new gear


(Jared Joseph)


                                             THE END OF LOVE

                   I understand the men were posed, grass, grapeseed, and
                   ginkgo.  And lifted away heavy pollutants.  I understand
                   that we were s-posed to be disposed for liquidation but i
                   am a snow leopard.  What are devils, what are in the de
                   -tales, what are historical import’s cases, what should Christ ever
                   pardon.  There are rhetorical questions and so am i and so
                   i am.  When i hear rhetorical questions posed “What is” i
                   countermand them into answers “What isn’t” which deadens or intensifies
                   their force.  Rhetoric tries then to consolidate male austere and dominating
                   force into a hunger discourse, but if that discourse doesn’t sing
                   mama’s femininity becomes a gay man, not in corpor able in relation to the body
                   politic and the mand- -ate is against effeminacy, dilation, deferral
                   sexual frustration.  The point must be struck direct into the heart’s
                   purgation.  I know this country by memory.  I have traveled from the point
                   to the other points, there are a lot of dots, Pisagua, Iquique, the
                   Talcahuano zone, a point’s dilation but, that is still a point, just
                   the way a clit swells.  Or the way that cells acquit.  I say this as
                   if I quit, as if this is beside the point.  Respect is loss, lost, lolled, and children
                   get dilated by priests.  It’s not always good.  And so what can any person hope from any
                   person?  What can one expect from men?  There is nothing
                   can be done, that is what I say.  What I say (questions) forms.  I fought against Pinochet
                   like one black squirrel along a telephone line, chewing through it til
                   I died.  At least crows hold funerals.  It’s because they don’t hold
                   hands.  They do not delude themselves into the false consolation of a false
                   consolation, intimacy, they circle those that die.  In that way crows are
                   like crowds.  Kin or no, they import
                   or lend import to a set of strangers’ skin.  It’s all underneath the bird fur
                   anyway, we’re talking children.  Talking of.  And if children are
                   not sacred, then what in fuck is?  A country is nothing
                   without children, without children a country is
                   black earth…
                   Father, I interrupted him, I am that dead child.
                   I devoted and took note this dream this number is
                   72.  I open the window.

                   In the distance the cataracts of                the Pacific takes down details.

 

Excerpted from Mine Camphor, an English dilation of Raúl Zurita’s Zurita.

 

 

Jared Joseph is a recent graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop MFA program in poetry, and is currently pursuing a PhD in Literature at the University of California – Santa Cruz. Recent poems have been published by or are forthcoming in Fence, Noo Journal, and Spork. His and Sara Peck’s book “here you are” is available from Horse Less Press.

 

4 Responses to new gear

  1. Raymond Farr says:

    Philip, terrific poetry! Again!

  2. xtx says:

    fuckinbadass

  3. fez says:

    They’re so grand

  4. Compelling. Shared on Twitter.

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