A map of anything
by Jim Benz
1. A depiction of the real
at the edge of displacement
beside the fire or in the cupboard
cramped & feinting
disposable pale irrelevant
2. Flowers & faces
in fused unison
it started with a buzz
listening to voyeurs
(not quite immoral)
pills & coughing
some random image or thought
splicing the distance
(there is no agonist)
the strain of words
where everything is thin
3. Wit & enunciation
of marketing research
like a holy proposal
I don't disappoint / need / enjoy
breeding their precepts
as far as the head can spin
an ad hoc conjunction
4. Far removed from the context
A cluster of beliefs.
All order and explication is deployed.
And they allow ... flowers.
Considered by other texts.
Everyone is involved.
History does not have a goal.
In complete contrast:
Is it really impossible that its leaves quiver when there is no wind?
It rises above the rays of a black sun.
Its relation is to the world.
Ongkarn Chang Nam
(Proclamation Cursing the Water)
She has just finished drinking something.
Studying the inside of life.
Styles & movements.
"... taking off a mask finding a mask ..."
"... the land of dreams / the far side of the sky."
The circle of houses and temples.
The drawings are clearly connected.
"Their foolish eyes."
The lyric speaker and the far flung hyperbole.
The monarch described as an avatar.
The phenomenon explained by a hypothesis.
5. The author's self within the work
The standard of perfection.
To present something as "it is in itself."
To some transcendent Reality.
To substantiate the canonical mystery.
Which accords primacy.
Which has been set in advance.
6. Fluent Gibberish
Years the intensification
And many by argument
As that wake by wake
As introduced generation only according
Others are in followed market quoting
Thus in composition intended to question
7. Dat gaat niet
the simplest solution
Home come and war the win to is
wants man fighting the what that know folks
show. / Merry forever, ferries of fleet a. / Remanded
sorrows the, sanded are feet clay the / one
by one. "Expressive as off come to shout
to have didn't you days those in." Beside
steps / two, over steps three hobbles surgeon dream
the / decoration by bludgeoned, harmony by / braced. Home
slaughter the of ponies / circus the -- distraction demands dominion.
9. Titles are a means of control
The fire of his own confliction,
Echoes, parentheses, hush'd whispers, fear-stalk, steel-thread, brow and sweat,
His hesitation and conception, the pounding in his temples, the parsing of stones and blood in his silence,
The cracking of dry bones and broken bones, and of the sky and bright-lit monoliths, and of coins in the coffer,
The chill of the dead lips of his voice o'erwhelmed by the commotion of smiling,
A few dry kisses, a limp embrace, a remission of sins,
The sour of his breath and rot on his words as niceties dumbly wane,
Sorrow alone or in the cold-stare of populations, or in the almighty shadow of glass-clad towers,
The tight fist of discomfort, the full-sun blazing, the funereal dirge of no one flailing or fleeing.
Posted on 07/14/2011
Copyright © 2020 Jim Benz
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Paul Lastovica on 07/14/11 at 10:35 PM|
It's been too long since I've seen something new from you. I'm especially fond of #8.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 07/15/11 at 03:29 PM|
Ah, meat. Thank you, Jim.
|Posted by Stephan Anstey on 07/20/11 at 01:46 AM|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 07/20/11 at 08:19 PM|
Flawless. Relentlessly extraordinary.
|Posted by Cole Miller on 03/12/13 at 02:32 PM|
"history does not have a goal"
i'm just gonna sit on this line for a while.
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 08/19/13 at 01:21 PM|
there is so much to feed on here, Jim. so much to glean and devour and absorb and be satiated by. it is language heaven. the scale of which is challenging and the summit of which is exultation to the senses.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 01/17/14 at 12:50 PM|
...for instance, specifically anything mapped thus.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 06/01/17 at 11:37 PM|
Deviant, I know, but I really can't get enough of the far flung hyperbole; perhaps a symptom of the minimalist metaphysical regime presiding over my post-prandial penguin impersonation.