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Bernadette
Mayer
I dream an eye cut out, but before, someone’s eye was cut out first, who’s first. Maybe that’s why Poe is long beyond words yet disappearing overnight. Joyce:
What is the mechanism of the mind human mind that at one point says
to itself, what, but what does it say? If I knew that I’d know
why I’m faltering and pfloudering . . . that says to itself,
I’m allowed? Aloud? Quick, think back, you know what it is,
I shall be released, my character’s changing, I’m not
an actress, invulnerable as human, words, a willing word, is not
come easy by, is not come by, must stop for a minute, I challenge
you, I’m at my worst, acceptance of the view, but from what
level of alliance? And you, you are the energy which forces me to
tell and to tell you, the greatest envy of them all, to their envy,
to tell you that the kind of love that sustains the energy I’ve
imposed on you is impossible any more. Anymore, that’s history
but do you see the awful irony in this (and here I’m not even
dealing with the issues, I can’t, but with the evidences, with
the issues as they are reformed), irony and why I can’t still
do it, even though the greatest earthquakes and firecrackers of
all time are dying to dynamite the iron from my heart of iron simply
to let me use it, fiercely, to cease and to create something, mine
it, in the most human way, synergy/resources, you see the crack
in this, I know it. And I see it tumbling too. I had to clothe you
with that kind of love and now the clothes get thrown right back
on me so sloppily that eye can’t see, eye is covered by a shirt
or maybe even a vestment, and what do I do and you are waiting.
Before, I was waiting, the future will be nothing like the past,
please, that might seem like an odd thing to say today but dig it,
change that to honey, cause I can’t. It’s not the little
engine that could, that one couldn’t think clearly, this one
a genuine engine with faults, that is cracks and triations, oh shit
I fall in again I am not scared, but, where am I falling endlessly
into. Beginnings are necessarily early and an early drought in the
midst of too much rain . . . and the writing, I’ve something
to write about that: it seems to me now (my electric typewriter’s
just arrived from Philadelphia) that the writing is false a false
front like the clothes I threw at you and you, so good you are,
threw them right back. Notice I never put them back on, fit arms
into sleeves, etc. They’re just all over me like a grave and
what you did, that wasn’t really wearing them either but the
words on paper were (!) a code like I said, a dense code, a way
to think to work without thinking, a talent, an exploration sure,
but how many buts can I put in without revealing I’m resisting,
maybe a stick up the butt, what I done to you. Why’d I say
that. Equals. So much hunger never to feed in the water never to
breathe there: “Break up.” I’m stormier. Who? You
and me? Chance we’ll . . . See I’m not even thinking about
“dead.” But dead as word pops up, so but still yet, I
used to use adjectives like peculiar all the time, now I’m
up to conjectural adverbial conjunctive convulsive prepositional
towards “The So” of it. Does that mean more motion emotion
is capable of being descried described synchronous with the view,
silly languages, but but I but if I still I can’t even yet,
but maybe almost, form, I am so disappointed (that I may yet disappear),
do you see it? Discard
the book: When you first I am enabled to touch with you (immigrant
so) that you know was something that could raise up all expectations
that the past made me sure held all solution, as we said. A boundless
love in this sense that is with you (leaving me senseless) is very
complicated. But as an answer, which you say is wrong or impossible,
please show me, as an answer it is perhaps the most impossible again
to give up. Let me try to say to you another way: maybe better I
didn’t write, is it, were it better to say, and is that Lacanic?
Another way: if the depth of my neurosis emerged without relation
to love . . . I’ve just fooled myself, that would be impossible
for anyone. (Have a) But, if I had come to solve the problem of
compulsive shoplifting, say, wouldn’t it be easier, what is
that? Easier for me to abandon the complex of my history and reform.
No, I’ve got it all mixed up again. I guess the shoplifter
and I are at least both looking for something for free. This thing
with Max where he’s no longer my “prisoner” this
is very bad because now I’ll try to hide my feelings from him
and our love, mine and his, like I feared from the start, even,
daring, there’s no guarantee on that. Guarantees on all stolen
goods. So I feel like I am nothing and want to steal, I want to
steal and be a revolutionary, I want a response, I want to alter
the environment, remember? It’s like a vision, I want an answer,
I’m not thinking complicated, I’m thinking fairly free,
play the simple and see what you come out with. But, and but, that
love is something to give up (give yourself away). I’m so disappointed
I will die, will iron burn? The mix with you, ally, to make an indestructible
alloy. I will describe myself. I am all curtains torn, I am tall
and right now I have no stomach to speak of, I don’t have to
go out at eight, but, neither do I have a choice, my arms are cold
and I’m somewhere I’m used to being, lucky thing I’m
pretty or what would I have done all these lovers. Something else.
The thing I hate about the analytic method is too revealing to tell
you. O my possession, will you have to human too? The objects of
the past become, no it’s the past that radicalizes humans into
objects and there’s no driving through that kind of field without
a crash, everybody’s field day. Nighttime too. Especially dreams.
Max is scared. Here I am. Will I be able to take care of him? If
I can remember enough. Perhaps something new. I
dream I will always be “separate from my job.” A vigilant
sleep, I quarrel with no one. Then spring (the revolver) adds a
revolver to make it sound tough. In Meissen, she was raped: skewered
language to make it fit on, to make her stop. A reunion on subways
where the clown says: “42nd Street, Home of the Supreme Court
of the Land where they serve hotcakes.” Hotseats? You shouldn’t always be here, Hello this is Dr. Witticism, Please hang up and hang yourself.
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