We Know Nothing About the Inner Life of Isidor Ducasse

WE KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE INNER LIFE OF ISIDOR DUCASSE


In this retraction, a kind of backsliding,
perhaps a hiding or hedonism,
If a series of dots………are inserted
in a sentence, or a pretense
of a sentence, the gesture, the enactment,
that is undergoing, in progress verbally
and disrupting
might become
under auspicious conditions………a deviation
from a direction, result………in an arrival.

The red of the railroad station light
spread out on the wet sidewalk
to become
wet arabesques, if seen abstract,

Or,

If viewed from the viewpoint of realism,
apparitions.

I stand by letters on a window glass,
not read to turn into a word,
thinking……….We know nothing about
the inner life of Isidor Ducasse,

Or……….anyone else, or even ourselves.

So our psychological commentaries are fictions:
comedies, tragedies,
but never histories.

The footstools in witness chairs,
all testify to lawyers that we
like Gloucester are blind,
been blinded by hands or language,
need the myth of a cliff
and the myth of a sea shore with sand,
if we are going to survive suicide,
and continue a maimed life.

This enactment, not to describe the cliff
and the sea shore, not to
define
the cliff and the sea shore,
not to even find the cliff and the sea shore,

But to become the cliff and the sea shore.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Wall