loose ends

Trying to read Kenneth Irby. Can't say that I'm making much headway or really picking up what he's saying; wavelength, frequency, is key. What capacity of mind, what state of mind, would allow you to do so? Or has the heart been so constrained, drawn down to minimal receptivity by the harshness of..what? The lawlessness of the heart, the homelessness of the mind.Your understanding cluttered like a backyard. Beyond, the open country, the lack of distinctions, the land populated by the dead and their dead words.Where are those other entrances that 'the times of understanding make'? Where do we go from here, said the bishop to the Queen, said the prostitute to the bishop.

Must a poet reflect outward, take up a piece of trash in his life, and see it sparkle? But, still, you like the 'datedness' of them, the idea that a moment is marked, recorded, slips by the attention's gaze; something insignificant, one's whole life made up of what's made up...

Of course, there's precision, exactness; but there's also fuzziness, jumbled up stuff that defies expectations, closures, definition. Poetry is not a system, nor is it philosophy. 'Ends' are provisionally given; are also stepping stones to new beginnings.

There are only two types of people in the world: those who wear hats and those who don't; no, that's not quite right: those who are Kashmiri and those who aren't; or was it muslim, and non-muslim? You forget. There are only two types of people: those who forget...there are only two types of people in the world: those who believe there are only two types, and those who do not.

The faint pencil marks, return to them, to see what caught your imagination in the evening of the mind. See if it still holds.Look back, the direction of your soul. Being lost. Is that not also a way? Fish out some choice words, turn of phrase, moment of mind alighting on some object, flowering of imagination, for no rhyme or reason. The primitive, foundational aspect of memory, that cannot be traced back any further, that resists explanation. We see everything with memory (Hockney). Trust, trust in the world...

'In the moonlight
the explorers have lost
all sense of self.'

'and the moon
covers into blue the empty beer cans on the porch'

'I have not seen you anywhere...
I have only wanted to see you everywhere'

'and in the flames
of the fireplace
all loves, all persons,
ever touched..

flare, buckle, and flare back'

Look back, again. Will it make a difference? The longer you stare, the more acute your bewilderment. Pick up the loose ends again.

'eyes turned back, inside,
blind, stumble

on, into the love
I cannot come to

any other way.'