[ToC]

 

FOR GEORGE BRAQUE

Steve Barbaro

I.

                               the knife sitting atop the table is the very
                   lucidity we are actually seeking whenever we drop the very    
                      knife now still sitting there right there next to the very
                          pepperish-looking apples one of which seems very
                                 close to being pierced if it is not already
                 very very drippy so that whoops right up off of the table a very
        spare almost laughably-existent drip is repeating itself to form a puddle so very
                          not slippery but the table itself the table the table
                  the table is very human-like very rather neighborly its face
                        is several domestic objects congealed into a pattern
                               a very silly a very cryptic a very effusive
                         schema and I think I mostly mean to say it’s very
                                strange how everything one might ever
                              need to know of the entire world the table’s
                                mien props aloft very very so very very very
                                          very unsurely

 

II.

            but really what is really not eminently really very knowable about how that same knife’s
                                                                                edge has now made another further
                                                                                         additional added puddle consisting largely
                                                  consisting entirely of mine own blood’s
                                                                                                           finality

 

III.

   but when is it all enough like resolutely like I mean I mean what is pure thingness’s
                    threshold its brink but oh look just look look look the apples the blood
                                 the table the puddles plus the knife all of it
                              all of it and the foot my foot foot which is very
  very very much mine and which leads in time and in space to my face which is the table par
                                   excellence of personhood paraded across
                 streets across stations parks intersections downtowns where the pattern
                            repeats itself so very very surely in arm-leg-arm-skull-
                                 torso combinations but the apples the apples those
                              pepperish-looking bulks how they without ever once
                        moving show they maybe probably show so very very very
                                           sharply the drift of those frames we so
                                              casually call minutes minutes
                                                          seconds

 

 

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The poem is, um, prolix enough? Click [here].