For the Ride Read online

  Look! and both soul suckers are up there bouncing up and down in crow’s nest . . .

  There’s no one to take over here! We want the words to be ours!—

  There’s no we here.— We say there is! We have a gun and a knife.—

  If you kill Qui the ark won’t go, Qui says, it’s run by this Qui.—

  We have our own Qui, the soul suckers say. Everything’s our words,

  we’ll winnow yours away and take our choices into the future.

  There’s no future, One says, truly. Only this ark. Pull them down!

  Soul suckers bounce on the ropes, the ancient pontific

  charlatan and the breasted one. They still want One’s soul, says Qui.

  Take One’s ark, change it to mush. Pull them down. They’ll come back for One.

  Shadow ghouls quickly escaping. One’s got to work on words.

  Qui says, Soul suckers can’t let go. One, find the best of the words . . .

  universes. What will be left of all? Words might just fly away

  into void. Be lost. A few hunters and gatherers near mute . . .

  Must save the way to mate with a face? Call it a one—not stamp it

  though with old signs of fixity? The loved singularities;

  eyes to pose as their past ones, only seeing a wall’s fake spray,

  beautiful as it is. If there’s not much to see, eyes’ll change,

  if there’s not much to say, One dies. Who though doesn’t reflect light . . .

  What light? says Qui. Or maybe nothing but light and heat?

  Look! Shaker’s stopped chasing Wideset. Exhausted, and ark’s too tiny,

  catching you there’s nothing to do. Why’re we here? says the male—

  says, I’m saying what you call me. Collapses on grey deck paint.

  Oh words be the guide now in the bleak tremulousness!

  From the Anthology

  Chaos grey calls, order is one’s tongue or eye

  is it? Can’t order me though, ultimately

  I’ll say I, nothing matters to me

  I’m only matter itself without bones

  You put the bones in, your so precious pattern

  It’s all in your head, if you have a head there

  It’s just a delusionary tale, dear

  make up your own language, my psychopath

  Okay and one will. You can say I too, mean-

  ing whatever speaks. Don’t give a shit for she

  or he, categories down in flood

  demolished by the world’s disappearance

  Why are we still here? Chaos answers, I am

  that’s why. But not your linguistic subtleties

  I want to be woman! says death—

  Stop trying to regulate me, Chaos says

  you’re nothing but mass. It’s too hot here, you say

  It isn’t a thing, hot or cold or loving

  Make something out of it if you care

  You’re there, that’s all there is to notice.

  Here’s another request from the tree-mast: What about weirdness of,

  weirdness of saying one? There’s no dignity one recognizes

  to be gained in this usage. What about other pronouns as well:

  they, it, we—what is one doing about? One’s prone to babytalk . . .

  Essentially correct, but who can care now? One says, Still one hears . . .

  you? Big what about you? Problem is, can’t care. Those words don’t occur,

  not anymore. That’s what mutation’s like. It’ll keep growing now.

  See what ones are saying. For example: Wideset says to kid:

  Does one like those new stars there in the shape of a giant skate fish?

  Kid says, One wants to get off this ark. Know there’s nowhere to walk,

  but if it’s not water, maybe one can walk on it. Is one just

  imaginary, Mom? Who knows? One doesn’t know, or maybe does.

  One says, Is one always imagined, or not until the world’s end?

  Then there was nowhere left to be but mind. Where does that come from?

  Wideset says, Constellations mutate too: now it’s a trapezoid . . .

  Shaker says to the one, You’re not my kid, I like you anyway—

  Kid says, Why don’t one talk like the ones? Why not say ones, like ones?

  Shaker: I’m losing it . . . Because it’s dumb. It’s how it comes out now,

  Wideset says. Intricate, making the same word mean each thing it can:

  One loves one, on the ones’ ark in the night that isn’t old nature.

  New stories must be told. Tell one one, kid says. There is a one who—

  and is both one and who, in transpiring ark across the mind sprays

  must beware the creatures flitting in the grain, wood of the ship’s walls—

  Are those bad?—Those ones want to eat the souls ones evince in their words.

  Meaning what? Shaker snarls. Want to eat ones. Souls are words, souls are ones . . .

  One’s got a soul on one’s tongue, says Shaker sarcastically. Little

  guy. The ones, says Wideset, are equally nowhere in energy.

  Mingling, without a hope; glad to be without madeup things like hope.

  But old nightingales follow one, only in grey pretending . . .

  Hear how birds out of one’s mouth . . . aves ultimae noctis,

  any sound. Ears go with noises. In another universe,

  there aren’t sounds maybe? Any logic so long as it mutates:

  anything care of the feelers. No, the feelers might not work:

  follow what one’s saying? If one only talks to oneself,

  don’t need ears? Wideset’s talking to One. Imaginary, says One.

  Not imaginary! Wideset says. Parts one calls up from hold—

  There’s a pan-ark mutation on, nothing’s making any sense.

  Rag from the mast-tree asks for sense. Need for nonsense for a while,

  One says, or at any rate can’t stop. Who’s in the undercooked moon?

  Qui says, Who goes there? Others than Qui, at least the Qui that One knows.

  Put the ark in neutral! One can’t, Qui says, it’s in the tree branch gear

  scratching against the window of going to hell or senseless.

  When One said I, there was love. Could change to O: O (one) loves you,

  O loves U. One don’t want to say it to one. Why not? One don’t want to—

  no, no O, I, U. One’s choosing. For the whole thing? When One said

  I love you, it felt like a lie. It was in code. But for what?

  All in code. For what? There’s no world, civilization’s destroyed—

  was the code for it? One thinks No. It was a chauvinist frameup,

  France is dead in the frame of ark. Woman that was nothing real,

  constructed for eye contact. I’ll contact you along way

  as I build monuments to me. Shaker nods, Reasonable.

  One says, There’s no you because one doesn’t want to address you . . .

  Ones talk to each other nonetheless. That constellation’s a rose . . .

  Just talking not addressing, in night of the changing placement.

  All relationships be over, demands a rag, says Parts man.

  Appears in bizarre sky, new sky of other universe arriving.

  V

  RETURN TO CHAOS

  If one tells a tale, unending no-night, under those the new stars,

  what tense will it take? Wideset’s speaking. Something like memories come.

  One walks down a river saying Bye Bye to a one who will die.

>   Is that a story? asks restless kid. Another kid joins ones, grave,

  France’s teenage one. Stories are futile, create new sense of time—

  who wants time? says One. One walks down a river—

  Wideset says—that’s all. This time’s contained within nondescript walking—

  that one will walk away, and this one’s gonna turn back, to go back.

  Where? says France’s son. Which one is one, Mom, says Wideset’s son—Turns Back?

  Of course, Wideset says. My mom can’t turn back: France’s son. Must die.

  Maybe one can keep saying goodbye. Can one hold that part of it?

  One’s belt buckle’s odd, Wideset replies. It’s iron—on one who’ll die—

  It should be silver, shouldn’t it, Mom? Kid says. The stone’s yellow green;

  disturbs one, says Wideset. One wants the other one to come down river.

  Don’t go! say the kids. One hugs the one. Then turns back from one, up river.

  How long is the river? asks France’s son. There’s no length to it now.

  Does it once have length? Pastly? Length depends on how far one travels;

  it’s not finite now. One, other one, walks up river. Now it’s day.

  Why? says France’s son. One doesn’t know; does it matter? When’s day here?

  Don’t know. One walks up river towards no goal, just walking. It’s pretty,

  river’s intricate, sandbars and trees. One sees a bird, a pink one.

  There aren’t pink birds there, usually, says Wideset’s kid. How does one

  know? asks Wideset. Don’t know how one knows it. One is the same one as one,

  maybe, a little. One likes the pink bird!: France’s son. Very soft.

  How far does one walk? Far as the bird. Bird’ll fly away from there.

  Maybe it won’t go. One’s still saying goodbye in night, belt buckle;

  and one’s still with pink bird poised to fly, in the daylight, both at once.

  They are both one’s friends: creepy iron belt buckle and the pink bird.

  Pause. Ark’s collecting heaps, transparent words, not only chosen words—

  but what’s said that’s accepted without a fuss. Under the tree-mast piled

  invisibilities almost glitter, near the elected slips,

  rags, converted to use. Maybe the things, things that really count,

  can’t be seen, or in old parlance, be sold. Best thing about this ark’s

  no real commerce on it. Parts one calls up, One objects, got a store

  in this here hold, one knows. How does one pay? Don’t pay but one buys it,

  pays with one’s acceptance, of new usages and new attitudes,

  dears. One loves this old store. Objects on wall, in mutational forms,

  shine. Thine are one’s fine wares: this is a noun, for chrissakes, séduisant,

  gasketing, pistonal. One’s coma’s rock solid as far as basic

  patterns, conglomerates. Changeable around some tenets of shape—

  Chaos contains itself, it’s something, one is too: no nothing is.

  And one can’t go to it. Coma: chaos: but not no thing at all.

  One does want to go to, more like nothing. One can’t be conscious of that . . .

  But maybe could be something different from conscious. Say, asleep?

  Asleep’s another conscious, one thinks. Another one from that one . . .

  conscious of nothing? Does one want the word “conscious” on the journey?

  One sits on the deck. One is not conscious anymore, one’s saying,

  not as usual. Ones tend to project old patterns on the ones . . .

  But, are now chaotic. Qui speaks here. Look at oneself. Matter spreads,

  speeds up of the hands, they’re in motion, there. Like on LSD, One.

  Now. One is a point, in some mind still, one’s one without one’s old form,

  but there’s still . . . a mass. Being, its thought; always is that, isn’t one?

  Outside that locates one is vanished—one is massive; has forgot.

  Could sing it into lovely pattern. Could create consciousness—

  Poised, though, is serene. Informal, not being char-

  acteristic. In any way. What does One do being that?

  Ones lose it. No but won’t, soul suckers blurt, will remain opposèd—

  didn’t mean to say that, aren’t negative . . . Have reappeared in air,

  like principles, or ghosts. One hardly recognizes them: can they

  still take over the ark? Qui proclaims, Changed, let’s see who these ones are.

  One without breasts: One wants. What is there to want in this universe?

  The only things are stars. Not even ones; though have brighter words here—

  Have to have. One with breasts says, Each other. Need objects, objectives,

  wails Without. Will have to invent some things, vent in circle rings—

  can’t control what is said, isn’t correct. Define a new correct . . .

  do want to control it. Oh unravel, says the One. One sees that

  it’s not quite time to start. Are before that, and maybe don’t begin—

  Can’t ones just see how voices elaborate? Don’t have to be what

  one is pastly in life. Can’t control it! shouts Without Breasts. Nor can

  One, says One. Don’t know who One is, One or one. Art thou entity?

  Must exist, say the soul suckers, together ghast, what an idea, not—

  Am speaking, are speaking: With Breasts, long blond hair, blond but as an image,

  memory of hair. Everything an image, mutters One, and so might

  One be. Thou or One, what matters it? The question’s whose mind is this one?

  It’s an ultimate mind now, nothing here but ashy a prioris . . .

  With Breasts is hysterical, Without’s dumbstruck. Scared. Principles. One reflects,

  emotions as principles of motivation. Supposed to be scarèd,

  just some old shit. And now one’s gonna cleanse the air, Qui says, with a blower,

  will blow human hair everywhere one breathes, blow you, as you, the past one,

  image of social, away! Watch out for the hair that cuts and wounds one!

  Put on some masks! One wants to watch it, One says. Parts one’s up with blower,

  With Breasts’ hair demolished. It shrieks, the hair itself, eeks small of disappearance . . .

  Replaced by ghost hair, a corona of cloud wisps. Images always there,

  Qui says. Is that existing? One’s perceived, says With Breasts. Seen and can speak.

  Shaker says, See and can talk, don’t remember. One has changed, bien sûr,

  words come from one not under one’s control. Were they ever? One says.

  If one knows who one is . . . Seeing without, eyes. Taught to see, just see . . .

  It’s all here, isn’t it? In this chaos. All one was, unsorted:

  nothing is ever lost. Don’t say nothing! It’s a meaningless word . . .

  Is this a conversion experience? Shaker’s intelligence—

  but, in chaos, that’s free of its bodies, one can assume it,

  it’s for having, one digs? One wants some smarts? Take ’em. Talk however.

  Now France appears, for everything is here: Are a ghost? says her kid.

  Am spirit that loved us. Can one explain it any more? Died for.

  But there wasn’t a for. Does one want word? For is a big old cheat.

  Ones made one to die for, perhaps want revenge but can’t remember

  what ever happened. Parts disarrangèd, all mixed up in chaos;

  made
to know bit of one’s or another’s story. Dost thou want own?

  Naked along highway . . . Don’t want these words, don’t want any shame now

  not even another’s, vicarious: story for borèd pimps.

  Who was thine own pimp? President, or boss? Pimping soldiers, good kids?

  Responsible femmes? Wait on Him, the overorganizer—

  tell ones all what to do. France, femme, must die: moi, I am moi, the one . . .

  Broke the factory wall bent against it by some one’s willful hand.

  In this new world will one have hands or will? Don’t want anything,

  dangerous, everything’s dangerous except for the smaller words:

  oh don’t know what they are. Glad not to find. Story that’s so painful,

  tout mélangé dans la brume. One killed me. Who? All parts are in ones,

  of some crime. Is it sharp? Is sharpness here? Is something abolished?

  Maybe, says One, maybe. Or transmogrified. If the smallest ones,

  if atoms can be reconstituted. Oh, can they be, but who—

  Qui—can one ask except Qui, within one? Free ones from the statues.

  From the Anthology

  One would have loved thee, if Eros had insight

  red, insolence or made an entrance. E didn’t exist

  all molecules of that thought scattered in l’Allée des Morts.

  Who goes there? Qui covered in rubies, “my” blood.

  A Life. What did one “shed,” across the religious

  miles, the concepts fought for out of mainstream ambition—

  Where did that come from? Accepted and bright.

  One’s skeleton clanks but it can’t talk, only the

  “over meat” parts. Others won a prize before

  the world, wafted across the paradigm of space,

  ended: not that it exploded it refused—oh

  ones—finally to conform to the prevalent

  celebration of What’s in My Pants. (Oh

  blinds all around window oh blessed bonds

  oh stamps oh signatures oh ideas . . .)

  The idea of human love destroyed while one

  was riding high. To get to the top, of the cadence,

  one must be more purposeful than. Than than.

  Extreme Happens: Eyes in the distance not there.