(OUT NOW ON STARCHERONE BOOKS)
The same as Chrysanthemum having no feelings but she is only feelings. That pass over her seemingly, that is, lying as the heaving rolling hills of orange mail wet petals plastering her. A tiny dot on the hill is amidst the wave. The debutante offspring of Chrysanthemum is a copy, that is, unable to perceive anyone outside herself. No one is born. The miners are already there, drown, then more are in mine shafts. Also unperceived babies of many equal creatures are emerging, are there then in the wet. But any being born are dead. Though swimming. That wood is to be born. In the wood an oar borne on the orange flexing mail can’t move in it, short-circuits the pink shit. Aiding-Chrysanthemum the older can’t do good ever having never started to flips in the air glee at whatever suffering of others she sees which if she has not caused in notoriety tale-bearing carrying to inseminate she draws or brewing so others will be R sick at heart from it flat can’t do good having never started to is being lost here citizens already blow-torched by soldiers and being so, blow-torched by soldiers, dot the orange mail of petals pink in places that are waves with people’s blood and red mallards
circular petals of the chrysanthemum, not remembering what she’s said even as she’s speaking. But Petals replaces everything objects people silent with savaging. Mirrors for gold they’re barely reflected in her (Chrysanthemum’s) rage oar not even reflected to her. Globate roses bob in the sea of rain on boughs. The rain hangs on women who out wearing folds that expanding are black velvet rain then. Neither forest or air are fractionation: the forest and long grass being silent, the fractionation that isn’t the baby blue air either which quiet is later cobalt is an oar in it. Same as the insurgents’ oar? Resistance. A factor of Violet née Chrysanthemum being sightless is her pretending sightlessness? The passersby can’t tell if she’s pretending, supposing they thought of it and were asked. They’re mute. Because Violet’s mouth is a raging maw unlike violet flowers that are glinting, similar to the Cheshire cat chewing mouth in the sky. Sound apparently only floating mouth as autosuggestion. Her disembodied then cleistogamous smile hovering in the air seen red chrysanthemum trembling (seen by the fleeing doctor’s ear as he swims in the filthy street) moves on over sewage or dewage, since these are the same translated in the process of alexia imposed onto people who may even be writing chatter-boxes reading at three—they begin choosing words which they compare in the air, appearance and disappearance in sound there.
The cake of bullying had imbibed smarmy manner that seemed not so much to charm others, technical assistants, nurses, social workers, but to enforce her steely will laced as swine jelly with them, who may be innocent and kind or smarmy sourpusses too, both in an aspic of what’s expected by a ‘society’ apparently, though the Chrysanthemum never imagines anything outside. It seems still as throttling. City harp of sewage by those running in it or driving, horses at the same time, the cough of engines echoing on the rippling pool is in the midst of the hartel so workers walk stagnant. This outside present is invisible to Violet (violent, actually red) Chrysanthemum just as a yellow cheetah is with the present. She makes no presentation except her facial moods. Words can just be substituted. Outside is ignorant in her then hers is violent, her saying any cruel thing that comes into her mouth is stagnancy of a leaden smile or chrysanthemum, any negative motives of hers being opened outward as others doing something. Sherri’s face is always winking with hatred screwed up in a ball uttering vicious, neglectful, and lazy remarks, they’re violent, a friend of Violet’s (Chrysanthemum) she’s always there to help bully. Without there being any alteration of the individuals or the circumstance of that time, nothing forgotten, the wound heals, it closes up. The lips in air disappear sucked from inside into that inside.
Leslie Scalapino is the author of over thirty books of poetry and fiction. Day Ocean State of Stars' Night is forthcoming this year from Green Integer.