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The Brooklyn Rail

APRIL 2020

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APRIL 2020 Issue
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[Exemplary Title in the Theme of “From the Threshing Floor ”] [?]

A wise king winnows out the wicked;
he drives the threshing wheel over them. [?]
Proverbs 20:26

when I hear threshing floor I also hear orange mesh of the foreign [?]
and when I hear the heart pulls up on its nexus the mind torques [?]
from the drug that being it is and like that of liminal construction [?]
spaces or memory’s childhood’s polyester [?]
then when I hear threshing floor I hear mangled daughter prose [?]
surpassed by structures of tourmaline black nests [?]
in the neck of some garden technology get it [?]
I also hear window ear emasculated door and Chesapeake Renoir [?]
I hear ceramic ginger fjord and Prussian velour [?]
parcheesi and leopard lord or Bangladeshi lemon drawer [?]
I hear perpetual quorum like capital’s fresh warfare [?]
I hear gullible motif gore or extraterrestrial mylar dwarf [?]
and so we get wavy in the margins which is great if you can handle it [?]
says pablo the threshing floor being also like a marginal space [?]
so transitory because sort of unlimited in definitude [?]
regardless there’s such a limpid insistence on the unmiraculous today [?]
what I call the period of steep stepping stools [?]
but it’s all getting very briary now which it won’t be [?]
because I can’t afford the or any incompletion of it [?]
though nothing is ever ended [?]
all endings being the same non-existent but hazarded and described [?]
and living in the same manner the same ear the same rude and sane feel [?]
of being squozen between two forces empathy and intelligence [?]
and then in isolation the gems accumulate right there you see [?]
in the margins as we were saying right right [?]
the epitome of more weight on one side of the thing [?]
I can’t even really say that I’m the same man after the poem [?]
Creeley said nothing’s wiser than a moment [?]
now you you’re gonna want to think about that [?]
and then understand the root of the spilling of prescience and fact [?]
if there is a heaven we are untranslatable to it [?]
and then this part of me is born and this part of me is born again [?]
and then somehow I learn of some place like Mackinaw City [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then I’m in danger from the winter in the poem [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then there’s not enough rain in poetry [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then see me in the scienceless wisdom of attempted commotion [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then necklaces subjected to the sovereign common [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then opposition as permanent fly paper [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
a real stain on the makeable nude sense of play [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then I get to be impressed [?]
and the movements are true hell [?]
and then authentic vagrancy of people as people [?]
and then I look like a new kitchen [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then your favorite and same shit apathy [?]
spinally coming down to Earth to be released [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then there exists a deathless ruckus in eudaemonic swell [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then a wicked but fortified system for plain burning [?]
and then my threshing floor is a vibrant seagull [?]
monitoring possibility [?]
but I’ll hold off on that [?]
and then the sun at night [?]
now you’re learning [?]
and then I complete a move called the woken goat [?]
now you’re learning [?]
and then do you see me in Michoacan [?]
now you’re learning [?]
what about with a bleeding hand [?]
now you’re learning [?]
one time Michael wrote “love’s lemurs” and I nearly lost my mind [?]
or did I write it [?]
now you’re learning [?]
this was supposed to be critical prose but I saved you the boredom [?]
now you owe me [?]
you owe me a vicious yet courteous revision of babbling piety [?]
you owe me certain cloaked tendencies or a rose of hospice’s blank rooms [?]
you owe me a waitress of running lava [?]
you owe me diffident clauses of repartee [?]
you owe me the coleslaw of silence and meaning’s still brisket [?]
so I’ve been writing out a spell I learned from Remedios Varo [?]
where everything is spoken of and told to come alive [?]
I mean everything [?]
where there is no threshing [?]
as if how does it feel with the feelings [?]
as if I would ask anything to come to life [?]
in the margins of sense and certainty illegal and unattuned [?]
working from the wheat fresh red of anti-separations [?]
that is all

Photo: pablo lopez
Photo: pablo lopez


Carlos Lara

Carlos Lara is the author of The Green Record (Apostrophe, 2018) and Like Bismuth When I Enter (Nightboat, 2020). He lives with his wife and son in the greatest goddamn city on the planet, Los Angeles.


The Brooklyn Rail

APRIL 2020

All Issues