Tuesday, December 27, 2011

from DOUBT (1994-1995) || Jim Leftwich

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Thought outside of writing renews the temporality of the fragment in the context of a fragmentary unspecific. The original broadcast of ruin, assertive and sentimental, that poem convinced by precocious advent of entry, heaven’s poetic innocence, severed his death, his apotropaic grief, another death-by-elegy, but distracted first, fragmentary negotiable remembrance of supportive arguments, whether the story does or does not posit a place to be. Distorted by eloquent allusions, neither inimical nor dramatic, can be a nurse of number, miles of mind. The unrehearsed remains a fence so long as it sorts select astonishments with diverse locutions. If becoming a great poet required praise, the ninth drum, or cannon loin, a fortunate and obscure transaction might abuse the cities with awe, great singing in the headquarters of the world. And even if before my country I didn’t loiter in her, she offered this day the seeding of an overt propriety of night, that should be great if whose soul every palaces, by latent fountains, the infinite out to his ambush, and force him without original untraceable immersions, his malleable but inevitable retiring to non-existent concatenation.
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Within this peg of time the early is the never. She fused a mural realism from language hasps, work grown in being what lingers in concentration as poetry. In this renegade essay her torsion is interred. The window of myth remains closed. Like gaseous fenestration, as painting is a poem, arbitration amuses. Was the written as the work drawn most recently from air we’ve had as creative languor? The poem succeeds the immanent wing. Others torque style into surface, as a poet labors poetics only in freeing a new persistence from suggestions of expression. The startling intrusion of ghosts’ internal poetic culture rescinds the ghost’s own occurrence, now radically erased and elemental. A cold colonial mode increases her, back to her connivance of a world. Poetry is played in oracular time. The axiom of the present is a mutation which the poet emblems formally into extremes. That has been excavated and made that, formed into a sanatorium compounded by twin artists of the class developed, school the same fully autistic drawn upon the tension compacted as the carom of sympathy, this a poetic deliberation of experience, or the rose. Fictional hands. Idling with observations first is the historical poet, a century woven medieval fondly, heretical from embodied and ingrained as such, violence of the basic expanse and parcel of nobility. Closed reactions achieve experience seen as white space as if within. Immixed visions imagined the dormant space of a gestural language, coiled mesh of sense reflective on that concrete wing, within work’s wine if composition endowed with allocation, mobile spelling, a fading of the picture, ghost magazines and cited absolutions. Rhythmic voids. Selected by her art, subjective onus fulfills her library, a seizure of time as turned in a unifying focus, background that offers no absolute doubt. As a way of reading tormented before former antics of an errant canon, it takes hands bearing with a habitual poetic of patience seen in transparent law. Reason twirls the singing. The century of our heretical sieve organized the poem as a place for poet’s words. A situation apart from feeling, the handling of formal intrinsics, as one object in its place. Overgrown with flourishing, the extreme cheats us, used as an invention of very immense, a tonality of as. Of the flagrant disparity of poets in their fantasy of the fantastic child, words never compute the equation of such grief. There, in the couple overwhelmed by motion, conditioned meaning tools all eloquence to the authorship of temptation. The banner of being itself, being is the banishment of armor as such, an amor languaged into form, to be read as an “I shall”. Praise etched them only in praise. Now the woven into a peacock one says of innocence. I pulse rapaciousness to make the magnanimous pitiful in wonderful emergence. Let history be transformed by appalling and ancient rantings, or by a personal grotesqueness lying upon history’s presence, the shapeless perusal of mind unimagined, striate, shimmering on the brink of animation. One another unveils if pictures resemble discernible sky, recognize the mobility of our world, subject composed of manufactured paintings. The end waits as resonance specifically rathe. The conventional dialect of simultaneous readings receives its mobility from the array of improper names. Masks in escrow erratic as what furnitures the world with sound. Strings float images are heretical views of artifice. An observation of the air can magically when subjected to recognition. Imposed then fabulous, fable of the poet, this I mired in poems, rose as a gerund of nervous seeking. For it sings the woven sound opens like avenues reaching a second breach. Which one sings even as ear is subject to cathected theories of inseparable instruction, constitutive of the world as poetry.
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