Ange Mlinko, p.1
THE INTRIGUES
If every page was a frontispiece, and a book not that
laborious farming to some catastrophic end
which copying eyes would retrace, then I could
dispense with jealousy, I mean genealogy,
and be original every time, for the conversions
that inspiration is. A phantom face value haunts me,
but the inverted library; candles at the bottom of the pool;
these are the ghosts of the glass house designed
to be invisible in a wilderness; or I could begin
to incorporate all the reflections of things
that certify their inversions. Meanwhile the music
strobes so rapidly it uncoils in understanding, not time,
adrift in technical registers holding relations in light patterns
all the night til morning’s mimosas under blue sky embowering
our nicer noise to a gold-stringed noon acoustic.
A, I do not know if you are negative or intensive,
in a city like a double window whereby all images
of real-life death, like photography a kind of painting
different ways around the park and through it
shadows feint across paths fallen trees.
If it is spiritual having applications to make,
dogs patterning imprimatur, let flowers grow always in defiles
gluing flame to flame in endless Spring duplications.
Under the arcade, thinking the landscape
in the mirrored building is the true outside
a sparrow butts its reflections like handwriting
meeting itself on both sides of a diary page.
And not to be trapped in a dream, a journey as far
as the looking glass, which extends along an axis
that displaces the eye as midpoint, or befall ourselves.
The argument that year was that “hyacinth”
should not be used where “flower” suffices.
Here where brand-name vices include Lust and Envy
and Representation, is it the latter
that leads me to sleep too much, or is it
vernacular lavender softening the rocks
that makes, well, dejà vú seem avant-garde?
The nights are cool, and accumulation at the heart
drafts the ghost I told you about, that generates
a book out of two foci and places it so
to read its term in its definition, a glow on the horizon
that is also my sunburn. It goes about with a movie
playing on the underside of its umbrella, tropical red
as the ghost devolves to dew blobs and whispers
of the lawyers of Argentina and Gibraltar.
If every page was a frontispiece, and a book not that
laborious farming to some catastrophic end
which copying eyes would retrace, then I could
dispense with jealousy, I mean genealogy,
and be original every time, for the conversions
that inspiration is. A phantom face value haunts me,
but the inverted library; candles at the bottom of the pool;
these are the ghosts of the glass house designed
to be invisible in a wilderness; or I could begin
to incorporate all the reflections of things
that certify their inversions. Meanwhile the music
strobes so rapidly it uncoils in understanding, not time,
adrift in technical registers holding relations in light patterns
all the night til morning’s mimosas under blue sky embowering
our nicer noise to a gold-stringed noon acoustic.
A, I do not know if you are negative or intensive,
in a city like a double window whereby all images
of real-life death, like photography a kind of painting
different ways around the park and through it
shadows feint across paths fallen trees.
If it is spiritual having applications to make,
dogs patterning imprimatur, let flowers grow always in defiles
gluing flame to flame in endless Spring duplications.
Under the arcade, thinking the landscape
in the mirrored building is the true outside
a sparrow butts its reflections like handwriting
meeting itself on both sides of a diary page.
And not to be trapped in a dream, a journey as far
as the looking glass, which extends along an axis
that displaces the eye as midpoint, or befall ourselves.
The argument that year was that “hyacinth”
should not be used where “flower” suffices.
Here where brand-name vices include Lust and Envy
and Representation, is it the latter
that leads me to sleep too much, or is it
vernacular lavender softening the rocks
that makes, well, dejà vú seem avant-garde?
The nights are cool, and accumulation at the heart
drafts the ghost I told you about, that generates
a book out of two foci and places it so
to read its term in its definition, a glow on the horizon
that is also my sunburn. It goes about with a movie
playing on the underside of its umbrella, tropical red
as the ghost devolves to dew blobs and whispers
of the lawyers of Argentina and Gibraltar.