tuesday, august 10, 1998
the wells at the mouth of itza
the sun is an orange chasm we are plunging the jungle a flow a single unifying key continual earth crying storm transcription of lightening on water spout a column of stone we are ever alone the jungle's drooling thicket the edge of the clearing left toilet paper purple flowers blue flowers crimson flowers and so i have come to nothing banging a drum beyond a road divides underground between power failures jerking what the land goes up from there is a stone angle platforms the earth pushing upward the land grizzled attitude disappears the sky disappears only the door into it remains a phallus someone is singing hacking at earth with scythe scale does not matter we do not matter time doesn't matter though all is drawn in it though everything is yellow flowers faces shine inwardly building against them silence is nothing underground river do not believe anything you will die it is these splinters 10 levels to the sky where the clouds lie the stones are teeth there are no people no place without a face strangled in geometry always the sheath there is a god at the top of the stairs there is one level the stones are not teeth this is not a mouth this is not a world it has swallowed dispersion of trees a man sits alone under one a thousand butterflies fling themselves one stone one world one block of ice under the sun 4 interjects like a knife already nothing is left to go inside and die inside feather ochre sky truth ready now where few describe what is incised flame in debris the shattered abacus here we felt place your hand in your mouth terraces of mass and moss nobody is home to tell us how are you and not to know but be and not to answer the question we are not enough to figure here fiercer than water space that has no face to say what we feel blood drying some not to climb but to be climbed take all the figures out is this how it is really kind of crooked? to leave the road in the ruin you are here fresh oaks grass roots roofs pillars the pillars years the years what is above and what is below pillars trees time laid on its side shadows we have left nothing hide discus in diamond shape a god sat here if we had one thought they have left it always the face in the sun the disc of human whistling in the jungle terror is nothing the moment observes walls that fill the space between the columns sky god emerging from the mouth of a serpent higher than they are wide here that dug to live among columns the knotting of the ears alongside the planet venus morning star an offering consisting of the skull of a decapitated man found in the eastern stairwell this is what we found we found we could do nothing a hawk swings above square pyramid hiding circle of construction there is a circle outside guts her whole roots with no tree body with no heart an iguana rooms square holes breathe jungle peaked stone chambers passages ways through to bring it the darkness through you in a chain of syllables no place without a face nothing to go through there is no way out we must remember who we are there is no place to stand jaguar behind steel cage cannot stay we cannot leave
march 1999
disorder at the border
—for CH
i.
amid the rain and sunshine the ghoul bands of light and shadow gather on the wall considerably the man come in out of a box on window sill but then to come on the hexagonal fort wet through the woman in steps taking many times to wipe our feet on the ledge we are only taking up what was left off laboring up the hill we have come to note transitions, patterns of life between neighborhoods little overlaps start as a point scroll of smoke take your foot back and place it forever pigeons wheel short breath long breath short breath short breath short breath bet against the sunrise and you will lose colder today shorter like crushed rock and the palaces of eternal space a shout heard in the forest can there be others or only one position periods of ice periods of calm the earth basks as we hasten through the shower worst of it over and above us to take a small problem and dissect it coming to terms with polyp red dye along an in-seam galaxies are being born something in us halting in the stairwell to pick up a curious object in the mirror forward skimming over the pool holly began to climb out of her his cock rested at the lips of her cunt, touched lifting the heavy metal once it took 10 seconds to climb the steps of the courthouse if you remain here i will leave cool dead woman on a subway train
ii.
11 times the wall periods of funk periods of calm wrapped in a seal skin down by the river never look back or ahead anywhere you can make a connection return something to be halting before like a yo-yo an afternoon of sunshine elastic stacks of cordwood against corrugated fence dearest cheeky i lighted this whole matchbook for you slumped over the bar looking up the bartender's nose periods of ice periods of calm the dream as i just dreamt lept on a rock set out dancing i just put what wasn't there there and nothing is there again etc. but how to be really like a golf pro cool in winter to remember puddles a series of mirrors the man with his arms vs. his eyes crossed in the garden waiting letter knife inserted in rock jesus christ! like some animal at the door broken arm hanging down coughs the image that he'd seen was still in his mind a series of mirrors a man walking the line i can say anything now appraise the value of things of a sky negate the image let the kite go the sky writing remain what “veritable" to see the writing before the fall triangular message in the 8-ball floating up like van gogh
[note. The work above is part of Truitt’s ongoing project, an exploration of voice & mind in process, walking through different landscapes with voice recorder & camera, to create something akin to what David Antin defined for us as “talk poems.” The effect & the source for the effect, however, are quite different here, emerging not from memory of time past but as an immediate response to the here-&-now of what surrounds the walking/talking poet/subject. That work, more complex than what can be shown here, appears in its latest manifestation in the publication by Station Hill of Barrytown, of which Craig Dworkin writes: “Truitt has produced a site-specific poetry triangulated between the transcript of improvised language, snapshots, and the tenuous, tremulous breath of the embodied speaker …” And Truitt himself: “Explore what the author made of Thoreau’s saying we must be born again to speak what we can write: what it means to fly into that storm a kite.” (J.R.)]
[note. The work above is part of Truitt’s ongoing project, an exploration of voice & mind in process, walking through different landscapes with voice recorder & camera, to create something akin to what David Antin defined for us as “talk poems.” The effect & the source for the effect, however, are quite different here, emerging not from memory of time past but as an immediate response to the here-&-now of what surrounds the walking/talking poet/subject. That work, more complex than what can be shown here, appears in its latest manifestation in the publication by Station Hill of Barrytown, of which Craig Dworkin writes: “Truitt has produced a site-specific poetry triangulated between the transcript of improvised language, snapshots, and the tenuous, tremulous breath of the embodied speaker …” And Truitt himself: “Explore what the author made of Thoreau’s saying we must be born again to speak what we can write: what it means to fly into that storm a kite.” (J.R.)]
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