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November 29, 2009

Cut, cut in stone that fitted him
alive, Zapata felt the dark. The future,

those utensils, the abrupt
sides of the past — this was

his beginning.  He sprang up
from the score, coming to see

his native wood. Yet how often the
nightingale shining in some obscure

nook in the stem — why do
you kneel, if you mean something?

A lamp has a huge cloak,
to speak of infancy.  I am

saying that he spills from the throats
of the hills.  Why is there no escape

from contradictions? A calm
in a convex is mystical.

The world is quite useless,
and all its intricacies of a

tree which is widening, any single
spark, a bud, a native country.

The world is circular to show a stitch
of such a mystery; yet still to lie.

Zapata’s voice, produces a
concussion of air.  To be a voice,

but to suggest a white surface with
a heavy choking, its meaning

is accidental
and so many miles below.

There was a little piece,
a little sudden mill, this breeze, all

flashed across his memory.  When the hair
was longer on his head,

on his cheeks, and he was saying something;
I fell asleep.

The wounds of our language
are not consumed.  Cold

pails, cold and wet, black books,
signs that make reaching so necessary

but that could not go on
to communicate, to play.

A flash of lightning, plunged
into the room, the harbour waking

like a cloud of mechanics.  Zapata was there
and he asked me several questions

concerning him.  In his hand he grasped a
pistol, which was so likely.

Zapata spoke of affection, the fresh
spring, how the room was not the

same color — an old
feather, a rosy charm.

The green hills to barricade
the valley.  Where they had fled when the heat

was strong.  Zapata’s voice was
more houses than paper.

Some said they had heard of him, and
filled me with their foliage.

The wind died away, and
I thrust into my pilgrimage.

How they stand, are quite a shadow,
to give utterance to the

ground in this tale of a
machine. There is continual

food for you, his steps towards the north
were at the door of everything.

I saw a wildness in which I became
convinced of your birth.  It was a play.

A great many, many hundred
miles from the tide of his

cheeks.  Calculation is not a
darker way of dressing.

That way is passing away
and so many lights thrown back,

and this space I had collected
of being crushed in their hands, set of

their eyes. Zapata fell into silence.  All
the rest of the night was there.

“My dear father, and my father’s
feet.” Zapata was saying, and like

a circus he was changing and
his eyes, as he approached, seemed to have

found all the reverberation
of such a thing that has no limits.

The banks of the other in the
two eyes that had been my task.

The memory of past ages.
Zapata was changing and he hoped

to create another through the remains
of single drops of boyhood.

One Comment leave one →
  1. erogk7 permalink
    December 1, 2009 10:19 am

    These are beautiful, Chad. Beautiful.

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