Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Mark Sargent


It’s called purchase for a reason
just as Waits has it, that is, road
kill has its season, but that’s not
it, I mean mechanical advantage
in raising or moving bodies or
spirits, the little electrical blips
zipping through us, getting those
fuckers racing even faster; means
of exerting force advantageously,
you dig, via come-along or some
thing that torques your power up,
makes less more in the sense of
moving pushing pulling igniting,
yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,
an infernal combustion caused by
expanded pressure exerted through
position advantage, gaining purchase
on the momentary fluttering node
of existence, no, not node but nabob
in the Agnew way, those who natter
negatively towards a woebegone glut
of backtracking zap, zone lizard lashings
of melancholy, braced-up lung of
preserved air, smother-bed shortage
of crimes cobbled-up, picayune.

superior angle to the mass,
there grunt into it and shift things,
the chemical mistakes add up,
small claim reactions to a fall,
he wasn’t pushed but jumped, fell
from volition, will to be airborne,
to get that edge of air beneath and
descend as in a dream, not really
touching anything, save air, save
atmosphere worthy of spinning of
whirlpooling desire down a drain of
marble and fat, rodent fetuses, slip-
pery skeins of paper-thin shaven flesh
spool out in clouds of confetti,
a old New York hero’s welcome,
open-air cars and the sidewalks ten deep,
paper snow thick, breathless but crisp
newsreel voices bleating about the Big Apple’s
welcome for Gertrude Stein.  Yeah,
a ticker tape parade for Gertrude Stein’s
arrival, if only we could rewrite history.
She leaned against the language,
her purchase was saturation
in the logic of the tongue.

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