jim leftwich, 3 poems

Frequency neural quench

Sentences out playing in the sentence, working and moving, there is a little yardsale dent in the wounded thing, an idea, thingks. One thing leads to another whatever is left unsaid goes without saying, a formula folded like genetic information in the gridlock. Merely discharge the parenthetical air. Unfortunately there is a rose descriptic from sea to shiny seatbelt, no internal surprise then put to plaid, arbitrary as condensed space baseball oasis, what if there is no reaction to your observation? What if the story feels structureless and stuffed with beards? Partakes of pancakes again and again. Bone knot integrity or deep in the albatross? The self is off-limits, otherwise empty or empathic. The low seams are a fire in the palm. The tall meanings disrupt the word of its ahistorical inactive chimneys. What if the metalanguages of the moon landings originate in themselves? This is external finally liminal such literary scratch of speech.

jim leftwich

04.30.3017

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Poems By Any Means

The process of sympathetic poem-magic, the kinetic meanings of what -- of what is at, of what is in the hat -- denies the becoming of the inept adept adapted to the usefulness of poetry (of a poetry, or in the absence of that, of that specific at, of any poetry), the bottom of the poem washing out, the poet as energy-conversion (catalyst also vehicle) plummeting, while someone intrinsically referential is working in the switching yard, building a train. Intent to tone the reader tuned to relational force, what unlocks the necessity of definition or description, wherein speech is speech and thinking impels an uneven impetus against accepted process, against the sclerotic spectrum of acceptable political discourse (what is poetry if not the poem plummeting from some ancient building (it is nighttime, in the rain)) while the assertion of meat to perpetuate increments of conclusive evidence neither denies nor negates itself, but strays from aesthetic recognition towards the purpose of its roots.

jim leftwich

04.30.2017

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Would no, importantly so

The fact coils around the attitude of the fact. Since there is no such fever as the fire in the lull of a poem. Words, too, are possible qualifications of their ways with facts (no way around the fact of a word; words only nostrils other than many ladders; only one way out for the word having its way with a harried fact): long in the tooth is a suite of facts. Words only facts of feet are culled from the open lattice. Poems pool in deeds, near the clear nostrils of the seeping sea. Measure the fire with heavy feet. The statement has nothing to do, other than be itself. Statements are poems whose functions are music. Point coin or inviolate exit, many things are subject to the fevers of this ocean, never more than the letter, later for the ladder. Poetry is culled mulch, cannot of carrots, canned effects of the open sea meeting in equal functions. Very that many exist there dark theory themselves. Meaning most instances only finally music. Think into language, since articulation owns the reader in its poems. Poems in most instances are meat-ladders manning the exits.

jim leftwich

04.30.2017