Gary Sullivan

Refusal of the Real
       for Daniel Davidson

                                                    The world must be mediated by art--fat
                                                    Inklings, cruelty to admire, & tears
                                                    Falling into lines of human habitation.
                                                    Why is the highway straight? The easier
                                                    To carry battle-goods across the Rock-
                                                    Ies. Day breaks through this thin lens,
                                                    From our mouth to yours, the taste of a
                                                    Piece with the style. There are only two
                                                    Kinds of people in this world: Those
                                                    Herding animals & those of us clinging
                                                    To buses, sweet noise wrapped around
                                                    Our every neck. Waking up a thousand
                                                    Times a day, we just move along, fists
                                                    Full of beer, bees, whatever. Rattling
Light, the mouth a birdcage, words birdshot through this stable world of mostly solid objects, always jumping out of
Hand. Head spinning down the spine--& what else can you do? It's not about accumulation, & it's really nothing like
Love; It's about change drilling up through the earth, flower noise, intense levels of energy below particularities on a
Shelf fanning out by itself. Are we willing to accept any situation--however false--and make it true? Any piece of writing
Patterned to the effect that everyone is everywhere in bondage, this substitution of language. But where will we go to-
Night? You were watched as you took this upstairs to your room, if that gives you any idea; the brightness of a forgotten
Sun is placed gratis at our disposal. Countless are the beauties of land & sea we've already seen, shining brilliantly in the
Light of our eyes. Take a little sun, & make love when you want to make love, however long it's kept. Pool ideas into
Mail, literally, & grow vague. The stone's poisonous vapors are as yet unspent, and bees & moths lay dead in such
Heaps that we cannot see the color of the earth beneath. We don't have to get every detail. Do we? To the sides of the
Road, the country is flat, the soil dry & rectangular. We are, as far as we know, the only ones here. The only thing the
Matter with this is that, when we leave, "it" will still be here. Its direction. What separates men is not a question, but
Water, smiles against each evened shore. Someone to stand with for a distance. Someone twisting through every previous
Example. Dreams & memory on the stairs, other windows facing it--yet this still fails to explain how objects fly through
                                                    Air, burst into flame: that is, fails to ex-
                                                    Plain (a) anything, and/or (b) what, if
                                                    Anything, we can do about it. To insist,
                                                    On anything, whoever's driving, who-
                                                    Ever's giving signals, we laugh with our
                                                    Teeth, veer earthward toward its feeble
                                                    Salute. Back on our back, the battle echo-
                                                    Ing overhead near the exit. The waters
                                                    Part; a belch shakes you; a lot of talk
                                                    Follows. Silence is convincing, a bond.
                                                    The infinite trembling of stars mocking
                                                    Emptiness, indifferent to our beseeching
                                                    Hands, careless of the consequences of
                                                    What could never, will never take place.

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