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Going places.

So where, how I mean, is my time in a play room by a foodmaker syntax processor where I can write as I speak in my variety? Happy in my voice in my room. The problem of "point-of-view" is as nothing compared to the pleasure taken and given by this maker. Ah that's me that. Stride on in yer pied duty. Keep your head in your nest. Or leap before you've looked and see yourself on your way. As it were. Fall out. Fly about. Your flying's a shout or whoosh of a whisper. Not so as to know where you're going. Or should you? When in doubt don't stop. Austerity's a poor choice. Prolixity too? Any move could be a between: the good of critical looking suffers. You need the fat of the syntax's lengthy generations. Austere ascetic ecstatic William Butler said poem's to be. At least it's not the sham of thinking you can jump out of your own condition. In voice we trust. As if some other's out there. Other's you? Where's out. In a room one isn't in for the moment? There there now. Are you me, infamous "you," mirroring.? I mean, mirror. All the endless tottering talk about absence, other, absent other, foregrounding; show me that old Zensickness where everything's empty. And you the discoverer punk Columbus unknowingly on the lookout for natives to eat. If you could only stop the rockdrill imposition of lovewisdom. Socratesnostalgia. After sixteen years of meditation what remains in cogitation are the poundages of woodsmoke, citron on the tongue, warblercheep, fingering the rasp, peering redbirds. You'll never know how you get from those to the wedgeforms and the sounded pictures. Go on. Punctuate in phrases' graces. Let the other come into the caret or the coma, comma, space, pause, bear's lair. Don't look back; it's gaining on ya. If the writing's pain abstain. For a bit--till time change your humidity. All work's wet neither austere nor ecstatic, just as a wait to mirror out there might even work like a syntax. If all pleasure. Neither bad nor good this old world. World, just. But as from an inversion, invasion a blow from some outside as though. What's the season? When I was young I dreamed any name every name. Dream of the magic mother void; not ready to say No, but willing. Whatever turned still was itself. Waterstone. I was to be called by the secret name I'd recognize. It's later. Tryst like mist; separate to stand. Now? What? Who do you know who goes? What's that?
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Author:Schwerner, Armand
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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