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Ann MarieFine
On purpose: for the staving off of
In this scene the edge of the sea
is a movement: an oracle-
likedelineation of line and lore.
If you are lovely somewhere
youare also lonesome in that place; or
not you, but your loveliness is,and you
linger where longitudes scrape latitudes
in the air: forthey are against each other.
And lead you to the edge where whatis
good about being lost makes you ache for signs.
So, hereare some answers to give beloved.
& they are not meant to set free,but
to lead you in the direction of when
you discovered thisway: already
by surf & sand; you may go collecting for
shells near your ankles &you may absorb the radiant
punishment of the preoccupied sun;willingly: so
your onus is your capital; all is bright.
Do notput your will on automatic pilot.
Your body after all,takes
a colloquial name: sapient, ambulatory,
flesh, & isforgiven; and flesh forgives; so
your neck fills with salt in eachcrease to prove; Icarus
your arms remember & your arms
vibratequietly, deeply, as your bones
tumble from a sky of red muscle.
This repetition of being
is homage to your over-hot heart;
intimate while unknownable, you are strung from it
by a sea’d songlicking your eardrum
having no words; pressed
to the heat ofsome grain fused sea-sky; a reputation
fraught by unclocked winds,in you
bends you: you bend; hung
from your middle & pulleddownward;
fingers prod wet granules; and push
as far as yourwrists go; not searching—
not to be known, but gone inward
you would be loved—finding the go.
An odd accompaniment to the book of karma
Some of the images I worked with; this material from
envelopes,ripped printed paper, hands on fire—
scissors, queen Isadora,razorblade, inkwell, coffee: those
refutable stain patterns in theclouds. One key—aqui;
What I mean is your heart is an eye,
which is to say that you have a good heart
for good things we allmight.
Take it into consideration: all the night-time
I spenthumming myself to glue in the sound booth.
Torn strips of a stolenroll off medical tape; trying
to gain advantage over my bleedinghatches:
There is more than one way to compose a letter to apainter.
If I am on some boat with this; I take a walk—astern;
away from the table, toward where the beginning of the ship
sits lowin the sea, low. Seat of propulsion, position
is where you put it;I agree. Like a mirror
agrees with whatever it opposes; as this
slippery devotion knows the winged-wake of the boat
& square of astern. In the page I built
we woman around in lifejackets,
crackbright red lobsters on white porcelain; ignore
the sea travailingthrough the floor: I will let
the water prove there is no straightline.
Time breaks water, a meal in half; tension
in themechanics of a woman’s fist— the American
Woman! is a brokentime-piece I think I’m looking back
at; the winged shape of thatscissored wake waking; breaks
and beats the distance between sunsset & abyssal plane.
My hands pretend to be stained with bloodyclouds
of krill; tinted a pathos-ian white-blue and complain
love’s not a night-cruiser; with all due respect.
Apogee blue
I have gone out at night, when too warm and there are too many bodiesright now I don’t
understand. . . two things thinging at my temples;mis-describable; each orbiting at
opposite poles in the nearmostbreathing space; a tangential succor for my wonder clad’d
skull.
A glass-like globe spins well light in fragile hollowness;(blue) the only
color it can not digest—being heavenly least;the globe between is very clear.
No-one will touch it. It isstrong like an exact dream and could burn like abyssal rock
probablyburns. What I want to call hearts go afloat—splay and thrum;breathing hearts
in breathingspace; religion the constantly globed.
This aroundness swallows whole prisms and leaves hollow littleshapes empty of color;
but like tiny starfish doves, they drop againstthe glass and spin emptily. Never speaker
ing a friendlier kind of sound.
Seeing feathers as scale(s); some bone’s washed in light air asmute as flakes of isinglass. I
forget the ground immediately, then
my gorgeous pretended bodies don’t know or can’t remember howto love other forms—
the shape of arm, the wet of mouth, the press
of hand.
Time of day emergencies; magically sluice the sky of cleaned cloth. Imake story of it I
hope my hands will someday tell; palatially speaking.
Below the tide creeps back and folds itself with salt andundertow; gulped by the cracked
earth like an anti-drink; reminding howthe mouth’s involved in burial and birthing; my
grave swimminghole;
after which, I come to prefer the tide’s tale of all now; abovewhich, the sky spits birds as
points of exclamation.
For the people by the people (and of)
Their faces were stroked by atomic telemetry, lightly
unfixed inslow-motion, but to no effect.
Ultimately; and that’s theproblem.
There is sensory inflexion in this (landscape venue);
The style a pixilated smear of memorious memorandum
or something asserenely careful; as sleep.
Trumped by a cityscape acne ofmanipulated glass
up ending everything fantastic with fast
haunting cirrus clouds, both fast and haunting
they are forciblywhispered up as good ideas.
Territorial names begin to rumor bombs and go
all the way to big screen’s, glory mask, and no,
itain’t pretty: Where’s your cousin now they seem to snap.
Theharbingers of missing questions, also kin.
Cousin, I don’t know, ispretty much going to corner the deal.
And that’s a kind of answer weare addicted to.
These voiced fractions, splay’n slow & eggwhitelyto shine
gut dolly-happy and hurt, like should know better,
Meaning better than to ask, but wait
a minute more and karaoke operaisn’t half bad
if for free or free now — how we endless jumpideals
framed by a class with champagne eyes
punk smarting fromour leave from any big redressing.
Nothing sacred is a shard oftruth that eats the rib.
Their ears are sear-cocked to the void ofnews(ome) noise
their friends are ours and crack right centerfold
until their increases are slighted by the honest dime.
A noteis writ in code above the door, one word
that seems to speak ofexits;
They will picture it, and go
and on their way, lookingfor the country
they case each character for nerve.
attempt at a happy thought
And now how to forgive the self? For some
questions remainedunanswered:
They asked, how do I get to the broken parts
torecord the ways our wholeness came undone?
Some obscure directionshave been returned.
These new surfaces are sheened
with the dewof a momentous miracle;
are also [splintered & soaked]
picturesque and warm to the touch of a hand
not minding what mightlie beneath it: [asunder]
This excites our small neighborhoods andshortly wakes
our vigilante imagination until we band
brashlytogether, and toss
various keys into the gallery of abstraction.
Courage exhibits its solitudes here
on canvases of tents, torepresent “popular attitudes. . . ”
Until accidental gatherers go quiet (quietly) coveting;
the way somemen will manage disrupted
space between accidents andthemselves;
to be retaken up in the head with an old idea
balancing inexactly upright; we peer in.
Handed a cup of cold whitewine; held aloft
by the hand not touching anything; is an oddfame.
Please don’t touch the art aside; there is still theaching.
An urgency to make a decision, instead
of form another“goodnews” opinion about it
[the expectation ofSamaritan’s hour]:
But never mind. Original surprise long agocaused
only the disappointed to abandon future attempts
todress up and go back in; after the mirror
turnedout [sundry] upon further reflection
to be completely honest;
the rest becomes work. A wrecking work;
a way becoming our wayto forgive—
Not just another way.
Row, Row, Row
In this pastime is. In this pastime is the occurrence of thingsinfinite. In this pastime is infancy, and through this an imp of summeris born. The wait belongs to the whole race, and so the water and therising. A septic shipment arrives afloat, and is acclaimed by no-one asits bearer’s bilge gulps and bulkheads drain; we come cobble-tongued indisarray. Packages marked language in black paint pronounce: couragemandrake, courage coffling; have courage when faced with festering gaspsof the factotum. A few prisoners knew of this kind of delivery and typedout proverbial histories from their sepulchers. How wet they were.No-one listens, nor did them, nor will they. Circus chiefs were lionizedby lost laws, and so the digital clicks of bewildered clickers go on theblank clock. Hope in the hopeland hoped hard, but sunk soft. Dampened asthe man. Until random brightness’s, struck with sudden faith,cantilevered gigantic metal silences at the sky, permanently foiling thethundering gates of chaos. No no, said everyman, I am closed. Kill thedangerous ghosts! I also close my eyes, for distance is not hidden fromus come kinds of spongy cancers; such a killing I will neither hide fromnor such cancer come any kind of distance, or from mine. I thinkdistance in fact should show itself, and help us pull.
O, Ohio!Who will hire us to manpower the desk junky’s manna machine? Thefingerman, the joker and the line-cook will. They will hire us toexacerbate our own nomenclature and pay us television. Praise for yourlabor is not a problem, but pay for it, you will. Row by row.
Here are the chapters of the plebian caucuses, writ in management’shand, writ in characters of idiocy, writ in hokum pokus to theterrifiers of your poem, writ in pas de deux— dirge to dance in boxsteps to. And from everything a forgettable speed, and from everythingelse, straining eyes aimed for the hay fields. Shaded from the sun bybranded caps (ranch brand, ranch hand) with curved bills, under which awasted wickedness waits. From things to come a rapture of nothing. FromJacobs ladder, memories of angels climb down into baskets headed forhell—and two homunculus, charged to stabilize the ladder’s feet—laughlike their all alone down there. The little fucks. Because there arealways what ifs, and we our teething on them there.
O to get ahalleluiah now. Just one word from the empty oar lock.
letter to snap shut
Dear he who makes what’s fit to print;
a dare the size ofgrow & grist(s);
Our present day is rather disputatious; & therego
the things I didn’t get to: go my love affairs;
how hierarchybirds clean through afternoons, awash-ed [& shed]
in the blood oflamps [hundred watt] light coming
from tiny cameras on primetimedollarbills; everywhere
you look: what wingspan! How lovely,deeper, water;
is our fit verb all monikered and meandering.
Don’t look now, someone doesn’t agree with me;
And is it also me?Why, let’s make a show of it!
Please champions, launch your rockingchairs, and please
let me tell you about my fever as you rockrest.
This race is very hard without a web of sleeves.
Faintly Iprotect the voluptuously detailed, for you
so I can cram the fringeof freight with (what):
tenacious hivery. Such is the again & again:with us:
sincerely yours; he who holds the prize too close.
Three part fantasy of maps
“—wonder distraction”
A map of the world issituated
in the various shape you were raised in (up-brought
&tells you) the ways you are gone when you want;
a map of the world(too much)
reminds you of everything
you learned watching(memorizing) parades
of hammer & crane operators
& the priestswho architected the shape of the map;
(line, color, code) with [whatwas lying around] this:
a necessity the shape dictates; revealed notinvented.
A map of the world is unrecognizable
flaunting itsthin black name; a round; flaunting
it’s a thin black game; itwonders
with your eyes—tries to correct its keys
withtender cornertips; drawing away until
it sees a future & maps itback to you.
“this is the road, walk on it”
We do not own our mouths outright.
Sometimes you are only saying
until someone hears you. The nerve
of sleep mumblings; sound
improved on self;
permission granted; we kissing back
thewet mouth kissing ours; how the body
translates reasoning behindwrongs; in mouths
there are species of decay and grief; noneother;
(saying said) we swallow because;
the corner of the mouthbelongs to the corner
of the mind; taken aback; the creases
andvalleys of the lip skin fold
like failed countries; we whisperwhen;
fortune doesn’t speak the way; we say it does
when we winfighting, when we win
back our original thought — which itwas;
the tongue makes memory of salt and lies.
Our mouth is sourgent, it walks on
the road of our faces; wanders off.
saywhen (there is nothing)
Like now. Nothing. Things are things.
Behold, subsuming nightmare; a late breeze
slips throughnight’s make believe window.
Only an hour
until Fools Day. Thelines I was reading
lain down, not flat; the cover flaps slightly;slight.
I feel sorry a little shiver.
Now not to quit. Time isa secret.
The ultimate one. Now not to notice, time-wise;
otherwise, you would be happy.
These marks ground as they are made,but push you
off cliffs of air when read; don’t tell me
I haveto drag out my toolbelt (please)
of my trophies of weapons; or have
to tell you one more time;
how long have I been using them?
The question is a scar.
I’ve asked about this since I wasfifty-
five years old—not long after birth,
and then thegraduation from third to pay grade;
a hundred times (yes).Pay-as-you-go lessons
were a favorite then; was my stock answer
to visiting kin who bent in half to me
to inquire, “what isyour favorite subject?”
I have posted this sign on every smallbusiness
venture I have not fructified. I have completed
so manychange of address forms by now.
And now it is catching up withme.
To survive this homelessness
I must abscond with a name
for each separate loss.
Note:
“Three part fantasy of maps”: “This is the road, walk on it” isa line from Kate Greenstreet.
