We Went Then to Market by Jared Joseph




Poetry


 


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We went then to market.

Then we went to store.

We went to shore, sat on Jacks

of God, you know those three-pointed

slabs of concrete on the water by the lighthouse that

look like slats of God.  Jacks, like the game for

kids.  We sat on jacks the sea s

prayed us.  It was confusing and we

smoked.  I liked it.  I like these deep

spurts into my heart, my meaningful

feelings.  And then they all start

chanting, and the ocean mimes them, and I get

a premonition of her blonde hairs in my be

ardor.  In my bed.  In my beard we walk

to where?  We walk to wearing

I was walking then preparing not to see

-m to see her, I had my sun

-glasses on, they made opaque my e

-yes, I do want this.  I was looking through a sight-g

-lass.  I saw her changing, but she did not hide, she took

on & off and on & off, but I don’t know what, in plain sight, before

she hit the sand.  Her shoes she took off, it made my e

yes feel good.  We sat and climbed the rules inside the s

praying man I’m not, I am a spraying man, although I did

not come that night.  We went to Brady’s Yacht

Club, she bought my drink, we watched

the patrons watch the game.  She said something beautiful.  I don’t

say anything beautiful.  I notice this around

me, I know this around myself, when others

are beautiful I aren’t.  She said I am

paranoid I said What do you mean

by that what do you mean by that

what do you mean by that what

do you mean by that what do

you mean, am i unkempt, is my hair

paranoid?  Is my recessed hair

-line broken, visible, heart astir

need further trim, need a chair, need for

hurt rims?  The trim on her

was nice, she did not let me lick it, this sticks

on the bar seat humming, and she heard, do you like to

sing she said?  Was i singing i said

paranoid?  Yes she said.  I must I said.

I must I must have said.  We rode our bikes

I hum and sang.  I cannot patch anything

up I cannot match anything just like haven’t

by The Cure.  I just, like, haven’t.  I haven’t

heaven.  Just like heaven can’t self-patch I am this

ratchet function, agitating, the water round me

stirs, the darkness, sir, rounds us, is my mantra

lately.  We bought tacos.  She said what are those

photos?  Paintings, I said.  She said what is that woman

looking at?  There is a crack behind her

head in the wall.  She looks away from it.  It is some bad -bed

-ded trauma (prefix em-, or elide the hyphen add the a to bring

to life the -dead) trauma.  Although she does not look

like she has trauma, it conditions her loo

-king sideways, fidgets her head to swivel some, and there are

red flowers in her

periphery

and there are red flowers in her

perplexity.

she is looking (to our) left

to her right and the flowers in the corner of her

eye are red, but the closest to her e

yes are blurred.  What we see here is her blur

-red vision.  We see the way the flower corners her

sight, and is blurred.  And so the haze around all villages

‘images are red, the other side of flowers aren’t blu-

rred.  They’re crisp.  AN astigmatism that ironically allows

us to enter her

imagination.  That is ethical

That is beautiful, i said (in the corner of my e

-yes).  She said, Oh.  We went then to the Red

Room, no, to the Rush Inn.  Obvious why

I did that.  It was sad, morose, geopolitical.

I have no idea what she was saying.  Multiculturalism has failed

between her (German) and I (Jew) and categories (nation/tribe) and in

Germany

(Angela Merkel).  I lifted Angela out of her

parenthesis set by the hook of her

hard g.  That I knew to do this shows some

thing about Multiculturalism.  Hard glottal first hand

witness of trauma cannot give testimony, because he

or she has faced the full horror of a full horror, and

that is death right over there.  The dead don’t talk

only point.  And so Zurita’s Song for His Disappeared

Love dilated by Daniel Borzutzky or Canto A Su Amor

Desaparecido’s voice thrown by Raúl Zurita sings of

spring cut down sign of spring cut down song of

the sign cut down, the song sung for those whose

throats ‘re forced out.  Forced again.  Attract someone’s    undivided

you

by the throat and refuses to let go.  around someone’s

throat, typically them.  Force (or shove or ram) something

throat force, ideas or material, on a German Drossel.  attract someone’s

undivi

-dead attention, a ruby-throated hummingbird, i myself sing in a

baritone.  I quite like it, can’t

bear it.  I like Zurita because he dilates

his throat a reservoir to carry the songs of others

who are dead, but really?  Zurita knows well that channeling

alone is bullshit.  This is why one murder is a failure

for all of humanity.  We’re all in this throat together and

to gather and account for.  I like these deep

Caspars, I like their seriousness.  I like their hair.

I like all

the Babylons, the forgotten, non-celebrities.

Zurita knows the disappeared cannot be dis

-disappeared.  “I have here your son” is

incredibly hurtful, dis-

appointing.  There is no –

such day.  There is

such sun.  And it shines down on

no son, and yet Zurita sings this son, this disappeared son

-g (glottal stop barely audible itself, but condition the mouth the throat the

sound

of “song.”  I have here your song.

 

We stared out at each other for a long time after and said

goodbye.  Then kept walking, accidentally together.

And to gather time.  And then I said to her

can I kiss you.  And she said standard Santa Cruz

anti-rape culture.  She slept with her hand

lodged in the small of my back.  She slept with her memory

lodged in the small of my memory.

The memory itself inside my chest.

Hand still driving there the shaken up nature.

Recognize her by her longing for you, and by

her grief.

O my brother…”

silences,

perfect parentheses

ruinous blow

 
 
 

of his prose.

.

walking with ghosts

they could not speak.

but a hand did

 

 

Jared Joseph is boring.