Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Poetics with the Memory of Snow

You’ve done it
more work
significance of
significant times
and shadow buckets
a weighted sound
“worsted words”
yr. poetics of snow
or moving image
sounds as new vibration
found life in poem
or exactitude
dimensions of Her
being as coordinates
of new minted coins
flakes of pre-dawn
I am of the east in memory
birth world

no disaster
not even towns aflood
but wheels spinning
relations with black ice
epitome, extinct,
edifice of the buildings,
“Ah, wa, Ah wa, give off light”, I wrote
because words appear in dreams
recalcitrance as movie
utterance as belonging
a nation
“Hey, Uh, Nathan”
the old Indian says to John Wayne
“Too late, Nathan”

we go on and on until gone
she hid her poetics
beneath her blouse
in acknowledgment
a pen name
a god awful shame
Sonny Stitt, that’s it,
we’ll buy rhyme,
put it on TV,
archival footage,
I thought you buried the lead
no, maybe a trick ending,
when you said at end
I don’t reveal appraisal figures
of archival work

I am of disappearances
though postcards to Diane di Prima
because of her Beat fame
at UNC
my poetics of Thoreau
learned to swim there
I’m off making a book of years
then gone
Grant Green jazz guitar solo
as I write
Jazz the Cat in lap
Iris at the heater
poetics w/the memory of snow

winter sun
prayers for rain
stars afire, man
a claim
yr. ground

and everywhere knowing
the desert within
he walked, away
there is a place named Death Valley
is there more
to say
(Don’t get cute with me, Mister, the father says on street)
the jazz band breaks into Alexander’s Ragtime Band
literally at end
but not here

“Walk On By”

is next
where has Sonny Stitt
You are at the turnpike
near yr turn-off
in Schenectady
chants, echoes in
solo drivers in California

a sound poetics
of sound
I play ‘Worsted Words”
for my wonderful ex, Caz,
say, he’s legitimized, actualized,
the chants we’ve been singing
for yrs.

lost poems
found songs
belly echo
brain trust
a nation of alabaster

a big poster of a tattoo
3 roses

a poetics

w/a cat in lap before

got yr letter yr poem
just read yr words
& here we hi-hat cymbal
and drum now

--Jack Crimmins
February 8 & February 14, 2011

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