| There are so many types of |
|
| “personal” in poetry. The “I” is |
a needle some find useful, though |
| the thread, of course, is shadow. |
|
| In writing of experience or beauty, |
a cloth emerges as if made |
| from a twin existence. It's July |
|
| 4: air is full of mistaken |
stars & the wiggly half-zeroes stripes |
| make when folded into fabric meant |
|
| never to touch ground ever again— |
the curved cloth of Sleeping Beauty |
| around 1310, decades after the spinning |
|
| wheel gathered stray fibers in a |
whir of spindles before the swath |
| of the industrial revolution, & by |
|
| 1769 a thread stiff enough for |
the warp of cotton fabric from |
| the spinning frame, the spinning jenny, |
|
| the spinning "mule" or muslin wheel, |
which wasn't patented. By its, I |
| mean our, for we would become |
|
| what we made. String theory posits |
no events when it isn't a |
| metaphor; donuts twists in matter—10 |
|
| to the minus 33 cm—its |
inverted fragments like Bay Area poetry— |
| numbers start the world for grown-ups |
|
| & wobbly fibers, coaxed from eternity, |
are stuffed into stems of dates |
| like today so the way people |
|
| are proud of their flag can |
enter the pipes of a 4. |
| Blithe astonishment in the holiday music |
|
| over the picnickers: a man waves |
from his spandex biking outfit, cloth |
| that both has & hasn't lost |
|
| its nature. Unexpected folds are part |
of form where our park is |
| kissed by cucalyptus insect noises
^^z- |
|
| z~ ~> crr, making that for you |
Flag cloth has this singing quality. |
| Airline pilots wear wool blend flag |
|
| ties from Target to protect their |
hearts. Women, making weavings of |
| unicorns in castles, hummed as they sewed |
|
| spiral horns with thread so real |
it floated; such artists were visited |
| by figures in beyond-type garments so |
|
| they could ask how to live. |
It’s all a kind of seam. |
| Flying shuttles, 1733, made weaving like |
|
| experience, full of terrible accidents & |
progress. Flags for the present war |
| were made in countries we bombed |
|
| in the last war. By we |
you mean they. By you it |
| means the poem. By it I |
|
| mean meanings which hang tatters of |
dawn’s early light in wrinkled sections of |
| the druid oak with skinny linguistic |
|
| branches, Indo-European roots & the |
weird particle earth spirits. A voice |
| came to me in a dream |
|
| beyond time: love, we are your |
shadow thread ~ ~ A little owl |
| with stereo eyes spoke over my |
|
| head. I am a seamstress for |
the missing queen. The unicorn can’t |
| hear. It puts its head on |
|
| our laps. Fibers, beauty at a |
low level, fabric styles, the cottage |
| industry of thought. Threads inspired this |
|
| textile picnic: the satin ponytail holder, |
the gauze pads inside Band-Aids, |
| saris, threads of the basketball jersey, |
|
| turbans, leis over pink shorts, sports |
bras: A young doctor told us |
| —he’s like Chekhov, an atheist believer |
|
| in what’s here —that sometimes, sitting |
with his dying patients, he says, |
| “God bless you.” It seems to |
|
| help somewhat. They don’t know what |
causes delays between strings—by they, |
| I mean the internet. Turns out |
|
| all forces are similar to gravity. |
We searched for meaning ceaselessly. By |
| we I mean we. Sewed it |
|
| us-wards, with flaws between strings. |
It seems there is no revolution |
| in the Planck scale. My sisters |
|
| & I worked for the missing |
queen: she said: be what you |
| aren’t. A paradox. There are some |
|
| revolutions: rips in matter, the bent |
nots inside our fabric whirred & |
| barely mattered anymore. Our art |
|
| could help take vividness to people |
but only if they had food. |
| No revolution helped the workers, ever, |
|
| very long. We worked on this |
or that flag after sewing this |
| or that unicorn. They called Trotsky |
|
| back from Canada. Tribes were looser than |
nations, nations did some good |
| but not so very always, & |
|
| the types of personal in art |
turned & turned. Nylon parachutes in |
| 1937. Lachesis. We shall not flag |
|
| nor fail, wrote Churchill. O knight, |
tie our scarf on your neck. |
| There are more than two ways |
|
| to make beauty so movements end |
like sutras or horizons, somewhat frayed. |
| Je est un autre wrote Rimbaud |
|
| the gun-runner. Over & inner & |
code. The unicorn, c’est moi. The |
| rips by which the threads are |
|
| tethered to their opposites like concepts |
of an art which each example |
| will undo. We spoke of meanings. |
|
| I, it, we, you, he, they |
am, is, are sick about America. |
| Colors forgive flags—red as the |
|
| fireskirt of the goddess Asherah, white |
|
| as the gravity behind her eye, |
|
| blue for the horizon unbuttoned so |
the next world can get through. |
| The “thin thread of calculable continuity” |
|
| Santayana refers to —it’s not a |
choice between art & life, we |
| know this now, but still: How |
|
| shall we live? O shadow thread. |
After the cotton workers’ lockout 1922 |
| owners cut back sweatshop hours to |
|
| 44 per week. In string theory |
the slippage between string & theory |
| makes air seem an invented thing |
|
| & perhaps it is, skepticism mixed |
with fear that since nothing has |
| singular purpose, we should not act. |
|
| To make reality more bearable for |
some besides ourselves? There’s a moment |
| in Southey’s journal when the tomb |
|
| is opened & the glow-beast exits— |
right when the flying shuttle has |
| revolutionized their work—by their I |
|
| mean our —& cut costs by |
half. So lines are cut to |
| continue them & if you do |
|
| help the others, don’t tell. String theory |
posits symmetry or weight. My country |
| ’tis of installing provisional governments. |
|
| Why was love the meaning thread. |
Textiles give off tiny singing no |
| matter what: washable rayon, airport |
|
| carpets, checked flannel smocks of nurses, |
caps, pillowcases, prom sashes, & barbecue |
| aprons with insignias or socks people |
|
| wear before/during sexual thrills after |
dark subtitled Berkeley movies next to |
| t-shirts worn by crowds in raincoats. |
|
| Human fabric is dragged out, being |
is sewn with terror or awe |
| which is also joy. Einstein called mystery |
|
| of existence “the fundamental emotion.” |
Remember? You unraveled in childhood till |
| you were everything. By everything I mean |
|
| everything . The unicorn puts its head |
on your lap; from there it |
| sees the blurry edge. How am |
|
| I so unreal & yet my |
thread is real it asks sleepily~~ |
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