198. *:*::*:::*::*:*
:
:nto the even:ng
snowflakes full of l:ght
w:nter :nsects
:nto the even:ng of
snowflakes full of l:ght
& w:ngless fly:ng
snowflakes full :n fl:ght
: am :n the even:ng
be:ng snowfall :nsect
:n the n:ght
::
Something about Ohio (not the place, just the word) makes me think that it is both the center and the very edges of everything, or that it should be, so it makes sense to’ve met there, and to meet in the center of something, in the center of all those people interested in making sounds and shapes and sense into art, into poetry, into a semblance of the human act of being, the act of being something more than a simple eating, breathing, and defecating self, the act of exceeding bounds.
:::
n• ^n•w
but the pr•m:^e of ^n•w
n:ght :n the ^hape of ^n•w
& ^n•w fall:ing in the ^hape
•f n:ght ^hattered :nt• p:ece^
:v
Tom Beckett is right: “Sometimes you meet people when you’re ready to meet them.” And sometimes you don’t. We live in a sequence, but not within a purpose. The structure of reality is arbitrary and variegated, lovely in its disorder, surprising in its order.
v
^n•w a^ ^sand
acr•^^ +h" gr•und
a^ du^+ a^ ach:ng
f•r a ^"n^" •f ^+ab:/:+y
v:
We are of the body, so we use the body. We must perform our poems because we must claim them as our blood and bone. The sinew of sense runs through these poems and holds them together. And since they are objects of the body, they are controlled by the awkward inconsistencies of the human. When I sang, yellow shirt open, wearing white pants, I became slightly self-conscious, enough so that I stopped my song a little early, suspecting that people walking towards the performance (which was, after all, in a library) were coming to shut down my singing. What I didn’t realize was that they were coming to listen. I didn’t avoid those members of the audience, those on the periphery who had become the center of my attention. Instead, I walked towards them, through them, back out into the library and away from the performance space. I did that because I never ask for applause. I merely return to the audience and stop performing, returning to my self, which I had never left.
v::
^n•w *^ w•rd^
^n•w d:^*pp"*r:ng :nt•
w•rd^ ^n•w d:^*pp"*r:ng
:nt• ^"~^"
v:::
We sing songs without words because there is some music in that, some sense in that, some emotion, evidence, in the end, of the human spirit. Because it is beautiful, or surprising, or disturbing. But it seems to me that we should learn spishing so we can extend the realm of our singing—and so we can extend the realm of our audience to birds.
:x
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ≈•»∂^
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^""=:π¶
x
Even I would say that a dead cormorant upon a wheelchair ramp in the middle of a large urban university campus is a strange sight. Things are always falling from the sky: birds, snow, words.
x:
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
:nto the even:ng
snowflakes full of l:ght
w:nter :nsects
:nto the even:ng of
snowflakes full of l:ght
& w:ngless fly:ng
snowflakes full :n fl:ght
: am :n the even:ng
be:ng snowfall :nsect
:n the n:ght
::
Something about Ohio (not the place, just the word) makes me think that it is both the center and the very edges of everything, or that it should be, so it makes sense to’ve met there, and to meet in the center of something, in the center of all those people interested in making sounds and shapes and sense into art, into poetry, into a semblance of the human act of being, the act of being something more than a simple eating, breathing, and defecating self, the act of exceeding bounds.
:::
n• ^n•w
but the pr•m:^e of ^n•w
n:ght :n the ^hape of ^n•w
& ^n•w fall:ing in the ^hape
•f n:ght ^hattered :nt• p:ece^
:v
Tom Beckett is right: “Sometimes you meet people when you’re ready to meet them.” And sometimes you don’t. We live in a sequence, but not within a purpose. The structure of reality is arbitrary and variegated, lovely in its disorder, surprising in its order.
v
^n•w a^ ^sand
acr•^^ +h" gr•und
a^ du^+ a^ ach:ng
f•r a ^"n^" •f ^+ab:/:+y
v:
We are of the body, so we use the body. We must perform our poems because we must claim them as our blood and bone. The sinew of sense runs through these poems and holds them together. And since they are objects of the body, they are controlled by the awkward inconsistencies of the human. When I sang, yellow shirt open, wearing white pants, I became slightly self-conscious, enough so that I stopped my song a little early, suspecting that people walking towards the performance (which was, after all, in a library) were coming to shut down my singing. What I didn’t realize was that they were coming to listen. I didn’t avoid those members of the audience, those on the periphery who had become the center of my attention. Instead, I walked towards them, through them, back out into the library and away from the performance space. I did that because I never ask for applause. I merely return to the audience and stop performing, returning to my self, which I had never left.
v::
^n•w *^ w•rd^
^n•w d:^*pp"*r:ng :nt•
w•rd^ ^n•w d:^*pp"*r:ng
:nt• ^"~^"
v:::
We sing songs without words because there is some music in that, some sense in that, some emotion, evidence, in the end, of the human spirit. Because it is beautiful, or surprising, or disturbing. But it seems to me that we should learn spishing so we can extend the realm of our singing—and so we can extend the realm of our audience to birds.
:x
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ≈•»∂^
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^""=:π¶
x
Even I would say that a dead cormorant upon a wheelchair ramp in the middle of a large urban university campus is a strange sight. Things are always falling from the sky: birds, snow, words.
x:
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
^π•≈ :π +#" ^"π^" •∫ ^π•≈
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