the political economy of inaction
is the poem
it rests
confined to open spaces
dense in not being
is the poem
inaction?
confined to open spaces
sense it not being
the poetical economy of inaction
—
by confining yourself to the pure and simple, you will hinder the whole world from struggling with you for show.
Chuang Tzu
the small kali whispers a little death
the orange skin in the morning sows heat the memory of heat & dissolves
this month is not possible as it tires of the motherly yeast, fatherly axe, crumbs of fallen laugh this month is the apogee of a resisting moondance it is weary of the sunstory as fillin for snakehead & wolfshine
the small kali can hear the mancloud tremble
the bronze tint in the morning sows hunger the reason for hunger & dissolves
I-dea – goddess of insight some think it muse
some choice thought
some care less word
I-dea – the flood which brings tooth to tale, blood to moon, hark to riversong
the shimmer of wood as it ashes into pulp
gift of her
sleight of him, the
tangent/radius/age of world
wish to will &
fire not hound not spear
my deep my roar
some think it muse some care less word
the machinery has glottilitis
the machinery cannot spell its name
the machinery reasons, “can this be
what the machinery wants?”
the machinery is want is rank is box is rank-in-box-of-want
the machinery is not possibility
is not about to become impossible on its own
the machinery has glottilitis
is not about to become impossible on its own
this poem is feel
it goes round the absolute and comes out
mud
this
poem is
feel it is naught & unknot at the same time
it is heavy & feline under the same tree
it is less & less the same lie this poem is feel
where the shoots of spring will
bear stone &
river we will forget who to forget
this dance of an egret will
watch over my night my wick of night
the catch of wind snaps us as
being snow
becoming the field of yellowed snow
becoming what yellow used
to be as snow when we talk of
strangeness, the glue and
haste – when
we arrive as trees as brothers & sisters
the glue when the looks are blue & the boys
and girls sit around the tunnel, adrift –
In the simple dumplings of war
the gravy
settles for groove, the master tells
who what when & we play the peace toon,
platoons are dispatched to calm nerves, dis
member from that play
the peace
toon, these simple simple dumplings
of war – we will forget who to forget when
we talk of strangeness, the glue and haste –
i.
I have no truck with the unspeaking door no truck
with pain
that loves the king’s rattle no truck with eyes that
pluck nether
shades no truck with luminescence or gore or the
passing field
where seed is ditched where the pitch of a tired crow
will shriek –
i+1.
Each seat of wear
turns the bread of summer chrome
it is
Level it is bound
to tear the sound of ease is drowned
it is
