Dans le cas de cette pomme de terre, même si on trouve des tranches de moi au cours de vos opus,
sacrément tout sans blague c’est
(a) impressionnant! Le patineur est soi-disant sur une échelle pour « blather » ou des étoiles, peu importe ..
(b) mais lâchement, je ne suis presque gêné, je ne me soucie guère la façon dont le poète est formulée, est parlé de comme un outil pour juxtaposition, parataxe, tintement ..
(z) .. encore pourrions-nous sauter quelques couches, ainsi en quelques secondes ou pas, prêt ou pas, allions-nous patiner?
Cry of a coach potato!
In the case of this potato, to find slices of me over your opus,
(a) awesome, it’s soi-disant on a blather scale for
(b) I’m hardly embarrassed, hardly concerned how the poet is framed a tool of parataxis.. juxtaposition.. tinnitus ..
(z) still.. let’s skip a few layers, ready?
Amazing to touch your funky penumbra, feel influenced by needlepoint and other class resentments.
I was pleased we communicated thru inky musculature evoking nighttime.
Soiled oceans rewild deserts.
Yet all your props are value contingent.
Tease near misses out of what both account numbers mean. Stipulate minutes and routines to
withhold and then spill meanings like the beans of process they are. Discuss cut-off points where procedures
turn into habits (fewer fictional components in less stiff, larger gnomic atmospheres bringing accoutrements to fade-to-white, and definitions of all this). Take care, and take your time;
likewise, inspire small talk between you
while keeping everything under surveillance. You look good together.
We were wondering about the invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also the director — one of them.
Often that’s a normal if baritone and determinative section to sing.
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is cut back. Swimming
To there uproots the light series, exalted and then stiffened into sympathetic parody..
Reminding us of not a few contingencies we picked up from a tray
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.
Text sections like acts of omission are presorted,
Now section where are we un, um? If that’s everything, we’ll switch to average cute guys punching as it were my clock. And minutes after a comedia collects. These were the zaniest jokes, the baldest. I don’t remember laughing much. You too? Ever. And I can’t recall being as irreplaceable as you are now.
In Breezeway John Ashbery slices up a modernist illustration through and thru (“Gimme a break / No I don’t feel used”). He makes it look easy to be clean, sleek, obtuse.
Also deeply comedic. Let’s call some “gaga experiments” a crown of ruses. When you conclude Whatever... in 2015 you may not be kidding but we’ll take note of the use-by date. Other satirical belatedness: OMG; The past / loves you, baby; Gold Dust; neat-o; Howdy-Doody; Do I wake or sleep.
Almost a dozen poems end in parentheses or ellipses! it seems.
The letters b-r-e-e-z-e appear on nearly every page, frequently in that order.
Lassitude — don’t worry about it (“I used to sing a song”) —
Results from programmed abundance (“I’ve done five of that”). That’s it. A headache means at least a dozen things, socially (“Throw the book at him”).
John demonstrates a freak’s mastery of techniques that cut into what you might imagine he contains.
For five lines he throws ‘whatever’ our way, Mr Coffee Nerves / Help me with this / the price of eggs / Etc...
Then in a central quatrain from “The Price of Eggs”:
Who was that plant from?
She, somewhat evaporated... Would I laugh?
You are not to be concerned about fish.
Extreme ants polished our definition.
“The Price of Eggs” is almost a sonnet in breadth and length (and if the penultimate and antepenultimate lines were indented, it’s a sonnet). In the stanza cited we get a glimpse or more a flicker of “She [who] somewhat evaporated,” renamed a “fish” polished off by eusocial insects. We learn she was caught up in a “hooded phase, a second ago” and “may have broken loose” — but that’s all we get. We hope she made it to another side of her future or past, either way cut into, here, by five more lines that seem deliberately down low among the treatises / work / dandies, a princess, / buggers / dry goods sold.
Dry goods. Our narrator is playful as nettles. Besides, he’s always letting us in on the whole fabulous joke. My favorite title: “Gravy for the Prisoners.” Favorite consecutive titles: “Homeschooled” and “The Sponge of Sleep”; runners-up: “The Undefinable Journey” and “The Pie District.”
Reading Breezeway as embedded satire about the wars, also as antidote to the ‘why read when you can sum it up in a sentence’ calculus. You know what I think is speaking?
An absorbed being looks at currents past and present, reflects, has a fever and does everything for humor. Breezeway shows the poet, “finally he wrote the day,” sneaking in one or two notes of the gallows persuasion.
The no-shortcuts stance is maintained and being of many persuasions is how we go on alert driving home and choosing “by dint of occupying it.”
Losing friends from mid century, modernist tastes, music, conversation is no joke. Correction, our inferiority is. Illustration one
: It’s mostly useful to stay in the conceptual, unfinished era