When the author provides answers to these questions, the reader is forced to slow down and reflect knowing that the clock is ticking in the background and the reader is racing against the author’s own line of thinking.
Surely it’s the heart before the course
sun sets and rises
and no reason
to see the clock’s hands before noon.
When Garcia asks, “This is the body to sing?” it is more a challenge than a question, for, as they write, this is a “song sung by heart.” If one fails to challenge or mediate the pace set by normative standards, then, it would seem, one is all the more likely to get swept up in it. The first section ends with the same cup of coffee that started this meditation; quickly collapsing the time it took for the reader to traverse those pages.
To read the full interview go to Glass: A Journal of Poetry.
remember that one time? how long ago was it? probably too long ago to be vivid anymore. that’s how it goes. that’s how it went. maybe. memory is speculative at best. the past is always so long ago even if it was only recently past. and the vivid leaves as soon as the experience does.
so it’s a vague life living on a collection of incorrect coincidences being most inopportune at the time when time was without time for further consultation.
but something else is coming up anyway and who knows if it’ll be a major life event or if it’ll kill you but watch out for the updates. watch and try to make it vivid. add color where the future is bi-chromatic if able to be seen at all.
and when there was a loss for words what was really gone?
one time there was a chance to say something about that one time but the time has passed. the moment is dead, gone, buried in memories.
and when there was hell to pay, about how much did that cost? what currency was exchanged? what was the charge for? will the debt be carried over into the afterlife?
yesterday it was easy to assume the routine would be the same and it is so there’s that.
for better or worse is no better nor any worse than same old same old and the yeah yeah responses to be returned without so much as a concerned look attached to a face fast set to depart.
but then again there was that one time, you remember, that one time when it was within reach. when what was had wasn’t good enough and there wasn’t a reason to settle for less than what might be. you remember? it’s memorable even if it was only that one time.
took out a loan for another time. calculated and counted on hope but you wouldn’t cosign. maybe it was for the best. could be for the worst. who knows? what’s there to compare it to? what’s a comparison worth anyway?
who’s been more often read than whoever wrote home sweet home in latch-hook? and when there’s no place like home what does that mean for the rest of the world? oh, and to retreat a bit, the author of ‘welcome’ must have trillions of views by now standing on the stoop with salt on boots eager for a drink and some goddamn sympathy for once.
hell, life isn’t easy. take it from somebody who’s been out there and in here actually living almost every day for decades. living and remembering. remembering and trying to find something to focus on but always coming away from feeling sorry. feeling and then being. just once, can somebody else be sorry for a second? it’s been a series of apologies for longer than should be remembered but they always add form to the vagaries of yesterday. whenever that yesterday was without a shape to fill space but gaseous enough to make do. to make us feel full. to make us be full enough for the moment.
whatever words were said it’s up for debate now. watershed moments are lighthouses to avoid in the dark when those waves of other days come back. when a respite is not all it needs to be.
it’s what it was then it’ll be what it will be. what it’ll never be is what it is. to be current is to be a conversation. something a word might change.
Linearity is discouraged.
After an immersion in Slow Living, by Kenyatta JP Garcia, from West Vine Press
By Notty Bumbo
How he said it. How it got here, gets here, sends messages, goes sideways, across time and back, bounces history across personal synapses. This is a work unfolding, a journey despite its most ardent desire to locate a fixed point from which to observe, debate, break open anything within view or hidden behind unreason. From the Greeks to the Geeks, a brief mention of (the first) Hannibal, and never depositing two hundred dollars, Kenyatta goes and goes, his prose opposes fixed coordinates, this/these poems unfolding origami-like before the limits of understanding. A diary of mad fun and sullen rectitude, careening around my skull in philosophical glee. I suspect “JP” means Jet Propelled, or Just Perusing, or Jamming Profundity. I give this book an easy ninety-nine with a bullet– you can dance to it, all right, all night, outta sight!
Been rubbernecking. Keeping an eye out for where time took an odd moment to add an extra scar to the road.
The last ditch that took some effort to carve. To assure a certain waylay for someone just needing to get away.
The truth for all its power sets everybody else free but itself. Instead chooses transformation. Settles for concealment. To be protected from witnessing itself.
Can’t turn my back on myself but my back also won’t look me in my face so what good’s a back anyway? If it didn’t come with the body why would anyone even bother having one?
The faults furthered the cause of the tectonic shifts. Line breaks will always be a part of this world. Each side is a stanza. The earth quakes suddenly understanding another version needs to take place. This place.