Bangin' One Out: Robert Archembeau[x] VS. Ron Silliman[y]
Published Tuesday, January 30, 2007 by Frank Sauce.
I couldn't resist. Really!
There is mastery of some forms, there, in them, without parentheses, but one's got like twenty years on the other
Silly, men! Tricks are for kids.
boys we'll be
and there's something manic about gender and I don't know why I'm bringing that up, or maybe it's just us, but I think I'm gonna drop it.
An incendiary moment should insist the insitution of theory
though some might not believe an argument needs a dialectic third
Two schools, same root. It's so strange that it's so simple to be Greek in theory
If we didn't have words, would we remember anything?
"So stomp rump crumble stump," I say.
I don't know what that means?
He wears jeans and t-shirts and smiles a lot. That's all I know. No, I don't know him and he doesn't know me. At least, I don't think he knows me. Hell, I don't even know the shape of his face, all I see is his butt in jeans covered by a threadbare t-shirt. Yeah, and his hair, I see his hair covering his neck. The strands of his hair are always thick with days, but he must bathe. He must.
No, I don't know him and I don't think you do, either. It's possible that no one knows him, but someone must, since that is more possible, someone knowing him, they must.
If I don't know his face, how can I know he smiles, you ask? I just know he smiles. I can feel him smiling, always smiling in his Chuck Taylor's. He's always wearing those shoes and smiling, even when it's raining and he's not wearing a coat, he's smiling in his t-shirt, jeans and Chuck Taylor's.
That's why I refer to him as Chuck. Yes, I know you're the first person I've told about him, but I recite his name when I think of him or see him. Yes, Chuck is the name I gave him, but he doesn't know that I named him Chuck and he might not like it if he did know that I named him Chuck. No, I've never told anyone, just myself and you. Yes, I love him. Of course.
Chuck doesn't wear socks, either. He's silly, isn't he?
He wears jeans and t-shirts and smiles a lot. That's all I know. No, I don't know him and he doesn't know me. At least, I don't think he knows me. Hell, I don't even know the shape of his face, all I see is his butt in jeans covered by a threadbare t-shirt. Yeah, and his hair, I see his hair covering his neck. The strands of his hair are always thick with days, but he must bathe. He must.
No, I don't know him and I don't think you do, either. It's possible that no one knows him, but someone must, since that is more possible, someone knowing him, they must.
If I don't know his face, how can I know he smiles, you ask? I just know he smiles. I can feel him smiling, always smiling in his Chuck Taylor's. He's always wearing those shoes and smiling, even when it's raining and he's not wearing a coat, he's smiling in his t-shirt, jeans and Chuck Taylor's.
That's why I refer to him as Chuck. Yes, I know you're the first person I've told about him, but I recite his name when I think of him or see him. Yes, Chuck is the name I gave him, but he doesn't know that I named him Chuck and he might not like it if he did know that I named him Chuck. No, I've never told anyone, just myself and you. Yes, I love him. Of course.
Chuck doesn't wear socks, either. He's silly, isn't he?
half of what it could be, it would be then almost
we drained the bowls and licked each other until our bowels were soothed
a clean, damp dream of what could have been and possibly what was neither a day passes nor recedes without a thought of the mist along a ridge that boils from a draw or spur
we've avoided gulches here for years now, but the ravines around here still take me to you
Three Creeks and a log on which to sit and see, we dreamt of heroes and heroines until our butts hurt and our necks were crook'd
we crossed the creeks with our feet asleep, a boulder at a time, through the ferns that writhed within the fir and oak that still guard this small clearing
here we lazed about the evening of an afternoon, our heads became balloons blown-up by a potpipe, heavy with the smoke from our childhood, our inflamed, omniscient youth
How unfortunate that we never kissed or held each other for more then a moment or two
if there could be or would have been an infinite moment, would you still wish to spend it with me and would I choose to be there with you?
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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