Thursday, August 04, 2011

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 57-58 (II)

Eisenstein’s Heavenly Man (II)

The film is a nickel
And worth it:
Eisenstein’s heavenly man.

“The meat is rotten!”: Vakulynchuk's corpse

Ice on the inside of a window: Alma-Ata

“Госуда́рственная пре́мия СССР!”: Moscow

Ca-ROCK-ithy, C-ROCK-ithy: 4 December, 1930

“Think of them as frescoes in motion!”: to Frida Kahlo

Whisps of chilled air: Alma-Ata

Strike!: Strike

“A film without equal in cinema!”: Joseph Goebbels

One hundred thousand dollars: py6 2,746,800

The numbness of a cheek: Alma-Ata

Fingers curling along the edge of a mattress: Alma-Ata

Iris out: Alma-Ata

In the morning, Rising: 11 February 1948

KMC 8/4/11

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 57-58 (I)

Eisenstein’s Heavenly Man (I)

Fifty feet           
On a silver screen //      


The meat is rotten!
The quarters unkempt!
The wages unfair!
The blood unjustly spilled!

(And in a darkened
room, eyes reflect light
and Tell: 
everything is shadows
moving faster
than they should be.)

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 58


Come and let me
have a look at you.

I'll not stare
at the obvious--
          the enormous,
          tired phallus;
                    the rises of strains
                    in the muscles 
                    of your forearm;
                              the purple bend
                              of awful skin;
                              the long-wished-lost

I'll not share
your story broadly--
          the fetal curse
          of a jealous 
                    the chasing through fields
                    of Other-claimed 
                              the thwarting,
                              of an angry, stubborn

I'll not mock
the life of verdict--
          the building
          in you    
          of the unspeakable thing;
                    the want
                    of love
                    or the thrust of it;
                              the longing
                              for finish,
                              and the prayer for

          Rather, I'll wait.
          I'll look you over,
          with my own two eyes,
          and see you blink.

          Who would have guessed
          it would take your presence
          to undo you?
          Who would have expected
          the weight of too much of you
          would be the weight you could not bear?

         The envy, friend, is yours.
         Stand up (as if you could not);
         and get out
         of my sight.

KMC 8/4/11

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Paterson: Book II, Chapter I, p. 55

A Song for Nothing; or, "Rafters"

[horns enter]
Chorus of thousands:
arpeggiated risings, fallings
to a sound.

Let's sing, goddammit;
let's shout til the mother
fucking roof rises,
until it quakes
from the grey-dusted I-beams
posting up from the floor;
Let's sing until bolts rattle
in their holes
and hundred-year old washers
bounce on their foundings
 like makeshift tambourines;
until metal winks and shimmers
in radiating rooflight,
and silvered steel hisses out
the harshest cymbaled Cs:

Let's sing, you sons of bitches;
let's roar from our bellies
with full-lunged, full-
throated, fucking
full-bodied gutsongs;
let's shout until pressures unknowable
push out against the walls
of our skin;
until sound itself vibrates
our bones,
our fingers,
our teeth,
until something threatens
and will
burst, tear, rip
out of us,
splitting us each
down our alchemical

Let's break, crowd of crowds;
let's swell, rise, and part
down our seam;
let's climb in walls
of mother-fucking water,
riven as the Red Sea,
hemisected as our own 
grey matter;
let's, let's build
our song of everything
until it opens,
it unzips itself,
it spills itself out
of our split-husked selves,
pouring from the hives of us
like a swarm of 
unbelievable bees,
Oh, oh, my god:

Jesus Christ,
please take
take it
and keep 

KMC 7/2/11, 7/10/11