You, my man,
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.
We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
Two smoky dogs tracking boots in drizzle, shining from sight, playing by stacks of storm windows in restless composure translators can’t reach.
Now where are they?
The wetlands are working this through. (And there’s a new plot — those words we had and didn’t have were consequences. The milieu has been bad. Bad is good, since we know enmeshed values constitute our pit bullhood.)
But I take no liberties writing you now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range sunlight in the clerestory to our lair… Some of us are going there after work. Would you like to come?
When is as soon as today? How do I say please, John? Circumstances say it.
Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might tomorrow’s flow of ideas be so boldly hidden ..
Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a contraption.
That’s what we say to get “thrown in.” (I remember it starts with poetry students making “circumstances” up.) Welcome, nowhere else!
Where can we enjoy sobriety, the doo (implicative space), beautiful, well pronounced! Does it matter I’m thinking of contradictions until women rule and we go kitty up, so flaming kitty to have nothing retro, rolling figure / ground tension into many feminisms, using little or no math.
It’s ideal. Invite someone missed, John, sing more to wade out above what’s sung
Wade out above the beautiful, well pronounced.
That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :
The more we wade contradictions
Feminisms are re-reading us in fully sensory hellcat wrath.
A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a decent reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects; snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she’s reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn of opinion acclimatization, hardly superfluous.
The signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, nonprofit cultural construction, corporate performance theory and the like.
Thinking more decentrally: A brazen writer like Nicole Brossard distinguishes herself taming her otherness and the other-directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.
You don’t want her festivity so much as your investigation into her iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore alarm and vacuity anyone else had previously not known. How does she know? How does she improvise? What timing(s)? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.
on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie
[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]
The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for me and anyone who wants and takes enjoyment with no palpable fear of falling.
While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one entry for empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as beginning to appreciate Brossard’s command of what is suggested here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in the present.