Medium Logic Machines
and some poems from Sevens
The machine called the electorate is counted, found wanting. By fall, things are no longer tucked away. Mostly, the new version of the Trojan War would use young guys. No post-prime, no blowhard. No Charlton Heston held together (or is it displayed?) in leather straps.
The ludicrous. Can we leave at Intermission? Find a life far from programs, somewhere on the shaded edge we disappear. Though certainly we will miss the release of balloons, yet we are no longer prominent. It’s not a crisp contradiction to say: naked eye observation has an error rate we rely on when we need to ‘see it to believe it.’ Furthermore, this exists happily beside cameras.
It can creep up on you.
They asked about emotion in the script. Are they chickens? Eggs? Does cultural patterning make greed less absolute, less glandular? Robert Coles wrote about Hopi children. Although Buddhists aren’t necessarily Freudians, a triangle, in a pinch, can be used as a crude wheel. There you have it: the mystery-to-explanation ratio contemporaneous with aggression. Food and sex. Doubt and acoustics. How one comes to see one’s family members as preposterous.
The televised talk explored how cities’ structures derive from childhood desire for emotional amenities parents fail to provide. The boulevard, tunnel, promontory, etc. Worn crust of asphalt, crumbled edge are not elegant insights on passage, nor are confined examples authored by prescient planners overly attached to decay. Doubtful that it all comes down to grid vs. rotary array was the ‘take away’ in our post-chariot memoryscape without a sound track.
That she held her hands steering-wheel style was part of it. That mime is the quicker form of pantomime was part of it. That material conditions weren’t ample was part of it. By hand, gathering and banding hair — ponytail genre. How language makes this appear notably when there is little to see. What formerly went by ‘descent of man’ and ‘his uterus.’ Excess of application.
This all along edges.
But thank you to everyone for all the help, time you each gave, to one who provided lunch and concern for this poetry, to those actors with spotty employment mixed with underpaid ‘in-fill’ jobs, to my man, his gift for location, domus, domicile, to loosely configured communities that have, at times, overlapped — your multiple gifts, enthusiasms, durable projects, and fleet pleasures.
How in late life, some men play-act cowboy, sheriff, showdown in stylized ways here in rural areas more dependent on imported cars and stargazing apps than calico ponies and lariats. Nor are women immune to theatre. This can, and has, veered toward deadly violence, so taken are those few with neckerchief style and a loyal dog’s pride. Can they roll and land with both hands clasping the pistol? Can they read blazes on trees and eschew GPS? Technology such as the Western somehow advances antiquated skill and multi-generational feuds, here, post 9-11.
By middle age, a person comes to recognize — up ahead — alternating manifestations of glee and sorrow of advanced age. Both express: ‘Look at what I’ve gotten away with again …’ Where precision twists exquisitely, clownishly, now a tortured equivalence: glee and sorrow.
In all these years I’ve used the word ‘equanimity’ in only one student’s letter of recommendation. When a young person has a damaged youth, they say: find a store window, follow its pattern as a theatre of war.
A popular approach. New school of easy to discern.
Ironically, here, right now, these mid-morning clear, quiet forested ridges that go all the way out to penultimate and ultimate ridges in the distance are what I see when I’m not here, not writing about something somewhere else. A person told me it’s called roots, or maybe having them. This said on the sidewalk near that slanting stretch of sidewalk skateboarders claim for daily prayer achieving holy heights a block from my building. Over and over. When I think about Santa Fe Avenue here in the Piute Mountains, I see one young guy squatting low on his board to prepare for lift-off beside another already elongated. Hear the rolling, clatter, call.
If the art-to-labor ratio is puzzling and has evoked a maudlin collection of social work projects, then we have not advanced our bipedalism. Yet to say we are what we’re born with is not satisfying either. Hearing this just now sounds wrong or incomplete. Is it poorly framed because one thousand and one perforations from which energy escapes have been ignored?
some poems from Sevens
1. we smelled of fish — an attraction
2. two versions: one might staunch
3. by then, we saw the flag
4. in theory: they either produce
armor or proliferate
5. flows, alluvial spread, Trinket
6. alone with his nits: depiction
of menace at sea
7. Ai Weiwei at Alcatraz
1. two of two
2. after a white cop threw down
the teenaged girl in a bikini
3. copies precede narrated copies
4. they discussed partial
5. everyone in discomfort; therefore,
a ‘total’ term is accurate
6. one sub-part of intention is
7. who will bring them into line?
1. a .45-calibre pistol for his birthday
2. currently we live under
the ‘family regime’
3. Where else can we site sugar?
4. originator or progenitor?
5. value of wild bee pollination
in UK: £ billion per year
6. if a body meet a body
7. will they know long-hand?
1. in dance vocabulary: more
Merce Cunningham, less Judson
2. hard to discuss ‘Light’ after
yesterday’s mass shooting
3. pastor, senator, friend of president
4. they flipped critical inquiry
to an exercise in group loyalty
5. how would a Native American
audience respond to this?
6. in terms of Reagan-era nostalgia
7. does this align Odysseus
1. unclear: does ‘no’ to austerity
mean leaving for Good?
2. can’t live in clay vessels,
3. it crumbles; a tooth is pulled
4. Dog philosophy or
5. mortal coil, that other
6. grace, that other state
7. a Sunday kind of love