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Sunday, June 3, 2012

from DISFIGURED FILES

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There is a happiness in the citation, the calling out
the blossom of what remains from musics never present,
like all musics. To invite them back into a new room            
bleats its tribute, then grows soft, bells of finding            
together scored islands, loves flustering wide avenues,                
a great party of song, their funny hats, we wear
one too. Animals carry notable arrivals at a remembered
pace. You can tell them by the edges left to spare—they
are shores some see, opening an eye and closing
an eve, pouring in masses from the hall undrawn
a well, be it well. A lot of our associates are wondering            
what will become of the fine norms—I sat in
the lot. I recall, and came across you on the upper
prairie of a picture. The tab pulls to mark a green sign,
to unveil here, where memory opens onto newcomers,
a code to flood each shape of who I am in touching heat
on a bus that stops to start, carefully kept to meet
and thrive, to sell off those needless eyes. Needles sew
a route on skies that change and tell planes how
they came in glass to soft and icy blue to rhyme.

Mismanaging the macaroons in the august testicles
of her father, or in Broca's Area, where neoteny
comes in with the news, casters in the waters leave
their names to little fish they made extinct. I brake
at the very least of these contraries spanning the comma
and then this, life is refusing equilibrium, so any daily practice
must orchestrate at least three, which very well may be
the form seen, the form as order & scale of meaning,
and that which comes to light between them, trembling
in its refusal to persist.  Just in time and only then
is when they learn to cross the land bridge into Asia or
they must build in themselves a time not theirs, that
they may be selves in a world between—on the bridge.
He listens in with a stethoscope as a gift (certificate) expands.

An almost symbolic behind each impulse grazed a limb
roping through the room, the little circles under
trees, dull twists the kelp and eats his insides
out. How do I talk. I do not know. You can't
learn if you hear the end before. Poetry as a way
to live, the whole makes it hard to read the paper,
I still say "the," well it still is.  One nut hatch in its
odd climb among the chickadees has seen the tire
some poem increasing, the thick of beauty-grease
"gives glister" to the (b)right lie. but ought. bought. . it.  .   
in fact. . Fuck
absolutely, all you ever do, think, feel that's anything to do
with respect for money and assumption of healthy desire
for property. Ok, purification complete. "Now that slavery
in this full-blown capitalism exists only as a metaphor
the slave owners want us to imagine we want to own
slaves." These messages come from the actual
conditions of them.

Nothing intrinsic to the form—you gotta know how
to fold it. Never stop the sentence here. "And the world
concerns you everywhere, but do not identify," meaning
obviously meaning does not filter through mere
reproduction, collage implies responsibility, not
just quotes, or pictures of cocky rockets in competition
with antithetical empires whose bare-ass existence
was only in meaning, barely filtered by traces that say,
"an artist was here." Implies response. Think lightning
through mud—the bill for weak electric signs layered
with motion, coordinated about a child's ear, the sea
increases, thought's limit drowns.  These messages, um,
come from the actual conditions of them.  We are here
concerned with nameless languages, issuing from matter.  
Our works, unlike investment, produce meaningful relations,
yet we have in common our inability to see a flower except
by first transplanting it into that interior garden in which
we are obliged to remain. Yet our seeing it speciates, a break
between work and world.  When he says "amusing," puke
on the cocktail in his socks.



Andy Gricevich lives in Madison, where he's edited CANNOT EXIST magazine since 2007, printing disorienting poetry from all over in appealingly constructed little print volumes, with a focus on political and philosophical issues. He and Lewis Freedman publish the Cannot Exist chapbook series and run the _______-Shaped Reading Series. His own chapbook, A BOOK OF MUSIC, recently escaped from Minutes Books. Andy has spent a lot of time as a satirical cabaret singer, chamber musician, and performer of strange original theater. He is uncomfortably writing this in the third person.