Earthcutt

September 25, 2010

This is the proper order to read the previous five entries, which are a kind of dialog (and which turned out to be much longer than planed). This idea from Mikhail Bakhtin was in the back of my mind.

The one who understands…becomes himself a participant in the dialog.

Muffin of the Day

Pretend that I’m concocting this whole thing,
okay?—

So I’m not the lonely troubadour and I’m not
out serenading Señorita Salazar
under her bedroom window, under a
full moon—
besides, that kind of thing will get you a
drive-by from one of our cruisers. ‘Excuse me, sir,
but we have a report of an intruder.’

Most days,
I’m down at Stevo’s  for breakfast. I get to pick ‘The
Muffin of the Day’. I have my spot in the corner.
I’m not writing love poetry. Besides
I’m more an extruder. I take my meds.
I listen to the music. I talk to Stevo,
who’s from Iceland and who reads poetry
and who plays Cecil Taylor at four in the morning
when he opens up for the boat guys.
Cuttland Island lives off its charter boat business.
You Hook ‘Em, We Cook ‘Em. Not everybody likes
Cecil Taylor for breakfast, but Stevo makes a
mean pancake. Serious syrup. If you’re taking
a charter from Cuttland you start at Stevo’s.
You pour too much syrup on your pancakes
and you listen to (too much!) Cecil Taylor. And you take
a muffin for later. That’s the deal. I pick the muffin
every morning and I tape ‘The Poem of the Day’
on the counter. Every morning a muffin and a poem.
Okay—

The Chaco-Raisin. Just delicious with Stevo’s Home Brewed.

&—

This poem will use each word as the last word,
every word, as it were,
in its importance,
in all its honesty, in a circus of polyphony…

That’s today’s muffin, and that’s today’s poem—
what the locals call ‘Crumbs and Crummy’.

See you tonight, Señorita.

Direct Currents


This poem will use each word as the last word,
every word, as it were,
in its importance,
in all its honesty, in a circus of polyphony…

At daybreak, I walk to the beach, the littered sand,
just to compare the sand, the pitch, the swell
of land against the churn of waves, currents
that cut into the sand, the ledge
and then the fence, not as fractals of each
other, but as direct currents.
Toss in a snapped, lance-like flag pole,
pallets, all the old wood that always comes ashore,
real glass milk bottles, coke bottles, and all
the rotting tires, the styrofoam—how could
you find resemblances, except for the resemblance
one finds in being big?

And it is big! As big as Robert Duncan as
Herakles:

SPLENDOR, IT ALL COHERES.

Hurricane Eno has left behind what we
call ‘massive debris’ in the sanitation business.
As it tracks up the coast across Nova Scotia,
it will cease to cohere as itself somewhere
in the Maritimes; cold water always kills
hurricanes. Down at Stevo’s, though, the talk
is of Mrs. Karmody.  Maybe—maybe—she
electrocuted herself last night. Her cat,
the old barn loft, direct current out there…
Cecil was listening to the police band all night.
No, I don’t know, I’ll talk to Chief Johnson,
he’ll know for sure. Mrs. Karmody had
Parkinson’s. She shouldn’t have been out there
alone, not after Kenny Karmody died, we all
know that. Easy for me to say, I guess…
Like the wind blows through a circus tent.

Cecil, this is where Adorno takes art.
This is how it corrects our understanding—

To understand artworks…means to become
aware of their logicality, and its opposite,
and of their fissures and of their significance.

Every art work, if it is to be
fully experienced requires thought
and therefore stands in need of philosophy,
which is  nothing but thought that refuses
all restriction.

In splendor, all things come to rest.
May they rest ashore; may they rest
in the direct current, a fractal thereof.

Wow Fred

Wow Fred—

In splendor, all things come to rest.
May they rest ashore; may they rest
in the direct currents, a fractal thereof.

In splendor, Beth Karmody lives. Something did go
damn wrong out there. Direct currents, indeed.
The hurricane became—
to use your word, Fred, a ‘fractal’, a fractal of her life
performed last night, all the rough edges,
and all the space in between. She’s in Earthcutt Hospital,
right  now, not in Intensive Care, but, in ‘Sensitive Care’,
just some burns on her hands, really.
The danger she’s in is the danger all of us
are in. Life empties out. Our balloons get released
into the sky to blow away…

I know, so poetic—the poem that follows from the wind
so as to certify it, as if to seal its hastening,
a poem for the Commissioner of Parks, one pushing
debris together, an all-poem in all-concision… Fred,
I want to create a hurricane—call it Hurricane Intaglio—
or Mr. Eye-Sore as Himself—okay, a poem about
a hurricane—called I Married a Hurricane—a poem
where balloons do escape into the sky—Mr.
Eye-Soar sweeps a fractal circus,
one ‘pleasing families with a phantom fantasy’,
faux-families…

Where all things come to rest…

Okay. We’ll leave the hurricane clean-up to you,
Mister Park’s Commissioner…
I’ll tell the people what they want to know.
The Earth Intaglio—‘Earth’s best named newspaper’
will hit the stands and doorsteps of Cuttland Island
tomorrow with a special issue:
I MARRIED A HURRICANE!
An interview with Commissioner
Friedrich ‘Nietzsche’ Hanson—like nobody knows
that Freddie and Cecil are brothers.
Not to worry, I’ll make you up
—l always do—
official you, easy to do.
We’ll run that picture with the suit and tie.
Page Two:
‘Mrs. Biscuit’s sister’s first and second cousins are visiting
from Toronto this week. Be sure to say howdy if you see ‘em
in town or out fishing.’

Go ahead, Fred. Wow me with that.
Please do.

What is Poetry?

Mrs. Biscuit’s sister’s first and second cousins are visiting
from Toronto this week. Be sure to say howdy if you see ‘em
in town or out fishing.

Sarcasm does become you, brother C.
A source of great benediction, I’m sure,
as Mistress Biscuit  and her sis must be
related—just de jure, just de jour
—not really, not for sure—for, Cecil, both
your first cousins and those that are removed
are mine as well. In-laws?  No, I am loath
to find that neither redundancy is proved
here. Your formula is polygamous.
We’ll give our welcome to the biscuit’s yield
and rise—like the lark, that’s anonymous
at break of day from sullen earth and field,
when flushed by us and free to fly, does flee.
It seems you are not you, nor I, me.

How She Had Wished It So

It’s strange the way she could magnify sight
—amplify sound—
the way a megaphone would flood the shore,
as if she was wrought from the tide’s assumption—

A mouse and meek, tired, weak,
it is Miss Megaphone we seek

Thus Beth Karmody had brought
her once imaginary hurricane—Eno—
to Cuttland Island and it had become a legendary calamity—
The storm’s mighty landfall at night,
the tides, the full moon, the game
the water played with the harbor—
it had given Earthcutt Harbor its new name—
had cut  the  tides right through the sand—

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen—
the storm that bleaches the beaches,
that left the sand so clean that
it has become a kind of homage to Prospero—

And now she’d called up that nice boy, called Frederick,
—I’m thirteen, he’s eleven—
so are they two?  taking turns to bring
an  old lady (who  just happens to have
a circus tent in her backyard) The Muffin of the Day
every morning. Trudging up from Stevo’s—
at least until Labor Day—
One, to play
the poem that follows from the wind,
so as to certify it,
the other, so that all the island kings,
can play on Penelope’s piano, Pan’s pipes.

May they all rise together,
these people who are praying for her,
may they all applaud together,

(How she had wished it so.)

May the wind that blows through
the circus tent,
may it continue and hover,
and with storms lift it higher,
Frederick, higher, a sail in
the larger breeze.

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4 Responses to “Earthcutt”

  1. extrasimile Says:

    News Flash: I’m not sure I understand this trackback thing…but thanks.

  2. extrasimile Says:

    Ram0singhal, thanks. I guess I’m looking for the ‘muses of expansion’. I looked at your blog. Very cosmic. Very good.


  3. Earthcutt…

    I found your entry interesting do I’ve added a Trackback to it on my weblog :)…

  4. ram0singhal Says:

    divine….good circus of polyphony…

    In splendor, all things come to rest.
    May they rest ashore; may they rest
    in the direct current, a fractal thereof.

    nice imaginative muses….

    love all…


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