True, truly the tines of Enola heights look down on the tracks of suburban America's endless trail of tears and smoke and motorings and seamless collective memories. Like train cars, its sections can be shuffled around and perceived in almost any order. This adds further to the associational feel, as objects, images, ideas, and memories flash in and out of view. Seemingly
seamy.
Eyes don't lie. They project, in a kind and fey manner. Tonga. Chug-chug-- rollin' along. Looky here, here’s the whole of section 91: “The young rustling breeze blowing through the trees of a borrowed landscape, beside the glass window, insists it is a migratory anticyclone. Blow, winds, blow.
Everyone knows it's windy. That cheerful hustler, Hiraide. Chugging along. In this Spring of brute strength, you’ve tired yourself out confirming the balance between the fading halo and the boiling light. I, too, Me? Moi aussi. Tracks of mein tears. Am now to quickly understand, from that hoarse voice of yours, that something boiling over inside me has expended the balance of noon. Expanded? Wee small hours. The Tides. Tonga. The tirades rage. Raid roiling. Roiling.” What initially reads like free association turns out to be a near kismet-ish microscopic record of emotion and phenomena. Phenomenal. It's a gift.
To crack open a Christmas present is tantamount to celebrating new year's day on Lincoln's birthday.
Lincoln, the man of the people.
Tonga. People driving Lincolns. To destroy automotive allure of/or cachet, to unlock a logician's secrets partially steals its energy und spelling prowess.
Their endless burgenstock....
Writing obstructs this intrusion, or at least seeks to defer it for as long as possible. There’s no narrative arc to the work, no resolution, no closure-- to the contrary, eraser is a favorite word: “Entering the room, a pulse is taken right when the heart is crushed upon a color-printed newspaper. Chug-chug-- rollin' along. Chug-chug-- rollin' along.[repeat until accident becomes crash for eternity and the planet's orbit begins to grate into seasonal affectations].
And so it is today, too.. a line of poetry goes grrrr or erases wham, Bam! without shooting you, and is maybe nothing more than a soundless watery segment floating up from the East River." Chug-chug-- rollin' along. Maybe a second clockwork, and for the first, or third time, well, finally these mirrored texts mimic a walnut’s fleshy swirl, as well as productively frustrating attempts to impose a definitive order on Hiraide’s unruly poetry. Whittler's Mother.
George Washington
Carver. Yours trula.
Tonga.
I don’t particularly like tercets— their texture is borderline; and choppy narratives ruin anything they’re added to, specifically of the fragment borne by a poetic line where the literal lives in pieces. Down to the sea in ships. Like seashells. I’m not sure how much Hiraide enjoys them either, but I bet he admires their Deleuzian folds and resemblance to a cerebral cortex totem. Of that we can be sure. Or, say it loud.
Leasing lips save those going down to sea. Cracks. Ice-bergs, lip-ice. Tracks, As mice race Carving Boards-- the wheels of the tines make cool designs in peanut butter and Sand. Tonga.
Selah.
