Made in form, something denied in kind, or plastered in speech. We did not heed the stampede, nor the protectorate of function. We were made in the image and likeness of image and likeness, netted in spectacle, according to doctrine. Who’s on first philosophy, a judge and composition student both study sentencing guidelines. The law is plagiarized from superstition. The soccer riot has been contained to the following districts: the demagogues’ quarter, the maize aisle, the half sandwich and soup, the Assizes.
The calling to arms of these objects that connect nothing with nothing recalls our recent glut of liberal arts grads. Seven hundred thousand archeologists in a state of becoming in the City of God, which isn’t zoned for brontosaurus excavation. The exhausted refugees from Paleozoic nostalgias return to the Denny’s short order ghettoes and wait for necessity’s water to break.
Channels, aqueducts, alternating frequencies of automatic writing, the electoral college of the desert winds, the tombs of water. The news landfill, the priest trees melting behind a procession of cool animals. Inexactness moves in channels too; your metallic ice floes. There is always a panorama of the visible before us, but a hegemony of channels, where the chosen string is now the capital-s Sea with its Charles Olson voice, now vellum, now the periodic table, now a secret location.
ANDREW BOSTON lives in Brooklyn. He curates the Lungfull! Reading Series.