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Poems

Under Erasure

But the view is not so dangerous from other cliffs
You want a commemorative album about Stephen King
To suffer no guilt for my relationship to context...


Until they achieve a purer design
And immediately leave,
as if meant...


In erotic bondage,
our freedom were
His job and not only an adventure...


Anything that severs text from its possible world
Doctor Syntax cures patient of a type of confusion
Kierkegaard, the irony of mass education...


To write in depth behind a screen
An ordinary mistake,
disconnecting...


A door from its hinges,
foundations
The people are of a collapsed room...


It is not as negative of replaceable components
Her new meaning appears to be but always too late
Memorial services were held today for Joseph Bocci...


For whom I write everything down,
Opening out into the street.
Whitman...


A book enlarged,
by which the heart of
A state of mind without impediments...


The sole head of a family tombstone-carving trade
Distance had placed us in the environs of elsewhere
You circle in trade routes with their inflated goods...


Observers others in a similar state
To abandon them here on earth.
Lenin...


His center of power locates our dispersed parents
Leading family members toward empire after defenses
Became promotional leaflets to be bombarded by mail...


Splits concept from state,
regulating
Trains to a military perfection...


Here is an agency to read the record from materials
So language may produce you from personal accounts
It writes to consume myself, embodying each trace...


Dark green engines hide a red star
Behind shapeless masses,
carrying bags...


Not on the way to the airport.
Ideas
Speak portraits in circular rings...


In situ of nonexistent present
Its ideal of future and past,
to wait...


Miniature knight on horseback approaches address
As traffic on Broadway speeds up in narrow defiles
A prose rhythm we confined themselves to explains...


But only I want a unique object whose value is
Never a leading actor until no longer a prospect
Death eyeing the wrong man in an aggressive stare...


Until all is forgiven,
you forget
Her difficulties to appear on TV...


And clouds of consciousness part, a vanishing point
To appear simultaneously with words on their screen
Retreat of the Germans in 1944 precipitating rain...


And the Lost Children of Ethiopia
Can phone home,
but no one to answer...


I intend to speak this sentence against its will
His footnote to doubt fulfills an ideological need
In time for a symphony to play Ode to Joy in Berlin...


Non sequiturs,
invisibly to dream
A tactical sequence of one-liners...


Until we return to writing the poem
Even you learned to speak.
Used up...


Blank features of represented landscape on Oakland
A poetry of ciphers supports her avoidance of story
The end of history to approach their colossal bed...


If the present had desired to yield us any motives
The floating body may have been forgotten by memory
Bare branches show alternating emergences of leaves...


Until light,
and an image disappears.
The more a reversal happens to you...


The less I remember a boundariesf
Semi-permeable membrane,
Deutschland...


The wreck of a world elided,
instant
Wall collapsing at exits to itself...


I forget in the ongoing path of self-destruction
As a truth lived to be known only in those events
It ceased. Looking to North, strong wind at East...


Loud noises from behind the wall
At intersections,
or in full stages...


Alternating,
or succeeding by turns
A grammar of the sensesf relation...


As if hybrid speech in opposition
Compels any misreading,
unleashed...


Ortegafs right to defend themselves was an attack
On our entropy if Bushfs appearance embodied order
In circles at the same rate of speed without effect...


In double-time,
her instructorfs voice
Working inside out to speak in frames...


A moment of the mightiest extremes.
Byron,
on the scale of Napoleon...


The key to whose allegory a recognition of delays
(Uniform Code of Poetic Justice set in futura bold)
Or understanding sufficient to complete its offense...


Were poetry meant,
quantity yielded
To quality of bodies on the page...


For the only jury whose objectivity can be claimed
You are to comprehend what drives them in undoing
I cannot summarize without erasing to some degree...


A general loss before Austerlitz
Produces stanzas,
commingling lines...


I mean history painting,
rehearsing
The Death of Marat as only its name...


A defeat at the hands of memory
Since 1940,
or the Fall of Saigon...


A repetition by means of which each sense is undone
Hitting whom over the head with a 2 x 4 in a dream?
His thought is a chaos composed entirely of clicheLs...


As life in miniature observes you through a lens
Fabricated of blindspots in their living tissues
To make progress a melodrama only we can survive...


A transmission,
signified by breaks
Interrupted due to local amnesia...


In every room a meeting is in session. One speaker
Stands at the lectern while others wait their turn
Her form of objectification shows market potential...


Suddenly we all turn to make contact with language
In solidarity with purposes efficiently understood
As a speech continuous in transparent communication...


It is that I have now achieved an age
Of no caesurae,
and you are in this...


Because of gravity,
they are falling
To illustrate philosophical risk...

 

(Barrett Watten.Under Erasure. La Laguna: Zasterle, 1991. 43-52.)