--- N I C K   M O N T F O R T

for William Gillespie



I
A baby’s codex develops every funny glyph here
into jolly keywords, literally. My narration
(our proud, queenly, regal scheme) thinks up
various witticisms: Xeres’s yammering zoo.

II
A code that’s not acoustic
clever secretive graffiti
right there, spelled out, and yet
orthogonal to my usual senses.

III
The Good Sir Rhetorical Figure
stood ready, so I outfitted him
and set him in the story, next
to the guy with the scythe.

IV
Allies sound in songs I make,
brothers joined to bring a chain,
sisters set to weave the text
against obliteration.

V
Arbitrary arrangements
break down exactly. I sort
texts, tirelessly,
uniformly, universally.

VI 
Mary entered the army
because of me. Her weaponry
malfunctioned while in demo mode
and she was rearranged.

VII
As fast as pen to paper can move or keys
can type I say whatever I or you want to say
whatever lies under the surface of the mind
ready to ouijify our bored selves a bit

VIII
Puzzle my nature. If no complex
or syndrome manifests,
if bubbles of thought rise
empty, think it over.

IX
An ordinary trellis
on which the fairer grows —
I’ve been the frame for riddle-work
and for a yellow rose.

X
I am one fine chunk: carbon
rigidly sintered, precisely
polished, regular, vivid.
Well — who am I?

XI
It’s five o’clock and I’m about to do
the most incredible thing a writer
can do, to open tremendous vistas of
imagination. It’s eight: I leave for dinner.

XII 
Of feats and virile posturings I sing,
securing man’s obedience to my rule.
I’m pleasing when observed and in the breach —
That’s why those big-time poets give me five.

XIII
Prodigal, I supply almost
all orthographic symbols
for wordsmiths to pound
into crisp, sharp stanzas.

XIV
Choose a thalamus and a dieresis.
Identify the novellas in the thalamus
and replace each one by counting
seven novellas beyond it in the dieresis.

XV
So, letter rut. I led
a word row onward.
I draw no word row:
A deli turret. Telos.

XVI
I won’t even mention
how people sometimes
call attention to things
by claiming not to.

XVII
I don’t misspeak, I misthink,
preparing a mouth-watering
mistake. Pataphysician?
But I hardly know ‘er.

XVIII 
an accuser secures me in a crime annex:
razor wire crosses over us as we move.
no nice cinema is seen. sure, i can exercise, access
a mere six memoirs, scrive a concise missive.

XIX
Once I’ve said it, I’ll say it
again: Only enough’s enough.
Once I’ve said it, I’ll say it
again: Only enough’s enough.

XX
I am some hum that draws the song
along, that links the like and
syncs the poem’s sense to make
the beat repeat, and wash, and rinse.

XXI
An archer’s string is drawn. Enough,
barber of my heart — let go your revolver.
An ache’s sting. Is dawn enough, babe
of my heat? Let go, you evolve.

XXII
I outfit entire lines with
identical supplies —
required equipment in this
particular lyric, this riddle.

XXIII
I coach a yahoo. I go, abuzz.
I queue fourteen and six.
I jam a vowel. I lay
a yoke. I keep you up.

XXIV 
My words are pure and said at once.
I plow this Earth’s good field
and place my seeds of thought
one at a time, with care, with space for each.

XXV
Bök works on odd, non-orthodox books —
concocts porno plots, slops food, controls prows.
Toronto’s bookshops blossom. O solo song, bon mots
so strong, words shot to color: color of fjords.

XVI
We want today. Think of choice, where
you have the real thing your way. It’s different.
Do just, good things. Bring a new generation
to life. Go to it. Do it.