From Momentum - Four Excerpts

by Jesse Glass

in a room without walls the alphabet becomes important.  don't

ask me why.  it's a fact that two people (why do they travel in twos)

are walking in the park.  a green car.  that's the

landscape here: lake & park & car & motorcycle.  and people. 
        nothing else.

everything is created out of stardust.  that
sounds romantic, doesn't it.  facts, that's all.  and even as I 
        say this

falling from the heavens

are beginnings: x-rays to achieve the impossible

given infinite time—(the placenta vitrifies, becomes a world-inverting
		                                  lens )—infinite—

and 'they created him in their image!'

I think of Strindberg at the top of his evergreen tree shaking     
                    his fist at the
clouds.  and the clouds shaking a simian paw back.

and bells ringing in the walls.  why must everything be so rational.

(Strindberg fought this in his wives.)

the heaven of infinite textual play imagined by the french.  but  
        why give

the text the benefit of the doubt?  I want good old communication.

x went to bed.

x had a vision.

"At a little Distance on the Left side is a Black Spot--the Receptacle of
fallen Angels & the finally wicked.  And as we know only of two Worlds 
(out of infinite Myriads) that have revolted; so this is big eno' to contain all those, if none were saved."

the alchemical lion walks down the center of our street in broad

little children run to him fall at his feet he looks away into the 

mr. & mrs. america step outside from their day of worship churchbells      

alchemical lion is here! kitty kitty they say it lurches toward
                            them the

woman screams the man immediately takes out his cock he must have

i must copulate he says the sky is a crystal globe the alchemical

invites them up jesus is watching from the stained glass & the
                            birds are

spinning in the park across the street like children while the
                            children fly

like catbirds tapping their little skulls against the celestial
                            athanor.  but it's

a lie it was only the lake it was only blake in the park.  it was
                            only a wonder-

ful music we must understand the meaning of the noon-hour 

Here, Hound, is the way to poetry
	the giant figure screaming in the dark
the ascent of the "Awakened" though they're found
by police arranged in a half-moon chalked on the floor
	w/garbage bags wrapped around their heads
& a stinging dose of anthrax in their veins,

the serial martyrdom of the pigeons.	

	my voice
	w/the voice of the Crow

	in his high dark tree
	lights burning
	in the wetgrass

	wingspread shadow
	heavy upon me

	(Lion leaps
	at the adamantine
	grinding his teeth
	to fire	         'Z

	bones roar Babel Hell
	       	incuse a frowning King
            	upon the inner

	Crow slits himself open
	w/his beak
	—May I someday
	do the same—

	& a pyramid
	w/granite wings
	leaps upward
	to embrace the gloom.

© 2002 by Jesse Glass. All rights reserved.