Issue 5: Independent vs. Representative Voice
A Publication of the USF MFA in Writing Program

 
 
As you begin to disassemble your body. What is a brown body?  
Khan also said that his 'driving motivation' was Islam.  
 As you begin to forget how you drive.  
 I knew him as Sid Khan.  
As the fire between the moribunding skin of your bodies.  
 Here was a Muslim who was publicly respected and admired.  
As you begin to wrap the kite thread back into the ball of your gut.  
 Khan appears to have negotiated himself.  
 Pull the kite back in after the kite kissed the cumulus. What is a kite?  
 There is "an enemy within" - but that its nature is highly complex.  
*Memes, memes are good for the heart the more you heart the better you lark, the more you lark the better you feel. The more you feel, the better you reel.   
As you pull a switch blade out and reveal a comb. What is a comb?  
 A head shot.  
 As your body goes through the windshield. What is a windshield?  
 Physiological perturbations are organized.  
As you revisit the 7/7 riots in Bradford.  
 Stuart Williams stating that he wanted to "blow up" Bradford's mosques with a rocket launcher.  
  As you stood quietly when a paki was bashed.  
What do you get when you stick a paki in a microwave?  
 As you go to a training camp.  
Dave Midgley confessing to pushing dog faeces through the letterbox of an Asian takeaway.  
 As your boot get caught in quick sand.  
(Just before the debate begins)   
This debate is now closed.  
 
 Who is speaking you? Are you babbling yet? Are you white? Do you want to enable the "other"? Do you know your "other" yet? Do you own your "other" yet? Are you Frankenstein? Do you have dreams of zombies? Have you packaged it? Have you frozen it to the wink of eternity? Do you know your gut yet? Do you own your gut yet? Have you packaged it? Does your gut sing or does it play lullabies? Have you played that game where you climb up the CN tower and you fall gently to the ground like a maple leaf? In French, the CN tower is a la.   
 
Will you burn the streets down? Will you chain saw a tree onto a power outage? Will you grow a beard? Will you wear a shalwar quameez? Are you an ABCD? Are you a Desi? Is there a difference? Do you walk or do you stagger? Do you lawn bowl? Did you fight for your brothers in Chechnya? Did you groan when you saw the rumble in Karbala? Did you rejoice when you saw the twin towers tumble? Were you confused enough? Did you see the Vietnam veteran in rags by the television watching the woman jump out? Did you feel him more than you did the woman? Was he real enough? Are you ashamed of feeling old? Are you ashamed of your umbilicus? What happened to the white Vietnam Veteran at the moment when the twin towers fell? What happened to whiteness as a working concept? Did you see the man shuffling the burka across the street of screaming cars? Did the fern saplings shout? When did you first hear that the sky was pregnant with drought? Is that a metaphor? Do you wear baggy denims? Are you old enough? Is this your locket of hair? Is this a fairy tale? Would it make a difference in the ballot count? Do you carry a paper bag on the subway just in case? What poetry school do you subscribe to? If you buy a condo, will you put on dome on it? Will you hybridize the crack in the side walk after your eyes leaked out?  
 
Do you walk aimlessly? Do you carry a loud speaker which transmits your thoughts? Are you before yourself or after yourself? Are you decultured or emasculated? Do you read Barthes backwards? Do you chit chat to a wall about Barthes on the toilet? Did you eat your baggage, or did it eat you? Do you know the barley averts the evil eye in India? Is it baggage, or is it God? Decide on a tie. Before you fly back home...did the bread rise? Why do you fly home and take a boat back? Do you build model airplane?   
 
Why do white boys fly? Do you pack Egyptian sand in test tubes? Are you a material fact? What of the white boat? Take off your dunce cap. Will you disassemble, Mother? Is there a generation gap? Will you bomb the fuck out of your model body now? Do you care enough? We are a target because of who we are and how we live, our society, our diversity and our values - values such as freedom, democracy and the rule of law.   
 
Have you read al jazeera for a month? Are you old enough? Does the lyric arise in bodies such as these? Do you sympathize with their demands to withdraw the troops, or do we draw the line here? We've got a live one. How we live. Our. Society.   
Our. Diversity. Our. Values. Freedom. Law.   
 
Devise a Title  
 
The daylight of opening a dictionary. It's a long story. In the beginning there were no words, no worlds. There was whirling and there was a birthing and babbling. Listen closely and I'll explain. Or complain. But you'll understand. Bear with me, I have no clues. I'm trying to devise a title. Deeds done. Confessions. Interlude. Notes torn from a journal. Take a rest dear reader. Take this water. The poetics of "ethnicity." The poetics of "misidentity." He was diagnosed with "malgnosis." The poetics of psychic explosion. Or a journey toward the absent ileocecal valve.  
 
(Devise a title)  
  
Directions (Many Purpose(s): To arrive or to arrive no more etc.  
 
Methodology: many differing approaches.  
 
Hypothesis: comes before methodology.  
  
Poet Speaks: (Devise a title). Directions (Many Purpose(s): To Sin or to sin no more Methodology: many differing approaches. Hypothesis: comes before methodology.   
 
I swear by God I have to come to terms with wanting too much.  
A discernible past, for instance.  
A Narrative. An operative poetics. A nice girl. The list goes on.   
This particular poem  
has a purpose, all be it at odds with the Moslem God. The Hindu God. The Christian God.  
In addition, there is an assembly line of men with over alls under all the parts of machinery. Genetic machinery, that is (and) they're trying to screw things   
up. This is not a complex.  
I swear by God it is a knotted  
  
Procedure  
  
The Moslem God doesn't like similes or similitudes.  
On the other hand, the Hindu God is complex.  
I have to come to terms with wanting too little because of a slight complex,  
I conclude we're both lost causes.  
You one and without an equal  
and I packed off to figure the arithmetic,  
to search for impossible beginnings.  
  
(God answers in all forms):  
 
I swear by God I'm an ear wig. I'm every where. I love wax museums.  
There were many of us at the beginning of time, and we kept digging  
until we fell through the sky. If you'll believe me I'll make you a wigwam and we'll sail Medina to the dead sea. Listen, I'm on welfare, so I hope you'll consider my well fare and also get your penny's worth. I sit on a dragons back and we're about to take a journey through the gut. A journey denotes a beginning a middle and an end. We'll all heave at the ileocecal valve, I swear. This is a catharsis.  
 
His Mother:  
 
He relives her disembarking/a plane in Thunder Bay.  
(It was winter, the snow was piled up at her husband's door and then)  
She carried a suitcase of dried petals.  
There was a husband whom she had met in Lahore,   
eloped with. This was/is all arranged.  
The narrator wanted her to become what he needed--a mother tongue.  
He wants that she wants to not con/form into a blizzard.  
That's a figure of his speech. Not a mater tongue.  
his space is an arrangement. I need to go to Lahore to see a whore.  
That's foreshadowing. I'm giving you a clue to his whereabouts.  
hope you'll believe me. This narrative belongs to a wax museum.  
 
As I said, I want to be domesticated, but more like a dog. I want to be wise, but otherwise. I want to be ignorant and backward. I don't quite understand why this is the case. I have faith in fools and lunatics. I want to write well constructed rhetorical and backward tracts for a season, at least. Edging toward the extremities of language, one day my analyst said: one day you will babble. That was the day the lightening clapped and the sparrow followed me in.   
 
I am anal, yes, although you'd never know that I was prince in my previous embodiment and before that a laughing rafter of a house which fell on a clatter of forks and knifes. Words for me are animals, animal noodles. Other bodies lunge toward me. Yes, I am moaning and mooning. I want my self to be dished out and slaughtered like the monkey brains in Indiana Jones. I'm impressionable as hell. Words and their structures are the ghosts of new bodies.I live in about a hundred bodies. In about a hundred different times and places. A moment ago, I was a sannyasin walking in India, dying an ochre robe. I have never before felt myself bow like that toward stone. I understand the dynamics of nostalgia, don't get me wrong. I'm not nostalgic. I don't know where I am. That's not the problem. Ecstasy cannot be packaged. The God-head belongs partially, unanchored to texts. Auras can't be photographed.   
 
The wise fools are the mercurial. The wise fool sits on the dung heap and disassembles his wise folly. In other words, she finds a whole in her thinking, which reaps all sorts of benefits. Like life insurance. Or an advance. The sannyasin sits on a dung heap and meditates his "wise folly" and becomes a wise fool. Later he would rather be the dung that attracts the fly and maintains his animal body.   
 
He want to ring the necks of a few people with verbs. I want to "ing" like a flea which breeds on a grackle. I want to be your very own lullaby. I'm a moslem and muslin and muesli. I'm trying to find a bridge to the sense of eating myself. To the gerund. To the hoax of a poem. To the hoax of beauty. To the hoax of Ibn Arabi. To the hoax of thinking it's all a hoax.I believe in attention seeking. I am currently a child in need of a lullaby. I believe in madness, but not in a regressive sense. I believe in regress, but not in a progressive sense. I belong to the stars and grackles, to the owl and the mouse. I belong to the moon and I shed my body on the light of the whip. I am not a pagan. I am not a song of myself. I am not the stranger that breeds inside your brain. Not a derelict. A dog licker.   
 
I am your angel with the wings of a fly. Send me all your belongings and follow me. Send me some grass. Leaves of grass, preferably not. Send me your cranks. We'll make a new wheel. A sphere for your sorrow.The gut is the centre of gravity, but I never studied this in India. I learned from a Russian orthodox priest. Consider the Philokalia. It outlines the art of naval gazing. If you're looking for an operative poetics, consider the naval which would bring you much fruit.   
 
When Judas was a priest I was on Mercury, quietly considering panic. Now that I'm Rudolph the reindeer, I hope you won't travel to Mercury. Listen, I want to reform to be a speed reader. I want to make a loaf of bread for the road. When he met his father's hands in a bread basket, he knew it wasn't his father. Abdul had mutated into Abraham.   
 
The gut was a road if you consider that the road is unhinged in 3 places, possibly more--we'll investigate the matter. Here are the statistics, you do the gallop poll. We'll meet each in the flagpole…I is woven, I is woven. He was woven he was woven. No the stitches are--(don't trust he gut when cell division is occurring). This is getting psychoanalytic. Bear with me or don't, I couldn't care less or I could.   
 
I am telling you that this is the story of a body which never birthed. He tried re birthing: Rebirthing is called re birthing because many times the suppression that comes up and is released is related to birth trauma. When a rebirthee has released enough suppression (usually in 10 to 20 sessions) they have mastered the breath and feel safe enough with the process to rebirth themselves whenever they want.  
 
I questioned everybody and everything, even the beams of the house I was unconsciously constructing. Education is trauma therapy. Then I tried to forget: MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains. My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk...I wrote reams of lyrical poems.  
 
Here's   
my first and last attempt at being lyrical:  
  
Little child who made thee   
Little child who made thee?   
Who made the meadow for the bees   
and laughing water for the trees.....   
Who placed the cosmos in thine eyes  
that I could gaze into thy sky   
and ask little child who made me?  
 
That was in another room that continually intrudes upon this telling. Bear with me, I have no clues. As long as I don't bore into you, I will have accomplished my purpose which is to give you pleasure. Perhaps paint a picture of my Motherland, if you'd believe me, I'd be mimetic.   
 
He has to button his butterfly. He's trying to release a Romantic, but he's cocooning again. This is an arcane branch of linguistics, so you'll spare him the audition. Keep your hands to yourself and consider solitude the theme of this narrative. Keep your eye on that and you'll be a Cyclops with a reasonable mind. He's a 12 dimensional misnomer.  
 
Dear reader, you will always be a familiar place. I swear I'm not being facetious, mother tried to carve me into a skylark. You should get your pennies worth we all agree. I'm an old soul wise as Mercury. I could tell you why Orpheus turned his back on Eurydice in Hades, or perhaps I'm misreading. I'm the best misreader that I know, so I know you'll trust me. Or why did Alexander Mackenzie turn his back on me when the street car screamed through the grid by the fern saplings? Or why did Ben Franklin walk back from the auditorium where a sermon was being preached. Because he knew that written word traveled far and wide. They need to be transplanted.  
 
It's all happening at this instant, the narrative. I mean. Spare me the audition, I am a trustworthy statue. This is an arcane branch of linguistics. I'll elucidate at this juncture, where the colon meets the Indus river. Don't gripe with the trope: consider it a gift, or a trump. The gut has an ending, but then there are the drain pipes and the echoes in this house, in this house. Note the rhetoric; I could tell you name, but I'm a slow learner, so you'll understand and we'll miscommunicate.  
 
Sorry if I'm being ungrateful, but endings have new beginnings when the sewage drains. So sue me, this piece of gut is oddly disjunctive, but you'll study the endoscopy report, I trust. When I try to conjoin words to guide him, I become a homing instinct. I want to decode an anatomical map, though, so I trust that you'll fly with me through the gut to a third body.  
 
I have an Axe to grind in your brain, like the additions to our house. There are ins and outs of creating a house. Excuse the slant rhyme, in case I'm misreading you'll understand the beams are slightly in order. The laws of this house are the beginning of the narrative. Don't worry too much about the picture of a woman in domestic bliss. She's frozen on the wall and requires a heart transplant. The laws of this house are an audition, don't panic with this addition to the house.  
 
I want to make a conjunction of Ganges with the Indus, but those are up in the attic. The attic is a bedroom if you understand how space moves. Trust me, you're in. The Indus travels all the way to India, but it changes names like the layers of the gut.   
 
In a dream I became the moving eye of obstruction. On a stormy night I learned the ins and outs of echolocation. Clap on, clap off, clap on, clap on, clap off the clapper. That's the theme of the family room. Consider the totem pole on the mantle. It is here where I served the Pontiff Bacon for breakfast on Ramadamn.  
 
Come, I'll pay the tip, you cover the bill. Give me a mater tongue and I'll try to join the Ganges with Indus, the family room with the bedroom. Anastomosis occurred last year. We're still investigating the missing piece of narrative. The hallway was dark on Christmas. Find the walls with your ears. If you're an imminent critic you will see. Ah. Screw the bees. I want to be strung now. I was bored in the sign of the bull when I was conceived by a mother. She tried to open a door once, but the white of the snow made her slip. I want to write hallmark cards. Earmark me for the military. I was born in the sign of bull, if that bears any claws. The trine of a square is a conjunction, crack that and I'll give you my Vedic astrology chart. Don't mention the tip.   
 
In the haystack was a humanist, after he realized he was beast. I hope the spell is contagious. I hope it bears resemblance to your third body. We'll get to the narrative in a moment, but before that be able and Cain, Indian cane sugar. The laws of this house are an audition. They will collapse the moment you examine the walls. The Venetian blinds are a riddle if you care to open them and see outside. The side of the house is a maniac if you believe in personification. Consider the Lollards. I have a slight complex.   
 
The darkness is where all the fruits are. Read this parable and you'll be able. I'll tell you a story about a journey to Hades when Hades was a cell. That's another story, though. It always tries to supplant me from the snow. You see I'm at the door when my mother tries to open it. She just won a lottery and my Dad told her to spend the winnings on groceries. Be here and now is an apt aphorism. It gets you through the day if you believe in a here. I have this strange hair that's slightly obnoxious.   
 
I hope you'll bear with this complex because falling apart is what a third world loves to do.  
 
Knock knock(….)Home is a koan where the buffalo roam down by the sea. I used that line before but this is not a performance, so you'll bare with me and keep your hands together. This is not the humming bird centre and I'm no whirling dervish that will entertain you. I'm anxious as hell to tell you about a trinity of Gods that I worship. That was before I became an ancient mariner. I have to release allusions continuously. Anyway, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva and you could make a parallel if you believed in generalities: Father sin and holy Ghost. My teacher always said I was a good misreader. They sent me off to a school of reform, but my Blessed Mother believed in miracles. She always said a door would open. Look at this.  
 
Allah was on welfare. (I do care for your well fare.) Don't kill me, I'm not Rushdie. I have no spells to weave I swear. I have a slight complex, but you'll believe me when I say you'll get your pennies worth of narrative. It will breed inside your brain. I'll tell you right here and now that this is still slightly mimetic, perhaps phenomenological, if you could swallow that pill. I swear by God I have nothing against big words; in the beginning was the big word, or the big bang. One giant fuck in space, I'd say. The God's must be crazy throwing all these Pepsi bottles from planes. I see beauteous forms all around me and I agree with I'm Forester. We should get rid of narrative and settle for the essentials. Mystic contemplation of transubstantiation if you could only breed a word, golly God, I'm tripping. A sole without a foot--I was just thinking if we let go of allusions, then we may settle for animal noodles. If we tell all our friends, we'll be a whole bunch. Maybe the silence of not knowing is where stories lie. I have a Sphinx like face. Crack this riddle and I'll give you a medal. The day two worlds never join is my birthday. I'm Mercury herself mediating between Hades. But Hades has many names which I won't generalize. I'm not Indian, I swear. I don't want to simplify this or draw any parallels, a beam to a home. I'd rather settle for martyrdom, silence can be martyrdom, but this is noise. Are you listening? Crack this one.  
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