Issue 122, Spring 1992
At the left, the ax; at the right, the saw.
The ax in the block, the saw on the sawhorse.
Sawdust smothers the walk. Sitting in the
shed to watch the rain come down. Some opposition
before the whole picture dissolves into nothingness.
Threatened later by the willingness to believe
it there. Reading time in the shed, rhythmic
fall of the ax in the block. Several things:
teeth of the saw pressed into the palm, the
string you twist by rotating the lathe, the piercing
blue teeth. Capable of taking off in plain view,
behind the dirty panes, the pylon and its supports,
big field of potatoes, by succeeding fragments,
by counterweights, the voice, the place, the
vibrations, dilution, clockwise.
Berenice, Betelgeuse, Belibaste, fine-looking
names on the page, for no reason known to
me. Fall from high, lines, worthless, without
making us believe in them, they sustain us,
they negate us. Nerve, skin, guts, bulb, lobes.
Depending upon movement and multiplication
Words displaced by the eyes and the hand,
exposed, taken back. Civil acts, and colossal.
Illumination, cracks. Coitus has its advantages.
Whatever ground is gained, is gained to the
extent death approaches. Whatever is gained
is little. Nothing separates as much. It remains
to speak of the real. The real stinks, like the rest.