Basic Problems in Poetry

While I was not thrilled to be made a scapegoat I knew my 



role.  The summer was more or less bitter than the fall.  



Chairs creaked when angels sat in them.  The premise of



their argument also creaked.  Along towards winter, hearts



rose.  Something had gotten underway and was proceeding



under its own power down the wet street above the beach.



Motorbikes wove in and out.  Consciousness turned toward a 



drop of blood shed while adding one more stop to the line,



where thousands would never live.  I would never live there



too, but my perceptions were bent from the start.  I couldn’t



distinguish between identical worlds, nor did I understand



how to dilute my own past enough to make it drinkable.



Certain things that I read suggested this could be done by



developing the proper attitude toward what might in theory



transpire given sufficient passage of time.  But I don’t know



what that is.  Things continue on in endless space, my good



old captain said to me.  Meanwhile session one began by 



revoking the law against breaking promises.  Egregious 



examples were set out on a plain oak table overlaid with 



butcher paper.  Crayons were handed round and then 



deposited into a cylinder that appeared at the window. The



session turned strange when one of the examples lurched



through the room, calling the others names.  My right eye



became distracted at the very instant I knew that this may 



not really be the case.  So be it, lights flickered in the sky and 



tall white letters shone brightly, as we easily saw for 



ourselves. Out of them our futures could be foretold, and the



things that would one day exist could be seen hiding behind



the north wind.  There was nobility in these prospects, which



varied depending on the character of the grain being roasted.



Now was not the time that then was, but then no time was, in



the manner of speaking of it.  And although heavenly 



trumpets tendered three notes for each cake of phrase, I 



knew Satan’s Kingdom had a hand in this.  Therefore session



two called for a different approach.  I drew up a map that



showed us here, where the black dots are, with our 



destination being there, at the edge of the fir trees.  I traced a 



fibrous line between them and off we went.  Maybe it was too 



soon after death for things to have stabilized, because when I 



asked about staff reductions your face turned blue.  As we



floated along, a sense of futility followed us at a respectful



distance, occasionally stopping to rest or take notes.  The 



dark air grew thick, and our progress was stalled thanks to 



*Preternatural Stupendious Prodigious assistance by the *



*Devil given thereunto*.  A low theater crept up from the east.  



I presupposed its existence before analyzing it.  Many times 



I’d done the opposite and found myself carefully arranging 



shadows while the objects that supposedly cast them 



wandered off, pursuing whatever desires or whims were



uppermost in their thoughts, without any consideration for 



my efforts, save to ensure they were fruitless.  In fact this 



became something of a trend over the years, until I counted 



myself among those movable shadows, whose relative 



independence only affirmed their contingent, gratuitous



character.  So I assessed the current situation according to



what depth of conviction I could muster about the judgments 



to be made.  For example, was it sunrise or the middle of the 



night?  We were wide awake, certainly.  And there were birds 



singing.  But a sheet lay over the whole village.  Did it appear 



then, as it does now, that the same question could receive



thousands of different answers, and that we may as well have 



been consigned to the nether side of some unknown planet 



as to have been where we were?  This didn’t seem likely, or 



rather there was no need to exaggerate the case or its 



implications, even as the west wind swept through each



tentative disposition proposed.  What felt clear was the sense 



of a mental journey cut short by stupefaction––and by 



open-mouthed disbelief turned despairingly toward an 



empty corner of the room, which had suddenly enclosed us, 



as the dim light from a sconce revealed a single, round object 



at a distance of approximately five feet, either on the floor or 



hovering just above.  No additional details were available.  I 



called out to it; it called out to me.  Next door someone said 



“Wait for the Face Man to come.”  Whether I knew to whom 



this referred I can’t say.  How could such a problem be borne 



without the elusive gauge of poetry?  Was there any way this 



situation could have offered me a more refined sense for



what was lacking, as I struggled to humor it into giving a hint 



what the next step should be?  But there was no next step. 



Present and future were simply abandoned to the insensate 



devouring gorge.  Alternatively, the round object could have 



been a kind of poem, like Wyatt’s “In Æternum,” although



I’m adding that just now.  At the time I had no idea what it 



was or whether it mattered for me to know, or even whether 



its status as an object was worth confirming.  I did 



nevertheless try to confirm it.  I understood X to be true 



owing to reasons* a,b,c*, and *d*.  In reality, though, X was false, 



for those exact same reasons.  The next day I stood waiting



for a train.  Someone else was living inside me now, which 



changed the problem completely.