Preface to a Formal Essay: Poetic Nature and Live Collaboration by USPOCO BOOKS

Preface to a Formal Essay: Poetic Nature and Live Collaboration by Chris Pappas Composed and published on 5/11/2011 The stench of the poem is communion, like the familiar scent in the pot, forms out of procession: hops, grass and flesh chewed up. Like the bone seasons the stew—the morsels sucked from the cavity—must be the soul, that tastes so fucking good at the table, the night before. The ritual of killing the cow—sacred cows are good burgers—to eat, becomes the symbol of the box. In conception outside, the body is the box. And inside, the sign is the wall of the box. If you can view the sign, the looker’s still inside. The whaler never really moves inside the whale, however, unless it wants to kill itself. Like the sacred cow down on an altar—in costume of a priest—and says, Kill me please! God told me to say that, the body says. The butcher looks abstracted to see which way to think, which way to run when some unfamiliar voice inside seizes up the father. The white coat still trembles, but now is painted black—except the collar. Ring around the neck, which signals dead commission in the dead language of symbols, that once spoke all it needed to know—the golden oral mode. The priest and the butcher were twins. One good brother, and one bad: the first archetype. One fell in the well, and one became the minister of water. History rewrites every morning. And this morning is no different, from the perspective of history. From the perspective of a line, the point is useless to make without another point to get to. Which brother is which? Which is the sacred cow? Who killed what pork chop? And who conceived the line? Which just killing began to civilize? Which murder caused religion? The father and the son are gone. Which killer named the holiday? Which deserves to die? Which martyr becomes the saint? The white, as well as the red. Which tank holds holy water? Which rebel is the angel? Which shepherd is God? And which sheep the lamb? Which leaf of grass is best? Which monk is truly silent? Which cell to contemplate? Which bar begins the jail? Which safe locked up the golden tongue? Which net will catch the new? Which hole lets out the rest? Which rest is death? Which play begins the act? Which grain was the first to cling to something else? For it made the cornerstone. Which end is last? And which stone is the key? Which side retreats? Which advances forward? At which point begins the line? Which line will get there first? And which reverse to last? Which one are you in pictures? Which hair contains the strength? Cause, that’s the one to cut. Which mutilated body, happened to save the rest? Is the only question here which will not reveal an answer? Which version the purest? The virgin or the killer? Yes.

The only fix for fallacy: affirm each other side. Negation of the center—takes back the need of sides. Inside the box, still nothing knows. The wall is just a wall, no intention but to stand. A wall, walls nothing in or out. The river out the window leads, nowhere to its end. The source spits out the mouth with fish. The fish lures in the fisher. The butcher is the coroner, the killer and the priest. Thus, the irony of prayer sets up petition. The meat would like to cut itself. The claim: law makes no sense. Hence the need for judges—blabber down the common sense. Speaking down the lowly animals. For one, a snake would not speak like this. But if it did, it might say this: I wasn’t really ready yet to die. And I’d rather not be eaten again. If you write me out of the script, I swear I’ll go forever, away. Return the woods to just a forest, filled of just the normal noises. And you, I’ll cut loose. So return to the desert. Climb all the way up this time, beyond the highest peak, and wait—until your brother gets back. Now I see you see, from the first, that he and only he—the other—will ask the questions it needs, to fill in what is missing from the form.

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