First published August 2009 in Dale Smith's Slow Poetry collection
Coyote America Action Block
I would never have gone to Europe with a coyote, or as a coyote. But there are other animals, eagles, for instance, as abstracted symbols of intellect and the West, or what the Indian wore on a headdress. This I would go with to Europe, as if a technical device had made me, as if a vortex had vomited out a rainbow spray from an enigmatic center. Of course, there would be echoes of dominating technology, would ride these, ride away from these as heartbreak or dampness, where sad stairs creak under weight of ill bodies, persons, I mean, living alone in damp minds, sad echoes chambering within. A moiety competent engaged by our king, a soldier, his feet on curling rails to carve the ice, himself as though dunked in blood, the blood of others, and this is the spirit of fat, of energy, I mean, against the which the triangle, as crystalline form, but in molding thus, we have only unmolded molding, the golem or glebe, the semi-organic godless beast of Prague, seeking this connection unraveled from Cabbalistic sleeves, Talmudic matter without form or outline, turtle doves and guilt, gilded cardboard gifts from fighter pilots, as if these trivial rags could somehow make up for all the horror. The artist said, "The fabric has brought me back to the fold." The coyote embodies the cycle of physical torch, of light growing weaker, shadows longer, concerns of value, really, necessitating a theory of value, or a theory of sculpture, for they are one, molding, but we cannot theorize, at all, for that's our problem, we cannot think, at all, at all clearly, for when one starts, a clear one I mean, a bitter gall wields a hammer cut with knife, and then matchbox goes the hope of sense at all, as the devil thigh bone juts out sniffing earth for pussy or cake or some such nonsense to drive us from our ordered halls, from our decorous minds, our hoses, linens, and rat traps. My brown gloves represent, the flashlight represents, the felt represents, bullshit, for nothing represents, and one cannot throw a glove to represent a hand, for one simply throws a glove. You may think you know afflicted thinking, exerted money, tyranny of organ necessity, but my organs churn in turbine rushes like castle gates collapsing on plague victims, so that in merely a matter of human time the stink carries off the failure to neighboring hordes, huddled in huts against the rats of darkness, horse eyes for ears, their gnarled earth hands reaching for some anchor on a spinning globe, their garlic breath quenched in straw, and even poor hygiene in plague time of war cannot stop the fondling, longing for moist warmth and relief worth, apparently, any risk. So the very being of western rationality is, after all, merely a beard to emulate, a clock bird, who, shown it as a cave of bile pools reflected, can construct it, game like, and stick to it, merely because they themselves are happy punch clocks. While the fruit of all dalliance, the concocting ones, I mean, they, the mud houses on bookshelves, the firing chaotic threads, the, but, really, this cannot be named at all, but is only always out of reach of meaning at all, those mystics, I mean. They go down, forgotten under, but even in going down there is this confounding enigmatic all, ALL.