Monday, August 20, 2012

Back to This Thing

The box does not sit still. The box moves. The parts assemble and plans assemble. People go to work and find time to sleep.

The box knows weather and strangers’ hands. Once in a while another box is overlaid the box. The box holds air, it holds words, it holds a body. The body corrupts, renews. The body leaves the box. It returns to say “box” and lingeringly leaves yet again. It will not return again.

The box is lifted by interested hands and carried a distance. It is set down for the night under a tree, or in the corner of a shop, or in someone’s garage. I hear a tricycle being pedaled in circles.

The box does not sit still. I say “box” and invite you to say “box.” You say alphabet or commercial undertaking in the sense of a coordinated structure involving a set of documents proscribed by the rule of law. Here is black-and-white footage of the Russian Premier standing at attention at the de-planing of the box. Those men are playing an anthem, but that is not the box and cannot be blamed on me.

Here I am, and there I was, and here I am again. This is rock and roll. This is swing.

Once upon a time a box into a box, first in parts and then the whole. Once a breathy pause and, “box.” She suddenly stood and turned and scampered over the hills. I looked for her where I knew to find her to hear her say, “box.” I gave myself over to the memory of having failed. Now I remember her saying “box” as if I can hear her saying it. I have a good job and should find time to explain exactly what I mean. I am certainly capable of such movements.

Just like earth, the box has the kind of personality one ascribes to it. I love using the word “ascribes” because “ a scribes” is allusive while grammatically wrong while exactly the thing itself or the person we might be or have been, and the “a” in “ascribes” really stands out when I say it.

The box is somewhat proper to all including the linguist but cannot be held in one place either.

O for summer and the gathering of bells countenance by bell-makers and bell-swingers, of wine poured out for hands and words in common for an age and a summer.

So I write what I have not said which is this and what is now. The box for a word for the box. Box not because but then, and say you knew, but you never knew in the way one said now “box” and being not-the-box at once.


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