by Catherine Taylor
Someone scratched those stars in the sky, so I could show you how stagecraft works. Keep your head tipped back. You’ll see something soon. I’m right here, disappearing your pupils. Wait. Come back.
There’s never to deal with.
Approaching eyes will see only what I’m supposed to write, my dar
keywords: South Africa’s legacy a narcotizing mix of electoral democracy, multiculturalism, despair, inequity and material conditions unchanged, crimes unpunished, all the things to write, but not coming
to the conclusion to interrogate reconciliation’s hegemony, so the sjambok past can still sting
no heliotrope here
Oh lovely shell, oh lovely egg, oh lovely inside this snug egg, snug womb, oh lovely Enlightenment me, my eggy subjectivity’s not dispersed, but all about the body’s skin so I fuck therefore I am more real or eat, of course a monad, that’s no issue, only you are when I’m not legitimizes assault.
There is a shifting shadow under a cloud. I think. Seeding means
the piercing of stories. A plane trails a faster shadow. And the sky is so big. The loss of possibility turns my wanting inward.
Bad family’s a cancer or a cause. Celebration’s inevitable denial
flaunts misdeed and even evil cleans its teeth in the mirror of not
me, not my people.
Claims can’t corroborate or be made for maids and nanny’s not
talking now except to say in Afrikaans, “those were happy, happy days, so long ago” and “I can’t understand any of you.”
Language haunted by history. Languages haunted by histories.
Up the ante on your etymologies. Grammar may be a structure
of domination’s nation, but just because it sutures subject to object, predicate, or property doesn’t mean disruptions jump the fence with
Maybe vernacular’s an agent of unruliness, or maybe it’s in the swing between verse and chorus of writing as praxis (Adorno Deutsch cracks the code) and Esperanto’s whacked dream to make a necessary mash-up of internationalisms that cleaves language between its selves.
That’s the polyphonic shit you crave. “Language as both bond and division” Wracked syntax a revolution won’t engender, but at least there’s a thread from boredom’s doom. From chaos to story and back
is meaning’s green oscillation.
All this hearing and being heard takes time.
In an interview, I’m asked if my text invokes the aesthetics of the plane crash, the center moving forward only to go down, then up, in flames. Yeah. Either that or its just a wreck.
“Someday” is a lash. Futurity gets you through the day only to end it. “Indefinite detention” is our special latex helix.
Today’s New York Times: “Defeating radical Islam is going to require striking the proper balance between aggressiveness and restraint.”
|“The fact of the matter is that nationalism thinks in terms of historical destinies, while racism dreams of eternal contaminations, transmitted from the origins of time through an endless sequence of loathsome copulations: outside history.” –Benedict Anderson
"But when I gits my Affikin Up then I know that Whatever personality (sic) I may possess is simply the collage effect of too many meaningful documentaries.”
You can’t say that.