Noemie Maxwell

Facts of the Body

     If the body is burned there is always an ash
     and this ash is the salts that can never be burned.  
     I take out my silver gun.  
     The world is beautiful but doomed.  
     Globes on the ferny banks of the throat.  
     Globes in the globy blood.  
     Spurs of the anise. Salts of the bone are lime.  
     Axis. Muscles pull bones.  
     Axis. All the world's water was in stones.  
     Think about the long-handled fire snuffer.  
     It is a fact of this world.  
     Think about flip chart, coin toss, winch.   
     Grapes hanging under the jaw.  
     A thousand propellers choke the air.
     A thousand waterwheels pour from the hole.
     The stars knock you around.
     Friction reels the runners on the spools.
     You feel that the pattern you have identified is the meaningful one. You see day turning 
     into night.
     It is comparable to any waning.  
     Clover. Balsa. Bend spoons.  
     Each point of the body is connected to the horizon.  
     Diving into the smooth water you attain equilibrium.  
     For every mental event there is a groove in the brain.  
     Like tiny snails clinging to the lid.  
     Like the ribs of seeds.  
     The connection between thought and muscle must be a fluid.  
     Fluid makes the valves open and close.  
     It makes the faces that loom between the bars.  
     Sauces of the faces.  
     Salves and jellies of the sockets surrounding the balls.  
     They glaze friction and carry poisons to the pores. 
     They mak horses racing over fields. 
     The seizures in the filaments. The metals and salts.  
     You remember a concept because of a sound.
     Feel the breasts swell.
     A sudden alarm when vein burps.
     The balls of the abacus roll incrementally.
     You remember something because of a shape.  
     The shape of a boxcar pulled 60 degrees to the left.  
     Clouds in the shape of wheat fanning the air like a vision of the hero.  
     The see-through combs of the marine waters.  
     There is a roaring wind. It whips the hair of the picnickers. The umbrella begins to close.  
     There is a white powder on the lips. Winged ants cloud the fronds.  
     Exoskeleton clicks. Synchronous. X and K.  
     Anchor. Flyswatter. Ambulance. Pale ponds of the estate. Correlate. Wait. Correlate.  
     One town like another.  
     Someone moves in the kitchen.   
     Someone moves near you.  
     Above you always is the coiling blue.  
     It is evidence of you and precedes your arrival.  
     You move in a cloud of motes, force travelling from the shock of every step
     to the cushion between the spine and skull.  
     You could be a mother in a yellow house by a stream.  
     Your child and her friends are with you.  
     You empty the contents of a yellow pitcher into water.  
     Inside, a breeze washes through gauze.  
     Miniature shrimps roil in the pot.  
     There are drawers with spoons and knives.  
     Touch the doorknob the same number of times.  
     Step on the green tiles. Touch the underlid. 
     Look with the right eye. Now wake.  
     Air pulses through cavities near where you sense.  
     Sound pulses through the ear canal, the sinuses.  
     Day carries your scent.  
     Remember that life is a thin film on a planet whose yellow paths are dotted with red.   
     Remember how difficult it is to get all the heat out of anything.  
     Remember the great wingspans riding the waves of noon.  
     Swallow noon.  
     Swallow Clydsedale. It is a fact of this world.  
     You might be a grave through which all newness pours.  
     Lips on the edge of trembling. Pupils dilated.  
     Born blue bloke. Shaky lids.  
     Accommodate. Floor buffed.

Copyright © Noemie Maxwell 1995

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