Penguin Poets 2016
after withstanding (I hung in there)
reading an irritating new book
reading an irritating new book
by a poet (and her dog)
it was a relief to fall into the arms
of this excellent poet who seems
to become grander
as she goes
from IF THE REAL IS SO REAL WHY ISN'T IT
Do you know what it's like to be transparent?
I'm not particularly interested in anything
but say the first thing that comes to mind.
You of course aren't here, you're where you are.
I sound like something I've heard before.
But where would the words come from? We
believe so touchingly in language acquisition,
enculturation, inculcation, and imitation;
I remember trying to be myself. Now I feel
I was inserted into life exactly not to do that.
For I have been robbed of everything that made
me social: lovers, certain close family — and I
have been ill, too; I think it's desired that I have
not much but words. What good would that do?
The new language is that of explaining these facts.
So far. The human condition is not what any-
one has said. There are forces in charge of us
that have never been named. And will I
name them? I will name something; and it
will then be real. Effable and known to you.
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