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.
everything is created out of stardust. that
sounds romantic, doesn't it. facts, that's all. and even as I
falling from the heavens
are beginnings: x-rays to achieve the impossible
given infinite time—(the placenta vitrifies, becomes a world-inverting
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
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
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
spinning in the park across the street like children while the
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.
w/the voice of the Crow
in his high dark tree
in the wetgrass
heavy upon me
at the adamantine
grinding his teeth
to fire 'Z
bones roar Babel Hell
incuse a frowning King
upon the inner
Crow slits himself open
—May I someday
do the same—
& a pyramid
to embrace the gloom.
© 2002 by Jesse Glass. All rights reserved.