Joshua Clover Poems

Hit Title Date Added
1.
The Map Room

We moved into a house with 6 rooms: the Bedroom,
the Map Room, the Vegas Room, Cities
in the Flood Plains, the West, & the Room Which Contains All
of Mexico.We honeymooned in the Vegas Room where
...

2.
Field Effect

For 8 months he lay in bed over the

difference between "the bell rings" & "he rings
...

3.
Royal

They moved across the screen like a computer simulation.
They moved across the screen like complex models & we learned
to call this a nature show.
Animals but set in gray shades for video capture with a lighter area for
...

4.
Orchid & Eurydice

In one version you must convince every living thing one by one
to weep until he climbs back into the marriage-house,
that earth about which it is said that bread is the glue of the earth.
Certainly glue is money, the phrase "the tears of things" is money,
...

5.
What's American About American Poetry?

They basically grow it out of sand.
This is a big help because otherwise it was getting pretty enigmatic.
Welcome to the desert of the real,
I am an ephemeral and not too discontented citizen.
...

6.
An Archive Of Confessions, A Genealogy Of Confessions

Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark
City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks.

The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off
...

7.
Valiant En Abyme

Our grand peregrinations through these temporary cities,
These pale window box poppies of the laughing class,
Drifting as if time came in the same long dollops as starlight,
Resemble an epic journey as a coffee bean resembles a llama's foot,
...

8.
Royal

They moved across the screen like a computer simulation.
They moved across the screen like complex models & we learned
to call this a nature show.
Animals but set in gray shades for video capture with a lighter area for
the face.
Almost white they moved across the screen like a compressed
meditation.
But the song was never familiar.
Because this was the only room this was the only room where we
undressed—:
that was the plot.
They moved across the screen across the room but it was not happening
to us.
The image burning in.
Coated with hair & then a lighter area for the face meaning exposed
skin.
We have learned to wear the architecture despite the sky's numerous
advances.
All these things—the speed & the music & the room—happened but
not enough.
We undressed in the room we could not take off where I handcuffed
you to the story.
This is the work of the brain—itself a bloody spring or electric wire
wrapped in ripe gray gauze—
you like it.
(2 lobes resembling the holy tablets delivered into the veldt's dry
speed—the Laws
prefigured in the neutral network's burning thicket.)
They moved across the screen howling but the sound turned down.
This happened over & over again—the blue light leaking into the
room like sand.
Burning into the brain in a finery of filamental fire.
The Laws which do not unravel into noise & make a kind of story of
kinked plot
which can't be straightened like a motel wire
hanger looped around your wrists.
The loop like a computer simulation—the thought of the thought—
the image burning in now.
We began to understand what they were—:
the Thou & the shalt & the not
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9.
Ceriserie

Music: Sexual misery is wearing you out.
Music: Known as the Philosopher's Stair for the world-weariness which climbing it inspires. One gets nowhere with it.
Paris: St-Sulpice in shrouds.
Paris: You're falling into disrepair, Eiffel Tower this means you! Swathed in gold paint, Enguerrand Quarton
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10.
"An Archive of Confessions, A Genealogy of Confessions"

Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark
City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks.

The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off
From the magnet of work to the terrible magnet of love.

In the far suburbs crenellated of Cartesian yards and gin
The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children in

Across the bluing evening. It's the hour things get
To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet.

Yikes. It's fine to be here with you watching the great events
Without taking part, clinking our ice as they advance

Yet remain distant. Like the baker always about to understand
Idly sweeping up that he is the recurrence of Napoleon

In a baker's life, always interrupted by the familiar notes
Of a childish song, "no more sleepy dreaming," we float

Casually on the surface of the day, staring at the bottom,
Jotting in our daybooks, how beautiful, the armies of autumn.
...