Saturday, August 15, 2009

Letter to a Silvery Mime in Yellow

I knew you’d not adjust the tug on principle. Even so
the reason I first sat and return where it’s dirty is sexual.
I cannot disabuse myself of motivation as an acorn might
its casing. Then it helps you stand so straight in your postulate.
Then the world and Union Square station are painted on, if
just you. There are visits in a visit that have to do successively
with the stay. I was wearing these pants in my last
letter I think. If there’s a better boy way into metaphysics.

again may I say yours is perfectly pulled across.

The sunniness signs on you somewhat more than silver did,
but these passers through carry pantries of selves along, miss
the pouring pastoral, and think advertisements about you.
Sell me nothing of your stillness stock so I can say so, even
poorly. I recognize my copy chief and dare her to look at us
when she throws me one and turns it old as cola on the floor.
A way to stay to regulate. Chance is the long run concentrative
you mean? I am not a shade the same as you. I am late.

You are like Kant’s dove, winging a vacuum, even inching not.

When I was fifteen in the public library I’d find in greater
metropolitan phonebooks other Brians’ addresses
and write away to them for help, Brian, dear on principle.

Sometimes when I’m too much in the waves of us you wash
in, I’ll find myself outside italicizing a wire of birds
with an immediate cursor. Or I am the cursor and
the wave won’t take over. Do you anticipate the drop of this
before you? Our trembling hangs on so twisted a stem; even so,

the six train runs beneath us and stacks the two bills
in your foot locker, leveling an all along crisp dispute.

-Brian Blanchfield