Friday, September 19, 2008

Not Things

Arranged words on W. C. Williams’ Birthday last Week by Anthony McCarthy

James Watson once answered that he couldn’t lose what he didn’t have,
The callow questioner brought up gaining the world and losing his soul,
Candy taken by a famous self, his answer dutifully applauded by an audience not experienced in enthusiasm.
Watson is the kind of ass who could look in any optical instrument and see his pasty face in place of any universe.

And a university poet whines out his choice to not live,
inactual stasis, the convenience of faculty life, his pale blues not dead because not lived,
left with insipidly longing for a movie desideratum a billion ad men could have written.

But we here in love, would be ridiculous for watching.
Paltry to onlookers. No penetration, roles, danger, parallels to literature or criticism.
Undocumentable, needless to say, non-fungible.

Did people think about how their life looked before TV or movies?
Does the constantly sensed audience lead to how anxiously we face just life?
Always observed by the absent, the tacit audience always present,
and we, never so here as watching them, and so miss our own lives.
Even love the most Unexplainable and Entirely Sufficient Reason To Be at All,
a performance for the memory of our place in a bored or jaded or, worst of all, pleased audience? The loved as cast rival.

How could we ever consider this through an observer? Not an act but

There isn’t a word conceivable in any grammar.
Not for this, both now, together, pleasing by pleasure by pleasing.
Our bodies not symbols but incident to the deeper sex of coupled souls, beyond things.
It not beyond but essentially separate from transaction.
One at once both, not element’s of any Set subject to the properties of even addition.
No subjects or objects, no act or any other nouns, or transitive verbs, or conditional statements or Boolean scribbles, or geometry or political theory or praxis.

The very naming and saying a violation and nullification of even what happens in time,
Intending rigorous examination, virtuously hacking away the inaccurate words
you would be left with a nothing to explain what most is, of all and everything.
Mistaking your failure as confirmation of a nothing and for publication so turn to analyze the illusory audience’s imagined reaction to the residuum of your failure. Missing it all.

In no way describe, but meet it Both in silence. It beyond pronounness.
The love transfigures us together outside it and ourselves, this time, many others, many to come,
many as the times become the deepest sex of souls beyond transaction or distinction or time or words or even songs.

For the love of very being, why would anyone want it any other way?