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   t r o p e r /s c h e m a t o r i u m

--- 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.

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2006 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |