Friday, February 26, 2010


--for Steve Collis

Spilled in the language's veins
A militant regard
When will it be
A tool for something other

Than exchange watching us fuck
Them up in the dance with
Forces again
The city shine with it

Little estates make a little
Shit out of me
You are everything
To me dear abstractions fleeting

View of the thing from the thing
In itself trees move with us
Our disappearance
We disappear the world thus

Appears flashes with
Thoughts spreading in these leaves
Bifurcating futures
Like elements huckleberrying

Like language sometimes
Squats in us.

1 comment:

Old 333 said...

(bored, cruising blogs, thought of you) - Hi, Thom. Enjoyed this poem rather. I was wondering just the other day (and i think some years before that in a class at York, somewhere a memory stirs) what it was about a tree not being there if there was no boundary of thought delineating it. Then I thought, but the tree - it thinks it, so how could i ever do the experiment? A dead tree is different (and can even be simulated - I like this font, for instance, quite a bit, I can almost hear the tacker-whee of my old air-pressure IBM electric). Anyway, I liked it. I liked huckleberrying flashing and the words hidden in the elements between blinks quite a bit too, if that's sort of what you were getting at. Ah, I have trouble making sense on a Sunday. Actually, I haven't been able to write at all for four days. Meh. Other than posting things, which is writing I guess but not writing that happens, which is the best kind and what I spend all my days waiting for and in between.

Thanks for the poem.