my name is Alice Elizabeth, so am I
Allie Sheedy of the movie Short Circuits thus angry
or Elizabeth McGovern self-controlled?
This question is posited
on a television screen where I can't quite identify
the actress shown—which is she?
I am Allie and I will continue to rant.
My voice rises in real life often—
because I am 'passionate' ... that's
a convenient word.
I'm still in the forest, darkening
wishing I were 'nicer.'
Hardwood says, You should stand up soon
I'll help you
I say, I have cramps
I say, I'm using my period, to get pissed off and to Know.
I dreamed, last night, about an immense Dead Seal
below the surface of the water in a harbor
pull the curtain down.
For months you would not break the spell
for eternities you have not done so, citing economic
exigencies; the whole thing is a mess.
I might rather be dead
than doing what it takes to keep the seal under water
E is for seal. For spell. For suppression.
To take part in you is to die
is why one dies
Have I said this before?
I am Alp the Dizzy.
The dead seal isn't a person, it's poetry the seal
of selfhood, dead grotesquely large and richly hardening.
'Hardwood it was someone like you
you drowned the seal'
'No I'm making both you and it 'hard.' '
And I'm still in the forest.
And I'm still in the forest
Money's more the real live poetry
abstract symbolic imaginary
trade your life for it and trade it for your life
so you'll have something 'to do'
Sink the whale
and sleep all day in the real world, up and functioning
more fully imagined and dreamed, in society's
than in your own, imagination?
I'm standing up Hard
I keep being Hardwood myself, dark and hard.
Initiating a new 'broken symmetry' (spinning to the
Left, like a newborn neutrino)
so that we can have a new consciousness ...
am I doing that? Yes I think so.
The forest contains a French restaurant
every meter or so ...
difficult to fast in this dream vision.
We're a very unpopular group today
We've shot off another great bomb
and we've shot down a terrorist,
an Arab, young, before
we even found out what he 'knew.'
Tell me something beautiful, bitter
because we are somehow bitter, forever,
a taste included in origin, in love, in you.
So I don't have to be cloyed.
... soul's waters are reticent
It had nothing in it,
that swamp; because I didn't know how to look for
the parts of its obvious whole—death is
minute, flavorful parts—which are said to spin
as I'm said to walk, moving while else
mostly unconscious of that.
In the new consciousness
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem