Poetry
BRAIN FLOWERS (from Making Water)
Play classical music for the plants. Shale that once clasped
a shell to its heart ranged around the terrace. The gardener
cuts the bark to show me it bleeds a milk. Perfect stairs drawn
up into a rock, record of centuries
*
Rain/chicken pox/parasites/
the purity of boredom
Droplets drip down the tips, inverted translucent bells of
Forgetting. He’s gone now, but had been to study datura
with the native people. She said ‘that dense atmosphere’
there eyes stud the foliage
*
Vertigo
running down the spiral
stairs during light
rationing
Processed to powder in urban bars in the capital. Take
off your shoes give me your car keys sit on the ground.
The houses’ high-walled enclosures blink with broken
bottle shards, bougainvillea below
*
Blue/green
/brown/
Transparent
the complete
Anamnesis
an amnesia
Suppression of proper motor functions / the will
Memory loss serums introduced to the Garden by its
own fruit. They’ll say look at the fallen world and
we’ll look North
*
Flying ointments for young initiates. My eyes are open
but I can’t see
Piel Roja smoke climbs around afternoon sunlight. Sunday,
listen to him speak on the effect of rock v. classical in plant
growth. The “farm” a cement house in the jungle ground
gives way with orange ferment/fallen vine
Plant sentience explained in the book with a Rousseau
painting on its face. The lion eats his repast, behind
vine and bird of paradise. When asked to draw Eden,
she reproduced this
*
Days speaking one tongue, years another. It makes you
feel imaginary
Henri never saw the jungle. It was possible for him to
paint that place of total non-identity in which the lion sits.
I’m a primitive placeholder for meaning folded into the leaves
of experience
*
Imagination was that fallen middle
-class world
The heart muscle by nature weaker in the very tall circulating
blood through long limbs. Mocking the height of mountains
in North America, pointing to our Alps in Chile. It was early
Six, when he died on the sofa
