Seventeenth Series of the
Static Logical Genesis
The order of illusion scintillates
the sky with stars seen from afar. The mellifluous breeze detained
my attention. A broken oar from a boat belonging to one who speaks
without words discarded by the shore.
You like poetry?
Ye-es, pretty wellsome poetry, Alice
said doubtfully. And who could blame her for equivocating,
given what she had been and would be offered: words begging not
to rhyme, vowels wishing to be left alone, entire stanzas ready
to revolt against any ordered deployment of sound.
In his new book, autobiography
swallows itself from the waist up. This can cause lesions to appear,
which must be why they lopped the top of his head off on the dust
jacket photo. Some have never healed. A delicate purple,
violet or lilac color. I want the stolen line here.
She claimed to be going off to
invigilate an exam for a friend, but I sensed duplicity in the
air. My cats capable of that, which means hes more
human than a few of my students. Or so he leads me to believe.
How could I know for sure?
And you, with your avant-garder-than-thou
smirk concealing a smile, just dying to intone Individuals
are infinite analytic propositions. Perhaps, but we on the
inside prove the exception to your rule.
Paul Naylor is author of Poetic
Investigations: Singing the Holes in History and two chapbooks
of poems, Book of Changes and Arranging
Originally published in the December
2003/January 2004 issue of Boston Review