Tuesday, August 25, 2015

A Nathaniel Mackey Poem

Song of the Andoumboulou: 166 ½

Decapitism stuck to the end of my
   tongue. What to do but call it names
I thought. It wasn’t thought I was  
   ing I’d have answered had I been
asked, not even thinking I thought…
  I sat brooding, tracking a feather’s
    plummet my lush regard. I sat
brooding, hen’s heat yogic so bent
   my hickory legs were, hickory
  transcendent so flexed it was. So it
    will have been said absentmindedly
rolled off my tongue. Least thought,
       thought I mock made-believe I
  believed, prophet shod in castoff
   tread… Profitry rolled off as well,
jelly-coated pill I bit. Bitness rolled
   it or might as well have, qu’ahttet’s
broken jaw. Change was the law I
  sat reflecting, right foot nested on
     left inner thigh, left leg pointed
  straight ahead. I sat, Buddhistic
   hurdler, musing, mouth open, ip-
seities arrayed in a row… I sat, I
    thinking thought’s province re-
 ceded, beauty’s provocation revoked
  as our loins contracted, Itamar,
 cio, all us men. Tantric hoist I was
  thinking, thought’s adumbration,
what ached and what resigned itself,
    placed… We sat checking out the
 yogis in leotards, Ahdja, Eleanoir,
   Anuncia, Sophia, every womanly
wisp under the sun. I dreamt again we
   away with no way home, this or that
     plane waiting, this or that takeoff
 missed, sweet crease loaded with ore
   to be absconded with, gold we’d’ve
     otherwise been. Bent intonation inter-
vened, a reed off away in the distance,
    sanet’s name I no sooner gave than
was given back, Brother B’s wild ox
  moan… I sat dejected, thought’s
    pointment missed, disappointed,
 abscondity’s eviscerate redoubt. I
  was thinking thought had yet to be-
gin, thought’s far emblem a star too
  for sight, leotarded crux and cur-
    vature’s ignition, thought’s due ad-
vent I thought no such arrival, what come-
 liness it wore wore thin. No ideas but
    them I thought, cloak and conni-
 vance the lords of that house, abode


1 comment:

  1. I love this poem -- although I'm not sure exactly why. There is definitely a big fine wild spirit inside it. Which might take awhile to kick in inside of you.

    As the Mr Mackey says:

    “In this installment of the ongoing "Song of the Andoumboulou", the poem’s transient ‘we’ stop at the Stick City Ashram. They rename capitalism ‘decapitism,’ rename prophecy ‘profitry,’ rename business ‘bitness,’ and revisit poetic dicta, all in the service of ‘thought’s due ad- / vent.’”

    Please enjoy.