February 11, 2007

THE CHEST HAIRS OF LANGUAGE, DEAR READER

 

My writing is a needle shortening the pants of monotony and dread

It leaves an impressive thread as it winds through

the abbreviated cuffs of you who hitherto did proceed trippingly through the daily

darkness and stumble of everyday speech

 

My writing rides a bicycle through the stitchholes of your hems

the fabric of your mind stretched by my thousand-speed cosmic roadbike cosmos with

wheels of pure joy

and your thoughts

undiscovered planets embraced by a multitude of imperceptible moons

suddenly are Hubble-ized and named by the perspicacious cartographic lexicon of my

cerebral sewing

 

For I am a one-handed phrenologist kneeling in a haberdasherís fantasyworld funhouse,

a contestant playing the carbon dating game with the moon-fearing bachelorettes of my

ancestors

 

Through the chest hairs of language, my poems seek gold medallions and the burnished

signs of the zodiac in the mythic resonance of the curly pectoral forest

my writing is a BeeGee sestina hallelujah chorus

a John Travolta post-structuralist jumpsuit fandango of literary theory

a Hilary Duff post-colonial mega-sized writing samba in the blog roll drive-thru

 

My poetry contains multitudes and they appear small within its vastness

a single molecule within the molehill of my talent

I write on a desert island and the desert island feels glad

signals the boats of meaning, the search-and-rescue helicopter critics

says, stay away

stay away for we have something here

 

Yes, Iím a bachelor married to the archipelago of my own poetry

going on a date with me would be like Y2K all over again

an excitement of digits, an anticipation of irrational calculations, airliners seeking the

arcing chaos of their own inspirational routes through the cloud-busy air

a date with me would be like changing from the Gregorian to the Julian Calendar while

hang-gliding through the National Library dressed in an asbestos nightie while the

books are inflamed

the librarians run blindly down the stacks and inhale the smoking grammar of our lives
headbutting the opposing players of tedium, madness, and apathy as they attempt to fan

the bookish flames with facile rhymes, trite metaphors, and a limited

understanding of the depth of my literary consciousness

 

I am the book-wheezy Jeffersons of this last century, the poetic Archie Bunker of our times

I speak of Love Connection glory

of radiant Gilliganís Island subplots singing Partridge Family small press bliss in the

triumphant World Cup publishing paradise of Toronto

A date with me would be like having Godís credit card, Satanís expense account, and the

incisive ontological wardrobe of Samuel Beckett if he were born as one of the

midget stagecrew for Gladys Knight and the Pips and his daddy owned the big

rhinestone factory on the outskirts of sense.

 

Look! Someoneís revved the motor, turned on the highbeams of languageís monster

truck

Seems like its blind driver has floored it and is driving to you a first date

itís 1849 and itís with me

 

—Gary Barwin

 

Posted by dwaber at February 11, 2007 02:11 PM