can, though I’ve chosen to be particular by adding additional line breaks and choosing words I felt suited the poem.

Strictly speaking, intervention in this cacophony is unnecessary, but as control of size, diction and shape have been seized by other parts of the form, I feel the need to reassert some editorial control.

Nevertheless, there are certain elements and consequences beyond my control. For example, the German language enters the poem and I have no conception of how it works and can only rely on cognates. Had I continued with this experiment, I surely would’ve had to compose whole stanzas in pidgin German. Similarly, repeated phrases converge on the work due to similar word groups, causing unlikely themes (arse army/queer army) to appear.

Yet, I believe this process gets us the results we were looking for. Similar to Lucier’s work, we get uncontrolled cacophonies out of a single phrase that allow us to no longer hear just what was said.

through the tile floor, pivot and his
  displaced stone came up. look at
 the cement grain. where are the pipes?
you can’t see the pipes. you might hear
 the pipes_ how’d we get up on the chrysler
 building? how’d we get this bike up here?
  how’d we get our hands untied?

dead man’s curve ahead, all children
  know it’s time_ dogs to die.

I roll a die across the street

down at this corner when the sidewalk collapses
traces of bleu bruise

their skin was so brown it couldn’t been disease
this must be a higher call
we dispense discounts based on
the hour
of day you walk out of
here

no complaints this place had no cash
I think I forgot my home number
no one wrote statutes that must have been numbered
nobody knows that name

the even day hangs on too long
you can really smell the butter
we do smell and drink our fill
she has a boyfriend, just now.

A   pictureframe
        all mill round
        automatic stop plug
        belt secure, book
        store to body run out

A   mail bomb
        sit on bushes
        this sweet potato
        ask question
        this sweet potato
        push back
        my low

An   insulated cord
        secure clip toward
        breath away take
        secure ground putty
        upheld cup juggle
        move red nail paint RAW
        matching hand RAW

that’s why they laugh we are witty
imagine us with our eyelashes glued
together in prongs– yes we’ve had laser
surgery– yes we wish we had waited
until technically proficient surgeons
perfected living embalmment
just a few hours later

I feel I might as well post these here since they’re works in progress, hopefully that won’t get me in trouble if a journal decides to accept some of this work.

12:41 or 10:33

the fickle dreamed of a night where they could kick tin
boxes covered in orange rust while I watched in my studio
with the window like a church, I’m thinking of a town
where I could plant a lemon tree and make it bleed
out the bitter grapefruits I deserve and I’m thinking
too much about that. as a passerby, he wasn’t much
just long hair and a stuffed jacket– he had rice
in his pockets!

              well, I just stand here and breathe
same as I always do, dogface and paper suit
making sure I don’t know anyone down there
wise as I was, I couldn’t pull apart bricks
but the electric company can, they send their men
and sure they know all the right plugs. they can get
in between our apartments and they do
because at night I hear the old woman they left
behind, banshee. this isn’t a house but I swear
there are words you can’t imagine hiding in the bars
perennially drenched and wearing corsages
looking for prom dates with men in their 30s who
mostly just want to get this over with
before the sun comes up for no reason at all
because not a bird will stay here I don’t care
what you feed him he’s gone, his eyes were black
his bones were hollow and when you find him again
he acts like you’re supposed to know how hard he works
all alone at lunch with a plateful of stuffed grape leaves
pushing back laughter, smiling and never looking up
lets put out a statement together, all men will be tolerated
on this street until the newsstand moved out and the green
coin laundry moves in.

                            tall German letters in gold of course
that make all the other buildings move back, now it’s in
the middle of the goddam road and someone’s cut the pay phone
so that they can sing into it at their leisure of course
we never owned cellphones because the batteries
intimidated us. instead we found out how to make silk
nervous and nude in a windowless room with socks on
plotting and trying to resist the swishing of our big brain
back and forth rocking it back and forth we will never go
to sleep without our glasses because we can’t read

This bothers me. I have a readership here that’s equal to that of most small presses. What’s more, it’s mostly anonymous and there’s no real response or consequence to what I write. So, it really is like a small press.

I want to be published, but obviously, we need to bend the rules a little bit. I’m only putting up “draft work” from now on. My revision process is virtually nonexistent because I’m careful, but we’re going to call everything a “draft” for the sake of maintaining the poetry journal status quo.

Anyway, I’m fairly positive the only common reader in a venn diagram of the Howler and a small journal is going to be me.