For Mac, Por Jack Spicer Poticous: Poemas, Ensayos Y Cuentos

• For Mac Por Jack Spicer Poticous: Poemas Ensayos Y Cuentos De La
• For Mac Por Jack Spicer Poticous: Poemas Ensayos Y Cuentos En

Dear Lorca, These letters are to be as temporary as our poetry is to be permanent. They will establish the bulk, the wastage that my sour-stomached contemporaries demand to help them swallow and digest the pure word.

We will use up our rhetoric here so that it will not appear in our poems. Let it be consumed paragraph by paragraph, day by day, until nothing of it is left in our poetry and nothing of our poetry is left in it.

It is precisely because these letters are unnecessary that they must be written. In my last letter I spoke of the tradition.

The fools that read these letters will think by this we mean what tradition seems to have meant lately—an historical patchwork (whether made up of Elizabethan quotations, guide books of the poet’s home town, or obscure bits of magic published by Pantheon) which is used to cover up the nakedness of the bare word. Tradition means much more than that. It means generations of different poets in different countries patiently telling the same story, writing the same poem, gaining and losing something with each transformation—but, of course, never really losing anything. This has nothing to do with calmness, classicism, temperament, or anything else.

Invention is merely the enemy of poetry. See how weak prose is. I invent a word like invention. These paragraphs could be translated, transformed by a chain of fifty poets in fifty languages, and they still would be temporary, untrue, unable to yield the substance of a single image. Prose invents—poetry discloses.

A mad man is talking to himself in the room next to mine. He speaks in prose. Presently I shall go to a bar and there one or two poets will speak to me and I to them and we will try to destroy each other or attract each other or even listen to each other and nothing will happen because we will be speaking in prose.

I will go home, drunken and dissatisfied, and sleep—and my dreams will be prose. Even the subconscious is not patient enough for poetry.

You are dead and the dead are very patient.

You can't see us in spiritland, and we can't see at all.' God must have a big eye to see everything That we have lost or forgotten.

Men used to say That all lost objects stay upon the moon Untouched by any other eye but God´s. The moon is God´s big yellow eye remembering What we have lost or never thought. That´s why The moon looks raw and ghostly in the dark. It is the camera shots of every instant in the world Laid bare in terrible yellow cold. It is the objects we never saw. It is the dodos flying through the snow That flew from Baffinland to Greenland´s tip And did not even see themselves. The moon is meant for lovers.

Lovers lose Themselves in others. Do not see themselves.

The moon does. The moon does. The moon is not a yellow camera.

It perceives What wasn´t, what undoes, what will not happen. It´s not a sharp and clicking eye of glass and hood. Just old, Slow infinite exposure of The negative that cannot happen. Fear God´s old eye for being shot with ice Instead of blood.

Fear its inhuman mirror blankness Luring lovers. Fear God´s moon for hexing, sticking pins In forgotten dolls. Fear it for wolves. For witches, magic, lunacy, for parlor tricks. The poet builds a castle on the moon Made of dead skin and glass. Here marvellous machines Stamp Chinese fortune cookies full of love. Tarot cards Make love to other Tarot cards.

Here agony Is just imagination´s sister bitch. This is the sun-tormented castle which Reflects the sun.

The castle sings. I don´t remember what I lost. The hippogriffs were singing. Old butterface Who always eats her lovers. Hell somehow exists in the distance Between the remembered and the forgotten. Hell somehow exists in the distance Between what happened and what never happened Between the moon and the earth of the instant Between the poem and God´s yellow eye. Look through the window at the real moon.

For Mac Por Jack Spicer Poticous: Poemas Ensayos Y Cuentos De La

See the sky surrounded. Bruised with rays. But look now, in this room, see the moon children Wolf, bear, and otter, dragon, dove. Look now, in this room, see the moon children Flying, crawling, swimming, burning Vacant with beauty. Hear them whisper. III God's other eye is good and gold. So bright The shine blinds.

His eye is accurate. His eye Observes the goodnes of the light it shines Then, pouncing like a cat, devours Each golden trace of light It saw and shined. Cat feeds on mouse. God feeds on God. God's goodness is A black and blinding cannibal with sunny teeth That only eats itself. Deny the light God's golden eye is brazen.

It is clanging brass Of good intention. It is noisy burning clanging brass. Light is a carrion crow Cawing and swooping.

Cawing and swoooping. Then, then there is a sudden stop. The day changes There is an innocent old sun quite old in cloud. The ache of sunshine stops.

Nothing was quite as good. It's getting late.

Put on your coat. It's getting dark. It's getting cold. Most things happen in twilight When the sun goes down and the moon hasn't come And the earth dances. Most things happen in twilight When neither eye is open And the eart dances Most things happen in twilight When the earth dances And God is blind as a gigantic bat. The boys above the swimming pool receive the sun.

For Mac Por Jack Spicer Poticous: Poemas Ensayos Y Cuentos En

Their groins are pressed against the warm cement. They look as if they dream. As if their bodies dream. Taylormade r115 driver for mac.

Rescue their bodies from the poisoned sun, Shelter the dreamers. They're like lobsters now Hot red and private as they dream. They dream about themselves. They dream of dreams about themselves. They dream they dream of dreams about themselves. Splash them with twilight like a wet bat. Unbind the dreamers, Poet, Be like God.