Dieter & I, dirty old men stalking
the Cyclone Sisters. Embryonic certitude/servitude
our forte, all we ask is to be piggybacked through
the next century, hocus-pocus, locus-solace etc.
with an option on gobble (snouts in the trough) lest,
undone by hunger, we abjure Our Every
Accomplishment, such as it/they is/are. Anyway
if our information is correct, that the fix is in it’s just
a matter of the right palliative to do the job: get
those cross-dressers off the street they’re scaring away
the tourists, the only source left, needless to say,
of our revenue (to pay the police, etc.). Is this
the best we can do – off the streets with nowhere to go?
Some decorum please. Why not hire a Santa, each miss
in his lap for two minutes (behave yourselves) & sent off
with a ticket to ride. Who cares where – Salamanca,
Lusaka… Going my way? Yes, obviously, why else
would I hoist this fag (this in reference to a ride I took –
hitchhiking – with a man who kept asking me to feel
his thigh, which, as it turned out, was made of wood,
artificial, lost in a war). Dress rehearsal for
the niche we’ll occupy when they’re done with us,
crammed in with some obscure saint Excuse me
can I borrow your halo I’m trying to impress
the girl next door, Jane, who I once saw naked
in her bedroom window (but, alas, only once, that
performance never repeated). If she isn’t dead
she’s a grandmother now. Is it time to strike up the band? –
When the saints come marching in. Is it time
(you might well ask) to stuff suppositories
in our ears? Depends, Deiter, if we’re talking
tragedy or farce, & by the way what’s
your favorite flic & don’t say Before Night Falls
because it won’t wash, it won’t do for our forthcoming
anointment by His Holiness Gustave the Good (who,
by the way, got off with a slap of the wrist). You want
I should buy you a new freak? – Belinda past
her use-by date & what with the GBS (Giddy-up
Boy Wonder) factor in play now we’ll never be taken
for your average working Joes. Too bad, it
was just beginning to get interesting, the known sleaze
isolated from the not-known it could with some
justification have been said (finally) that cranberry tithes
were never meant for the likes of us.
without your imagined prescience
the unlocked gate claps in the wind.
in a universe emptied of meaning
Suns collide against the iron walls of time.
how the storm beats the roof,
cars creep by – wombats in the mist.
each month i have lost a friend,
this is the time of winnowing.
above the clouds i conjure my harvest -
the light, the darkness & the stars.
to a riff of stand by your man a bright red can
rolls down the glaring concrete.
council guy in a yellow fluoro jacket
chops the air as he talks in Arabic to his empty hand.
a woman in thongs wheels a wobbly pram,
“you want my wife?” her man snarls in my face.
dripping with sweat & coca cola,
our failing bodies are not enough.
beyond the road, love’s old sweet song as sparrows
feed on the sweat of an ancient tree.
the name of God is inadequate
unless we understand her manifest wit.
two dozen butts rise in the breeze in perfect time
as automatic doors slide open.
he opens an album of the farm.
his life is sepia & it glows.
sand builds & smears the lens,
he feels it hard along his veins.
where are those Clydesdales now?
they took them to that war.
he is there, not here
because there is warm & sun.
singing nurse swings open the door,
a steel bedpan draped in a towel.
IS THIS THE WAY ?
Born as phantom dawn seeped thru eastern sky.
Destined to go west where glowing plush golden
purple crimson sunsets fill the sky.
God’s favourite colours.
Breathe ! SLAP !
Life greeted me with a whack on the bum.
A sign of times to come.
Is this the way ?
Breathe in. Death. Breathe out. Death. Breathe in.
On-going Death broken by small breaths
Is that all there is then ?
Is this the way ?
There’s a new blue sky clumps of trees a lush-green savannah
a slow-flowing river misty hills in the distance.
Is this the way ?
No charts. No signposts. No paths.
We can’t get lost if we don’t know where we’re going.
Never standing still.
Hold my hand Bear as we walk towards
that wall of darkness slowly rolling down the hill.
“The map is not the territory.”
I’ll keep breathing if you will.
Sleep in deep peace
Daddy has our backs as we weave our way
thru the Dreamtime’s many subtle tones
& layers of soft black.
until all merge together.
Earth Moon Sun Space-Time
converge as one.
— Well that’s that. Bad luck if you missed it.
Only get one of those in life.
— Might as well go home.
(pastpresentfuture all squashedtogether into Now).
—Yeah. Suddenly very chilly.
Below the horizon huge hills of ice advance).
Home where all is part of Buddha.
Equally to be loved.
Being Human is part of Buddha.
Equally to be loved.*
*see Kerouac’s “The Dharma Bums”.
Where has my country gone, rolled over
lost in flight, downed like a shot Jabiru.
In the far flung towns, named after so many founders
weeping nights ring cold stones, the old chorus
hums in a dirge of forgotten languages, songs that made
poems into beings that walked taller than the old world.
All the slavish bluestone, dug out and moulded
by broken hands transported in a captive trance
hearts rendering anxious lilts of strength
above the beating arterial basins of underpinning webs,
of tribal places turned to graveyards;
beneath a sky of chained legends, shining points
invest the shallows, picking out each obeisance
reaching for the ticket of leave
from the searing breath within the labyrinth.
Lo dice el medio, el lenguaje. Pero
no solo el lenguaje. Menos
lenguaje del medio: este
jueves 13, a las 18.30 hrs.
el fundador del grupo de los
LANGUAGE poets, Charles
Bernstein, realizará la conferencia
“El campo expandido del
L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E” [sic]. Previa
a cargo del traductor Enrique
Winter. (Azar de fronteras des-
tinaciones suscribe, subraya, inter-
viene mismo día, misma hora, bailando
Waylla Wisa en ferias libres de Arica).
El campo expandido del L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E
traduce como intraduce (ex-
pande) The Expanded Field of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,
arqueo donde Bernstein se las ha
con el ¿inesquivable? fantasma
de la deconstrucción in itself – fuera
lo que fuera. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,
parche antes de la herida, previendo
a la susodicha, deniega a ratos y estratos, en-
simisma. À la lettre: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E
not deconstruction as
and end in itself [¿…?] but
reconstruction, emplacement, ex-
p-a-n-s-i-o-n & Ach die Kunst. Sino
e indicio, dicha, cómo (como) no, de Erín
Moure, de lo inmemncioable (G. O’Brien):
yseopoenen, demasiado otodo o nuda
sconstrucció de mucho mayor
que formasespecifi9s de la instalacde — à suivre
Cuanto a Waylla Wisa, piedradiente lengua
mengua en Arica: imaynatataq watusun-
chik ¿cómo vamos a traslucir)(kay watuy
lo imposible (mana atinata) de traslucir?
[ Arica, 10.11]