Bob Perelman - Primer

7/29/2019 Bob Perelman - Primer

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Reading Copy Only: facsimile available at http://english.utah.edu/eclipse

PRIMER

BOB PERELMAN

Originally published by THIS press in 1981.


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MY ONE VOICE

At the sound of my voice

I spoke and, egged onBy the discrepancy, wrote

The rest out as poetry.

Read the books, duets

From nowhere say they speak;Why not let them. Habitual staresLeave trees in rearview mirrors.

I came from a neutral pointIn space, far from the insideOf any one head. O say can IStill see the tabula rasa outshining

That rosy dawn on the near sideOf the genetic code. Doubt,Thy name is certainty. GenerationsOf recordings of the sunrise

Picture the light until the page

Is white and I predictThe present, hearing a futureIn the syllables' erasing fade.

BOOK YEARS

A religious virgin of unspecific sexOpens the book again. Great trees

Mass into a risen gloom. GreenValleys bathed in blue light lullA scattered population. The world ends;

A person is born, no senseThinking about it forever. I'm writing

While time stands still. It certainlyDoesn't lead to the future. FirstIn a series of willing abstractions,

The body makes history and leavesNo one to clean up afterIt's gone. Flesh mirrors its absenceIn solid colors; generations absorb finite


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Amounts of light. Identity is abbreviation.

A religious frenzied realism leaves no

Place to go, no stone unturned.An aesthetic pharmacopia of diseases projects

Fuzzy slides of a beautiful womanLiving forever in perfect health, dancing

On rocks, acres, dark green world.She's only a figure of speech,But the books, the modem libraryGiants, fall beneath her feet. LivesAccumulate sound like clouds hold water.

PRIMERfor Alan Bernheimer

The surface of the earth displaysA grain of sand. The pace it keepsCreates bonds of love that stretchPast the breaking point. MatterResents nothing. Plants try.Animals can barely think. Speaking

Their minds, people load the airWith noise so thoroughly meant

That a would-be heavenFalls from the sky and isWhere we follow our willsTo lead our lives, chasing

Bent actions along the curve

Of a finite door. The equationsProduce curbed or unleashed powers,Barking into a dark garage

Or surviving the face of the deep.

For the earth to revolveContinuously requires constantVigilance, endless sleep.

TRAINEE


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The language has us by the throat,Scorched utensils in a grid. TrainedTracks, right of way, light

Of day. Enraged bodies whistle byCold soot, skipping space entirely.

Letters are so dense it's convenientTo stop listening. Religious

Seduction scenarios replaceThe melancholy human voice,Its perfected products, trick photos.

Say I say sky, say the cityOf San Francisco sits beneath that.Have you ever seen a school fence?A sun set? Fields of speechThe anatomizing phonemes bark at.

A machine shop? In the lightOf the correct time, steel buildingsLift a low stone fog. Tires singOn freeways that guard the viewsFrom distressed housing.

Convinced condensed devices are at homeIn our words. Not to be confusedWith us or use. RemoveThe caressed blossom, the rug's

Still brand new, a vacuum.

DAYS

One word is nextTo another, an excessOf localism, solidarity, andVive la difference shoutedDown crowded column inches.

Each voice singled outBy ages of technique.

In fact you don'tLive a life oneDay at a time.Some days you skip,Come back to them


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Later, others never occur.These occasions are notEven up for grabs,

Cause no comment.

BONDING

Speech makes a show of force,A self proclaimed surplusWandering outwards. We listenBlindly, devoted to the incoming

Likeness. Rhyme charms,But the charm fades. The unitsMake a clicking noiseImpossible to mask.

Some stick togetherIn after the factProbability, but the filmCan break anywhere. Any face

Registers the odds.Matter animatesThe great song, weepingAt the bottom of the well.

Feeling one's placeShift, feet supportA random weight. The planetIs coated with rock,

Machines, candy. The tongueIs in the mouth.The moon in the skyIs more than a coincidence.

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTYafter Shelley

Each worldFloats through us.Piney mountains on memory clouds


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Visit in starlight, inconstant.

It's beautiful, art-thought,

But hymns die away, dimHumming fears cast gloomy

Human rainbows, and why not.

Ghost the records, frail charms

We might not get to see.Stringed instrumentsDrive mist over the remains.

And in the glorious train of Self:Self-esteem, like waxIn the messenger's ears.Don't be your shadow.

See shadow, think thought!While yet a boy, I sought it outThrough many a listening chamberWhere hands held books.

The birds and bees have poison pens,

But whatever's alive eventuallyWakes up. I shrieked and clapped;The dead departed.

I called the phonemes

A thousand names. SpeechlessThoughts answered each.But I kept my vow, in dark bondage

To whatever these words

Now say. The day is perfectWhen over. There is a lustreIn the sky which cannot be.

RAILROAD EARTH

Sunlight on skylights, humanLabor. Design details, numbersBy the thousand, ordersSpoken into stubby phones,

Painted putty cracking. Codes


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Wizen from the outsideIn. The captive isLed away speaking gibberish.

There's bright red flat

Sun on Jack Kerouac'sNow famous bricks. "He's

Gone, those white eyesStaring the last thingYou seeNext bull!"

TO BAUDELAIRE

The head is the body's lair.It may be slightly in front.Milking these separations,Words answer the immortal need

For intoxicating monotony. The bodyis the mind's sieve.

Beloved grief, water dripsFrom a block of red ice

Onto a perfumed paradiseLost in the obsessive embrace

Of reader and writer. Superb haloesHang from the heads

Of naked slaves whipping themselves.A new world is required

To stomach the imagesFloating on the headless

Torso of the old."I was surprised to find myselfStaring at an empty hole.

I ordered flowers."

WISHES

I'll twist sunlight intoWords for the walk over


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To the blank. ThoughtsAre things. Thoughtless streets

Pass nights outdoors. SyllablesAim to spread out,

But hardly do. Wet,Washed, shined tracks set

In city mud. TunesIn mind sound, hassled,Filagrees honoring live seconds.Who wove those ropes

You're climbing backTo the minute youSet the sky upAs an equal.

YOU

Can you just sit down

And write, all byYourselves, linesLike those up there, aliveAnd both placesAt once? And then

Question yourselfAs if you learned speechFrom yourself? LinesEmerge from a dot.No I that you can

Ever be can hearWell enough to sayThese words before theyLine up to sayWhat they say. LostIn thought in a room

I know with a penIn my hand, FrancieAsleep and MaxSo tiny, fat,Delighted, hours back,First sun in days,By the numbersIn the arboretum.


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3 NOISES

HERO

Difficulties involvedWith the titlePush past aSelf continuallyAbandoned in the rushesPicked upBy a supporting castAnd nurturedInto a starring role.

NATURE

Hollers for moreAttention, floatsOn water on

Oiled featherBase, turnsWhite in the sunWith spotsOf green algae.

INTIMATE

A soft unwashed

Star,A busted play, aLeggo,At home.

MIND & BODY

Bodies of water,

States of mind.

Alternates stateThe case


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With equal forceOn either hand.

Schools of thought,

Buckets of blood,Muddy roads.

BABY

A so-called dreamRuns in the road in shadowShown where he's been.The Infanta is presumablyStill smiling in the glass.

The chemicals will be thereAll day. Second thoughtsTrigger further spasms."Is this my life ISee before me?" Syllables

In plain sight move underA thread transcribed backAcross the transparent voice.Vibrating, I towered above my feet.

GEARS

The desire to open my eyesArrives from the dark.The film itself is blank. Senses

Surround my will to beWhere I am. I see my head

Present to the depth of centuries,

Altitudes where I couldn't breathe.The fourth wall is missing, crowd noiseMakes me want to talk.

An enraged optimismRises from these tapes. The tone


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Is at the machine's mercy.

Plaid curtains hang thoughtlessly

Against reports of darkness. BirthReopens the parenthesis.

The oracle enters, dreamsintentionally. She hugs herself

In his sleep. A fixed idea

In a room of prior synonyms.Plain patterns while waiting.Cacophony onstage occupies

The autobiography. There is alsoNothing. My former futureBlows sideways without obstruction.

A shade under an assumed nameReflects a touchy crystal universe,All beginning, middle, and end.

SELF PORTRAIT

An enraged optimismSurrounds my will to be

Without beginning or end.

At night the oracle entersA room of prior synonyms.Plaid curtains hang thoughtlessly.

Nothing. My former future.Plain patterns while waiting.The mirror reflects the dark.

The forms assume a name. They see

Where I am. My head arrivesMissing the fourth wall. Crowd noise

Rises from the tapes. The toneReports. Sleep darkens dreams. BirthIs on purpose. She hugs herself.

Blows struck offstage occupy


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A touchy crystal universe.Years later, the autobiography.

The film itself is blank.The senses present the centuries,

Are at the machine's mercy.

A fixed idea wants to talk

Without obstruction. There are alsoAttitudes where I couldn't breathe.

The visible order reopensThe parenthesis, underliesThe desire to open my eyes.

ABSTRACT

The film senses the machine.A name assumes. The mirror reflects.Attitudes want to talk.

Optimism desires to beThe autobiography.The universe: offstage.

A prior century

Enrages the synonyms.The idea is missing.

The dark. Darkness.Sleep, dreams, tape.

The oracle enters. Nothing.

Crowd noiseIs the fourth wall.Touchy heads hug crystal tones.

A parenthesisWithout beginning or endBreathes on purpose.

Birth underliesThe will. The visible orderForms eyes.


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OUTLINES

I

silent

in here scattersas its own definitionfound ahead of timein and out of whatbeats against

lightand offspilling the

place showingsometo here

obstaclepromotes the thing opposedthrough deliberationand landscapenot willedescapeswatching it

move in the verydirection it never

II

the I leans inon boardbeside theother wordsa

displacementwhere it thoughtI was onlyground to displayedthoughts tagthe enemy theend staysto say


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III

as ifalready said

spoken shadowplaced on itself

disappears or stillthere listeningto finally see the thingmovingtoned away

to the personcould bewith words

it means the skyshifts to take onwhat the earsays is systemsleep so anteriorletters vauntingwind pulls cloudcover as lightspoke a futurebehind the soundmeaning no homage

itself or elsewheresitsas statedgrammar from the viewand sense on its own side

single crowdingvisibilitygone on ahead

IV

the constituency in atabled generalityapplying to all for the durationacrossand innot nouns as suchsore feet


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tired wizened occasionallyplacing lips and teethso as to form

some sort of landscapedid it

and here we arethought of laterby our own

asideforced into memorizingaddressedslants ontowhat's left behind

V

a swerve agleam andnow it's solidalways me theremoving insidea detachable spacesome leftovers declaringindependenceor worried

stares

down throughrummagedsensea novellevel

headed fall ofrained onseniletrees the sumseen gets inside

days plunging across the

circular version

VI

put it where you wantall things

resting in theoutlines command


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a stopnowhere else

reaching around behindtime of day

what arrivesout of itswalled in

termsself appointed vocabularyweighing aresumewithout namealways facing

VII

and isa sentence everything

ever toldout from what wasbelievedsaid back therethough things get

through anyhow

grammar gets it

rightwhere it

isn't therea different placea person upin a skyair

all displacedas inthe past part of the

finishednoisecalled back

VIII

at ease


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in the headout down therebeyond the margin

a correctionapplied from without

shadows flown byone shown toremember itself

tense expireskept aloftorgans didacticscratching it outin chorusa living from the deadinterset flashes of lightpowers of tenfingers in the mouth

IX

too close to seemuch resemblancethe sameor reasonableregulated authoritysaying so

a changed mind predictablyhearing itself outdoubled overhalvedat large

available at each wordadding on or changing toclaimed identitysigned awayduring the fact

meanwhile

calling onitself to bewhere the border is

X

yelling in all seriousness to the


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space that opens behind the eyestaking what I can seeand dropping it

in a hole I can hearphrases spoken

short edgescut being calledor simply not there

condition from whichsomething for nothingwith the speaker in the samecategory held thereby vegetation or othervisible abstractstreams wetting greyboulders blacken them by unseenwords entered here

spelling theperformance of a record as the experienceof a dream circular daysinks into

black rim litto live in

TECHNIQUE

HowPointless theTriangular apex of

Parnassus

ViewsAvailable fromGenerous numbers ofAngles

WhileTime passesForcefully and separatedVoices

GoOut of


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Their way toSay

WhatCannot be

Said any otherWay.

GOD

Ay chinga!Bright sun shines.God appears.Down in front!

I want to putThis word here.The mind atIts shuffle.

I want to

Hear this word.Dull person,Fish fish, water.

THE SQUIRE'S TALE

Here's noise, a (hero) sandwichSaid (sounds). Sad (happy)

Tale (memories of squirrels).

Room at Land's EndFor a (complete) statement,In whatever form. Plenty (more)

Where that came fromThough, at the moment, nothing.(Gorgeously) colored light strikes

The (observer). YouMay be (have) a bodyYou (make) act out at parties,


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But what's (reading) (writing)This is something else. NotTo back down from the

(Physical) threshold for

One minute. (I) keep thinkingOf (new) breaths to take.

INSIDE

An unpronounceable punPins wordTo sound.Huge groans.

EVOLUTION

What about animals? We dream them, we eat them. Dancing to themeaning of the music, it's the Pony who goes and answers the phone.

Animal narrative, in cans, cases, and hundred pound bags. Eagles get sore,cats have fleas. A fly is killed because of what he does. Tigers makedecisions, worms turn corners. Stuck, struck dumb in the next roomwatching tv. In one scrape after another. The myth of the eternal returns,disguised, polished horns, jail. The machinery ruined, Mickey Mouse dusts

the parlor. He whistles and speaks English.

ROOM

The words mention themselves.They are literally true.Every minute another circleMeets them halfway.

The locker locksFrom the inside. IIs an extensive punBorn of this confinement,

The echoes crossingNorth America, the room.The ear hears in no time.


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On the street, machines

Reveal the thought

Of non-machines. TheseObjects have the right

To remain silent.

The pen wrestles with

The hand by the lightOf an open door. ThingsAre their real size.

MEASUREfor Lyn Hejinian

I've been six feetAll my life. NowI can barely seeOver my coffee cup.He sits by the giant phone,

Depressed. Weigh me again.There is no idealSurface. He leaps acrossCracks between words. WritingHis book provides a little confidence,

Wielding the club-sized pencil.Beyond, the stairs leadDown to the cellarIn a bruising seriesOf crashes. One language speaks another

Out of need, imperfectly.My platinum yardstick, yourPlatinum yardstick. Sentences measureThe door; the sound

Goes out. From his doll house

The dictator shouts upAt the sequoia heOnce kidded over breakfast.Buoyant syllables rise fromThe damage done by insecticide, radiation.


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When she accidently leavesThe door open, inComes the killer cat.

The sentence will forceThe author down to study syntax

In the basement. IntuitionNags her, but logic

Requires that she abandonThe shivering, half-drowned homunculusWho's now draped across a pencil

Caught in the drippingDrain grate. There isA price to payFor making these statements.An inner light pushes him out

Through the window screenTo the grass whereHe contemplates moonlit cloudsAs he vanishes completely.We're left with the disembodied voice.

THE CLASSICS

In the beginning, the handWrites on water. A riverSwallows its author,Alive but mostlyLost to consciousness.

Where's the milk. The infantGradually becomes interestedIn these resistances.

Success is an ideal method.

For itself the sunIs a prodigy of splendor.It did not evolve. Naturally,A person had to intervene.

Children in stage C succeed.Emotion is rampant. We blushAt cases 1 and 2.


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The rules are sacred,But can be changed.

The moon got biggerBecause we were alive.

The circle rotates carefully.

The speaker is instructed

To listen to the correctMeasurement of words.

Hidden quantitiesIn what he already knowsEventually liberate a childFrom the immediate present.The name of HannibalWas glorious throughout the world.

All men have hearts of gold.A particular man hasA particular heart of gold.

Wearing white clothes,

Eating apples and oranges,26 million men and womenTalk intimately about sex.

Iron nails complete the statue,

But fail in case 3.

Finally, the hand reaches the mouth.99% egocentric speech,By, to, and for itself.

God and the novelApproximate each other.

The listener thinks he understandsWhat the speaker is sayingEven when it is very obscure.

Reversible thinking can explainAnything but the mundaneFeatures of the wordsAlready pronounced.

If the box is too heavy,Tell it to move.


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MATURE EJACULATION

Monsters and metaphors aroseFrom human necessity. The periodEnds the sentence by force.

"When the lightning hit the house,It gave the apparatus a boost,And gave me the power,To turn the page of a book!"

Elaine went a little too near the lakeAnd her geiger counter went crazy.Monsters spent the next five minutesLumbering out of their element. The brushFeels its way through the light.

Jellyfish attacks manikin,Loses hand. The trees are old,The teens possibly older.Flaming tissue under strobelight.

They can be killed with sodiumAnd their radioactive organs give them away.But drunks staggering through the woodsNever know what hit them. Children

Born of prostitutes in the classicsWere thrown into the Tiber.

"What's that sound?" CarsRace through falling dusk. An attractive

Surface wound dangles tantalizinglyDown at Fingle's Quarry. Hank GreenFlashes past the GuggenheimIn his MG, looking for sodium.

It's dead on the beach all summer.

Smoke blows across bare alders.

"You remember your highschool chemistry?"Thoughts and limbs move uncertainly.Clues of dreadful happeningsUnder the sea by Western IslandSurface and flood the will.


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Social life bogs down completely.A pajama party is an orgyOf inefficient appetite. We look

In the book, but get let offWith a slap on the wrist. A dot

In the center of the mapSpeaks for us and hangs useless signsOn trees, rocks, and water.

The clock radio interrupts vicarious dreamsTo announce our names. Hank and ElaineBegin to screw. Dr. Garvin will remainIn the hospital a few weeks.

"We have paid our tuitionAnd have suffered a little,But what counts is we areAccumulating knowledge and results.

CHINA

We live on the third world from the sun. Number three. Nobody tells uswhat to do.

The people who taught us to count were being very kind.

It's always time to leave.

If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don't.

The wind blows your hat off.

The sun rises also.

I'd rather the stars didn't describe us to each other; I'd rather we do it forourselves.

Run in front of your shadow.

A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a good sister.

The landscape is motorized.

The train takes you where it goes.


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Bridges among water.

Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading into the plane.

Don't forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you are nowhere

to be found.

Coats in the window hung up on hooks; question marks where the heads

would normally be.

Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.

If it tastes good we eat it.

The leaves are falling. Point things out.

Pick up the right things.

Hey guess what?What?I've learned how to talk. Great.

The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.

As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.

Go to sleep.

You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.

Everyone enjoyed the explosions.

Time to wake up.

But better get used to dreams too.

BIRTHDAY PRESENTfor Carla Harryman

Dear,

The name They dropped on my face would intoxicate me,perfumes, buzzed whispers, crotch and vine, smoke with water, I dissectthe Play.

And They can put words with my Dolls, threading my inspirationand respiration, green leaves and dry leaves, hay in the barn, halfunconscious, water the country church is finished using.


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But This time, consciously, it is in my mouth, I see, dance, sing,stout as a horse, repeated layers, full noon trill exactly the contents of one,exactly the contents of two.

O I perceive after all a boundless space, minor streams beat time,the blab of the ear, redfaced, ravished fathomless condition with one small

Diadem.I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, earth bearing theowner's name brushed into the corners, I behold the picturesque giant, the

four horses, the beach.But this time, with Will to choose, to own the ear, to stun the

privilege and the same old law, walk five friendly matrons, crowned,crowing.

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft.

Love,

SOCIALIST REALISMfor Bruce Andrews

An open question: solid I.The profession of a voiceIs dotted with hard objects. YouGet to wear fine weapons,Thongs. The front page look,As denatured as possible,Is strewn all over

The storied horizon.

You are obligedBy the invention ofIron to trudge in sunkenRamps, snailish, calm,

An art in itself.

Waves are from stars, goodAnd bad. The endsDetermine the colors.

Deluxe generations of mentalDependents, stooges, senators,Slaves of the El Condor theme,Grasp a few simple positions.

The alarmed past is still around.Dishes, wings, and REM'sAre passed from mind


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To mind with no obviousCuts or commas to separateThought from the tricky to read

Walls. Hard to avoid

Being outside or inside.Dreams are dimmer,But there's the same demand

To get in and out.

HISTORY

The sun shines center stage,Lights up a material sentence which,Though visibly complex, is obviouslyNot complete. The damage is literal,One thing no one can argue with.

An endless chain of bodiesWants to call it home, walkingAlong the bases of the buildings.

Having survived the history of ideasFor x number of days does not

Make us ideal readers. NorAre we mentioned in the text.

The dead should have known better.Shrines cry out for affection,The wounds of Freud competing

With Newton's perfect corpse.

Their thought makes total senseUntil we open our mouths.Private tongues multiply barelyAudible pleasures. On the books

The sun stands still, a thing

Of beauty. The stopped shadowsDevelop moral overtones and theseAre what gets put into circulation.Gargoyles and church music are one

Of many false doors. WordsBlame objects for lack of effect.Dreams echo food and housing. The air


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Turns dark to bright and back,Sped up in the brain.

PHYSICS

The weight of a higher realm

Forms a blank the size of the sky,Seen from the center of anyPerfect personal sphere.

A long sedimentary journeyLeads from there to here, requiringStrict separation of the bodyFrom past messages. Land masses

On tv are now wreathed in spiralsOf cloud. These give us ourRainy nights in Georgia, whiteChristmases. The dreams of nomenclature

Survive the senses' declarations

To populate thin air.Tuning in China on your fillingsMeans another screw tightens

In the pale, persuasive regime

Of appearances. The sun is hot,But the god of our brainsIs still a jealous god.

Physically impeccable, the world

Is missing from these equations.We are the equal signsIdealizing the remains.

TREES

A melody composed of solid obstaclesDictates itself onto paper. The sky adjustsAutomatically. The most popular prisonFor sight is imagery. Light separated

From matter shines on a parking space,


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A lane change. I thinkThat I shall never see withoutNameless grasses whispering generalities

Inside the object code which colors

Once removed at various distancesSpray onto my retinas. The properStudy of trees is trees. A live-oak leaf

Lands upside down on a madrone branch.

Inside the curve of an earEach point contains all linesDrawn through it by the insistenceOf a complete world of days. Any word

Flowers in the face of the climate'sOrnamental attacks. Moving partsProduce the voice, the airplane,The frenchfry. The baby on filmWants to play with the camera.

PASTORAL

One person each, outInto one world, back into many.The collection, the alphabet. He imitates

Its power, sentiments, antiquity. SceneryIn the form of a dramatic monolog.

She trails out of the presentBoth ways, but is sitting

At the table with him. SpraysOf bay, laurel, and their naturalInterpretations are tacked above them.Hearts beating. A storm at sea.

Gossip at length, hours

Yoked together, sun shines,Air presses on their capillaries,Actions. Desire pronounced andPunctuated, their minds endIn their senses. PleasuresLag across solid bridges.

Time to eat. Light is suffused, revised


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Among the letters. Their ears fillWith sounds of the visible world.Minutes surround them, trees

In the foreground by voice vote.Their eyes close. It is night.

MUSIKafter Rilke

What are you saying, Bob? ThoroughlyUrban greenery, wired, givingReliable directions? Where? Your headis tangled in her dispersing cloud body.

To her, speech is a penal system.She'll turn blue and vanish rather thanKeep listening. You're strong, talk a lot,But it will be raining any minute.

Maybe just sit on a green benchAnd watch clouds pass in and outOf shapes you can see. SheLikes not being recognized.

That wing is now a grey square.The wind cuts a new picture in half.

She's in tatters up thereAnd you're reading words on walls.Shouts mimic the shreds of light.

Bob Perelman - Primer

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Transcript of Bob Perelman - Primer