The manuscript's subject position is sky color and nerve damage loop flare and site
specific unmolding. Names in the scholarly etymological box set and the automatized
present subjunctive. The outmoded lamentation technique, its pyre and the pyre's
liminal hinge over watermarked grief. It's 18% shy of monograph length. Corporate
holdings move through the poet's capillaries in the unnamed chemical underwriting
of subject. Charles Gabel will market himself as a literary scholar, complete with
bibliography, fellowships, etc. The university will offer a minimum five years of
financial support.
Vocabulary clippings sort their grammar, their liminal and bright shepherd apparatus.
Coded adornments fall as fragments, and perception addresses their commodity.
Transhumance is the practice of moving livestock from pasture to pasture according
to seasonal change. Arcadian seasons, however, are static, so shepherds may sing
instead of labor. Commodity moves through its subject and its subject's muscles.
The subject's muscles ache from nonlinguistic application. The poet's profit modes
bubble throughout.
Maggots begin the dead poems in the road. Each mammal splits, a component ritual.
The engine's rite turns, solar and exact. Everything is touchable. The poem's sudden
membrane and the fully felt horizon against my hands and my hands. The flappy
vocabulary among its million suns. O chariot! O chariot! Relinquish your cold
traveler to the earth. The precedent of subject delays the horizon. Gentle reader:
imagine the subjunctive of paradise. Okay. Then tell me: can you feel it? No.
The organism tests its skin sac, its infected tissue of economy. My Vocabulary Did This
to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer costs $39.95 (hardcover) or $27.95 (paperback).
"Read more," Pound perhaps says to Charles Gabel. So: all night in the library.
Prescription amphetamines accelerate in Sapphic meter. The citation's vernacular
blooms fully armed. "No, I didn't grade your papers." Substance projects our
speaker into his subjunctive potential. In 2011 C.E. the graduate student Charles
Gabel vomits Adderall and Evan Williams Bourbon into the Neurolux toilet. "I need
to quit drinking," he says. "I need to quit poetry and get better student evaluations."
It's 1965 C.E. and Jack Spicer has died. It's circa 570 B.C.E. and Sappho has died.
It's 1986 C.E. and Jorge Luis Borges has died; Charles Gabel is born by cesarean
section, a wailing organism. The organism develops the sudden paralysis of text,
terrible and bibliographic. The organism wails without meter, participating in an
outmoded genre with a small but dedicated audience.
The poet says Charles Gabel. The poet says Charles Gabel, but he remains inert. The
nerve bundle cannot wail in this context, but the lucky hymn may spike investment.
"Patronage isn't dead," the poet perhaps says to Charles Gabel, etc. O dearest,
gentlest editors! Yeah? The attached poems are from a long sequence titled Oracular
Organism. [no reply] Might I divest several facts about the organism? Okay. The
organism suffers from severe redaction of consciousness. The organism's finite
borders (its skin sac) enact consistent erotic crisis. The organism's credit card
accumulates interest at a rate of 26.99% annually. The organism is a liar. The
organism is a symptom, terrible and bibliographic. The organism's data is collapse.
The sun's vascular squall, refraction throughout the organism's tissue, paginated and
loving. Charles Gabel's lovely doubling, too gentle a structure to maintain. Pupils
constrict in reaction to the page's brightness, the bored plaster plain. Each poem is
not a mammal exactly, a literalist constriction, perforating each of Charles Gabel's
muscle fibers in the savage abandonment of pentameter. On this account, paradise
and other distant heats remain silent as scholarly apparati designed to interpret the
organism's longing as its own internal lack. On this account, let no beloved be
named here, for I cannot write the valence of a body next to mine in spring.
The literary instance is subject to market demands–the further perfect of economy,
where aphorism cannot appreciate. What's your name? The organism pronounces,
but its tongue's muscles catch against its teeth, inflamed from misuse. Pronounce
again, organism! Speak your unvision, your nerve bundle oration. Instead, the
organism writes the word capital. Letters catch, muscles inflamed from misuse. Again:
Capital. Again: Capital. Capital. Capital. This time a dead thing in the road, the swollen
manuscript over and over and over. It's 1986 and I was Jorge. It's 2016 and I was
Charles. Jack. Carlos. An unimaged collaboration of tissue and other nouns.
Pronounce again. You are literary example without metaphor or intention.
The poem's membrane abstracts deliberately from loving forms. Parallel tissues
scaffold poetic command. Parallel tissues form a precedent of stimulation, and warm
static ensconces content speaking rhythms reverberate through tissue throughout.
The dreamer's name bleeds as vocabulary. Approaching reflection, the lyre's iris
disappears in dilation. The radio cures its spells between us, a replete and exhumed
music, not touching exactly. Text touching human skin composed of beautiful cells is
only available as potential. I'm sorry. I've failed. Forgive me this linguistic
hypertrophy. Forgive me this modernist savagery, but antiquity is over; my poems
are no longer loving acts.
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