All right, here we go
In the Atmosphere, Thoughts of Taryn Let me whisper to you in these narrow Czech streets like the signs say things like "Limbs do not need muscles to dance" Like the man who is talking about airplanes. How you can feel gravity. The way he can't choose between the words "tilt" and the more clinical "incline." Talking, of course, of the miraculous geometry of takeoff, and, of course, the question is useless. Neither one is correct at all. Of this maze of aisles and rows, and the metal tables in front of the cafĂŠs and the way the bricks refuse to only be brown. Signs that say things like "If you have seen the blue horse it is already too late" are peeling off of walls and such. Downward is a very dramatic direction for a city to move in Or an airplane and this makes it so much more exciting than leftward, in a sense.
In the Purple Light Into the fog with the leaves melting upward is not quite so clichĂŠ as one might imagine. Think about how unnatural the purple light, the way it is perfect for the city, the way they are building sideways now new forests and buildings, from the walls of other buildings, and how they are leaving the forests in peace and how it is this peace that is hot when you find yourself, to your mild surprise drowning and keep walking. The people in new forests form their own primitive tribes, try the whole primitive tribe experience with no toothbrushes or anything. They put on a great show of it, in the purple light and all the tourists love it.
There is a billboard that says‌#1
WHY NOT ASK THE TREES For a Discount on Tires?
There is this Fashion #1 There is this fashion model who grows oranges around her neck and gives them to all of the people in the desert. For three years once, she disappeared and returned, proclaiming "I have seen the mountain!" Around her neck a hundred oranges had grown wings had flown away to be with their loved ones for the final days of their lives. She built for the people of the desert a great and wonderful tower, and they all climbed into it and slept and it crawled back into the ground. Millennia later it pops up, at great inconvenience to the subway system of New York City.
There is this Fashion #2 There is this fashion model Of eggs She opens the doors of her. Inside there is a tiny version of the sun, complete with a very small planet, complete with all of the trees arranged so neatly into rectangles and other geometry and there is even a little version of you on there. For only fifteen Euros, you can buy a magnifying glass and watch as he does all of his little tricks, starting with the “get born” and ending with the ever famous “death.” And even in the middle, he does the “have a major epiphany about life” You will always leave the show a little disappointed and unfulfilled, but it is worth it I think because it is such a bargain.
The Hazardous The hazardous nature of train poetry Yes, it is the way letters fall between cracks I am speaking of and long tunnels where there is only concrete and lightbulbs to look at It will be enough to wonder about He-Who-Changes-The-Lightbulbs. About the weather it is impossible to say real words. I am confident clouds have never been described in the context of anthropology. I am confident clouds have never been described. Yes, it is even the weather that is no longer a form of magic. It is even the way the ship is balanced precariously on the neck or on a stack of strange objects. Yes, it is even the sculptor who occasionally cannot bring the clay into being. The clay is a falsehood in cubes. The cubes are brash falsehoods in the face of the yellow air. The clouds today are Zhang Dynasty clouds, I'd say.
There is a billboard that says‌#2
The whole world is a parking lot And I am trying to figure out Exactly what that means
This Wetness There is this wetness that lives in the real world and we build lots of very nice walls inside the shimmering wetness that gives us such nice umbrellas and rooftops. We gather every so often a large pile of thank-you-cards. The wetness moves them with it; it moves in downs and back ups and we build tunnels for the ink and bits of paper and all of the insects that mix together so casually. The and and and
buildings dissolve sometimes go up, looking for a starting line, also the builders go their scaffolding and such
Dachau A man can sculpt pain; Make pain space, or make space pain; Such heavy water inside him. He sculpts himself a sieve A man answers yes to the question of a river, flings into the river the offering Is trampled by the black camel of river Is cut by the white scissors of cold Is drawn from the river Is fire until he is smoke, which goes up with prayer into the sky. I have often heard complaints that my prayers are too crystalline The way a dulcimer hammer can shatter them is music not sin The way I am writing a sieve A metal fork and a metal spoon ring out in midnight. "A thousand people are hungry and even they are singing," I accuse you. Three men complain: It is only scale that gives to tragedy its stickiness
Fairytale (Reprieve) The squirrels and the moles and the deer and all the wonderful little creatures of the woodlands move into the city and have a lovely little gang war, and it is so beautiful; they do it much better than the humans, who stop stabbing each other for a while to watch. Eventually, the city stops moving and they keep going and the air is getting sharper and sharper.
The Pianist A river mountainous, and of sculpture where the pianist of such bright graffiti grows where the beheaded man walks among slugs the pianist of the great lungs of history Yes, such glorious fleurs in bottles and glass cases and porcelain ladies with fleurs for heads who walk around and say hello to each martyr with such poise with such poise as a great pianist of all gardens Yes, where the pianist of such gold lends to the city such texture. The texture of the city of skins. Such massive bell around his neck the pianist whistles and steams away into the sky.
The Piano Tuner The way the piano tuner comes still everyday to a house with no piano and tunes the piano in a house that was not built by anyone The way it is the swans that are your terror The way it is a haunted house in your bones. The way you are a saint when you have no eyes The way you, on the street, attempt to sell your ribs to those almighty and glorious those of lemon those of tour The street is literally a florist. It hands you some roses. Inside the roses are those angry German bees Those German bees of winter that in a blizzard of mint give you something grand and eternal and ultimately useless
The Water Says The water says "my name is lukewarm" It plays the guitar every Wednesday at the corner the eternal search for resonance the tallest echoes in the world are here beneath the newness of it all. A man walks up to you and says I think they want me to talk to you about the scaffolding the great sheets of canvas. I think you maybe need a new building of you. The building of you falls down at really no provocation at all if you think about how numb the universe is to your earthquakes. I can rent you a crane if you need one, and a construction crew.
There is a billboard that says‌#3
Wow I am so pointless and self referential Someone should tear me down And maybe put up an ad for multivitamins or something
In Which the Poet Fails to Convey to the Reader a True Sense of the Almighty Importance of the Subject Matter or In Which the Poet Slashes the Poem to Death with Knives, and Continues to Stab even after it has Bled out and the Clouds do not even Notice Always the question of clouds You have told me about the train wreck You have told me about the winter What were the clouds doing? What were the clouds thinking? I am convinced more and more that clouds are the most important thing. When I am dying, having never become a great artist the clouds will still be there. They are so unbearably large. This is why the divine geometry of airplanes. Your buildings are nothing to clouds. You have told us about the buildings; the spaces between gardens. You have not told me what the clouds think. Airplanes and the occasional mountain are just things that are above a layer of slow, everlasting, boiling, soft milk. A man built a pyramid below the sky. The clouds in wisps barely gathered themselves for the event. A man will die in a desert in a large mound of stone and people will look at the stone and not the man and the slaves who look down at stones have no pyramids. The purple light and the piano music and the way sculpture is holy. But what shade was the sunset? The clouds are laughing at the limited color palettes we use. We could be rid of the color blue and have a white sky. A man sees that the tunnel is closed and still doesn't reach for the breaks and the train goes into the wall and the clouds go gray and loud.
Fin