For the Ride by Alice Notley

Author:Alice Notley [Notley, Alice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

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THE STUPID BATTLE

Parts one says, One thinks haven’t considered all the suggestions, yet—

requests, remember? How to change it, how ones jabber, for the best.

One keeps getting distracted, just talks . . . That’s what it’s like, to keep on.

What does one want to be able to say to a one? Anything?

Oh it’s whatever comes up but one hopes to have left the long time,

stretched out linear. This one entered this coma escaping that—

evolution’s or straight annual. One’s in a dreamier flux—

didn’t get here from there or pass through that. Suddenly one speaks it . . .

Begins the poem. It’s already begun. Again, says One.

Don’t want to tell one something, want to be living it, the poem

inseparable . . . That’s one of the suggestions, says, Parts one, to

say as one’s moving, say, I’m on my way to the death of the freeze.

Or birth of the bees. Winds are one’s time, carry new scenarios

begun on the living side of walls and maybe of the language.

Wall, another wall’s talk, talking to One. That one, says One, torn off

floating, incroyables les couleurs, bleu foncé, jaune et rouge, ocre—

naranjo y blanco—An animal’s talking to ones, winged coyote mebbe,

eye blue oh what is pouring from thy red mouth, teethed? a white voile scroll . . .

Yes, it says, it’s the form of this one’s thought, endless for all the ones.

One always thinks towards, speaks en façon, piling the thought on act . . .

Thou art frozen, says One. Not in my mind. Speak now to tell thee rules—

Don’t want rules, says Wideset—There’s always procedural crap, it says.

First, ones’ll just wear it, as doing now: no one’ll get to own

anything but what’s worn—words—by the oneself. One is one’s own poem.

Segundo: it will change.—Is it one’s thought?—It’s basically the one.

All others can understand each other as corporeal poems . . .

—Some are alike? Animals are alike?—No bodies are alike.—

Right. One knew that . . . But what language is this? Seems other than novel . . .

Mutational, repetitive, fancied: comes from wellsprings within

one’s chaotic makeup shared by company of las criaturas . . .

always is. And the words, they always is. Any parts of. Or wholes,

same thing, chingadero. Right, says Parts one. Charts’re what one wants, says

Unbreasted. Then the winged coyote: No. Ain’t like that, no status

to ones who master charts. Here we are now: cloth in its mouth unscrolls

dropping like waterfall. Always unfix’d layers faint beneath, in,

arising in a jif—if one wants, speak like the academy,

siècles of that shit are available.—Made its way onto ark?

Sure. Lots of unbreasteds wanted the stuff. We’re in repetition,

don’t we know all of this? How we’re alive, keep saying the stuff,

mind/body of the winged coyote says. Oneself is the way, the

truth—troot—and the lighight. Don’t have to beleeeve in me or a one—

just be ye and the langue be whatsoe’er it wants, état of grace.

Say what it is one wants. Shaker: Always wanted to have . . . to have . . .

started with . . . nothing comes. Filtered water, lots of socks, ideas.

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