Going Through All These Things Twice

[Tracy Mitchell]

.
.
  Going Through All These Things Twice

I pulled red from my arm, painted limestone
stories of ourselves - how we lived and died
without fingerprints, without regret.

I grew queasy, flies spun about my head--
a street stand sopped in stench of venison,
but a pittance for the loss of night stars.

We exploded black with energy-- walls,
buildings -- pink lungs no more, a fashion virtue
designed of dark-circled eyes spattered wide.

Lightning across a prairie, my sisters
screaming, pounding, like buffalo now gone,
on toward the root cellar beneath the sod.

My sons died with the Duke at Ebbets Field.
My shop in Queens went broke, and my tin wife,
out for cigarettes, vanished on a Tuesday.

No one fought the drift to ones and zeros,
across a cloud, a zip-zip nestled like
odorless nutmeg in near magnificence

against all truth-- Thales to Wittgenstein,
Baudelaire to Howard Stern, in less than
three caraway seeds and an angel's heart-- 
until a flicker . . . unnoticed at first.

Collars now against a toxic west wind,
my people circle a campfire, feed on
genetically altered mastodon dick.  

Me?  I am a walnut again, tumbling
deep in a stream bed, polishing, rolling
off the grid, and back down to the sea.


 

[Matty11]

deep in a stream bed, polishing, rolling
off the grid, and back down to the sea.

There is a lovely release in that ending Tracy.

best

Phil

[Tracy Mitchell]

Thanks Phil. 

T

[Matty11]

I pulled red from my arm, painted limestone
stories of ourselves - how we lived and died
without fingerprints, without regret.

I grew queasy, flies spun about my head--

I felt the ending because the imagery, from the start, has a savage honesty.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Thanks Phil.

T

[indar]

  Going Through All These Things Twice (seems like more than twice)

Hi Tracy,

I am enjoying (if I can use that word in the context of this poem) untangling (ahem) the meanings/images

I pulled red from my arm, painted limestone
stories of ourselves - how we lived and died
without fingerprints, without regret. I immediately thought of the caves of Lascaux. I read this poem as a sweeping overview of human eras moving west. The use of blood as pigment to create the fantastic stories of spiritual impulse and the attempt to gain ascendency over the environment as a matter of survival is evocative of the intensity and need of early human. Of course no regret. 

I grew queasy, flies spun about my head--
a street stand sopped in stench of venison,
but a pittance for the loss of night stars.

We exploded black with energy-- walls,
buildings -- pink lungs no more, a fashion virtue
designed of dark-circled eyes spattered wide. (I associate the industrial age with blackening (coal, smokestacks etc.), and with it marketing and the romanticizing of addictive behavior represented beautifully by "blackening of the lung via addiction to cigarettes (I do not judge) as sophisticated and sexy. I can't get the font color to change so I'll have to bold it)

Lightning across a prairie, my sisters
screaming, pounding, like buffalo now gone,
on toward the root cellar beneath the sod. This S causes me to question who the narrator is for the first time. I look at the S as the impulses of manifest destiny and the claiming and subduing of the "new world". Now it won't go bold either so I'll underline

My sons died with the Duke at Ebbets Field.
My shop in Queens went broke, and my tin wife,
out for cigarettes, vanished on a Tuesday. I had to do some googling on this one. Not a baseball fan. 1952 world series Duke Snyder jumps for joy as Joe Black strikes out. The great American pastime. Again I wonder about the identity of the N. Who are the sons that died. I will continue to mull.

No one fought the drift to ones and zeros,
across a cloud, a zip-zip nestled like
odorless nutmeg in near magnificence

against all truth-- Thales to Wittgenstein,
Baudelaire to Howard Stern, in less than  Howard Stern at the end of that lineup--depressing
three caraway seeds and an angel's heart-- 
until a flicker . . . unnoticed at first. I love the internet---found it you cagey devil. place it in the navel of a fruit fly and still have room enough for three caraway seeds and a producer's heart.--Fred Allen---apt for our times and not restricted to Hollywood

Collars now against a toxic west wind,
my people circle a campfire, feed on
genetically altered mastodon dick.  I noticed this mix of ancient and new throughout: mastodon and GMOs west wind/toxins a nice mix as well

Me?  I am a walnut again, tumbling
deep in a stream bed, polishing, rolling
off the grid, and back down to the sea. I'm trying to figure out if I agree with Phil that the ending is a release or a pathetic hope. My state of mind no doubt

I commented on the content mostly but I wasn't unaware of the careful choice of words (so you), the sonics and the almost drum beat in places of the rhythm. Enjoy this grearly and will continue to read as I know there are layers I haven't tapped yet.

 

[Tim J Brennan]

.
.
  Going Through All These Things Twice

I pulled red from my arm, painted limestone
stories of ourselves - how we lived and died
without fingerprints, without regret.

I grew queasy, flies spun about my head--
a street stand sopped in stench of venison,
but a pittance for the loss of night stars.

We exploded black with energy-- walls,
buildings -- pink lungs no more, a fashion virtue
designed of dark-circled eyes spattered wide.

Lightning across a prairie, my sisters
screaming, pounding, like buffalo now gone,
on toward the root cellar beneath the sod.

My sons died with the Duke at Ebbets Field.
My shop in Queens went broke, and my tin wife,
out for cigarettes, vanished on a Tuesday.

No one fought the drift to ones and zeros,
across a cloud, a zip-zip nestled like
odorless nutmeg in near magnificence

against all truth-- Thales to Wittgenstein,
Baudelaire to Howard Stern, in less than
three caraway seeds and an angel's heart-- 
until a flicker . . . unnoticed at first.

Collars now against a toxic west wind,
my people circle a campfire, feed on
genetically altered mastodon dick.  

Me?  I am a walnut again, tumbling
deep in a stream bed, polishing, rolling
off the grid, and back down to the sea.


 

I keep hearing Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" (Tracy Mitchell style).  I mean, how often can I read Howard Stern and Duke Snyder in the same poem, a couple of decades apart, but somehow of equal importance to the N?

Lots of name dropping here. Maybe more an homage to the American genealogy of influences on the N rather than the N's family itself.  Wittgenstein is one interesting guy, for instance. A poor man's Freud for language use. Once I googled him (maybe too much of that being forced on me here), but I liked him once I took the effort to look him up.

The hardwood of the walnut, the beauty of it, how it is shaped and used, its sturdiness.  I'm intrigued by the use of "again"....how does one return to such an image, and where did it go in the first place?   I half expected this time traveler to run into Kerouac himself somewhere between Queens and the prairie west. 

This is almost an epic. Certainly saga-like.  I used to read Taylor Caldwell books when I was a kid, sweeping family chronicles (e.g. grandfathers, fathers, sons and sons of sons).  This reminded me of one of them.  I enjoyed this, at least in anticipation of where it would take me w/each stanza until it finally took me "off the grid"....and there's the word "back" (sort of like "again"), in all its quizzical use.    

[Matty11]

I pulled red from my arm, painted limestone
stories of ourselves - how we lived and died
without fingerprints, without regret.

I grew queasy, flies spun about my head--

I liked that transition from primal/ancestral to that human reaction from the loss of blood - the consequences of obsession! I did wonder how the 'paint' was applied - a finger/hand painting would leave prints!

[indar]

My shop in Queens went broke, and my tin wife,
out for cigarettes, vanished on a Tuesday.

I know its hopeless to ask because you aren't going to answer but is this a reference to the tin man of oz in search of a heart---or in other words heartlessness? Have you been reading Mac Leish and his oft-central theme of human heart? I only learned a couple of years ago that F Baum wrote Oz as an allegory about the controversy re green paper money (emerald city) and gold-backed money (yellow brick road) but I see a higher theme of authenticity. But I digress.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Hi Indar. 
Thanks for such a thorough reading.  Your comments are spot-on.  Yes, the idea starts with cave paintings and ends in about the same place, although the N, elusive as you note, doesn't recycle quite so fast - he's back to the ocean.  I think there is much to revise here, but I feel like I am going in the right direction.

As to the tin reference for the wife, the short answer is no.  But I recall tin containers from that time period - pipe tobacco, medicinal products.  Band-aids are the only product I can think which is currently marketed in metal containers.  It's a more solid, genuine matter, but as you suggest, hollow when empty, so yes, maybe heartless.  I was thinking more period-dated and she vanished like many other genuine things.  But did so in a manner without much for emotion, at least descernable on her part.

Just my thoughts.  The lines say what they say.  [Until edited, that is.  ]

Tim,
Thanks for your take as well.  At least it engendered the curiosity you describe.  I think you catch the flow very well, but I need to provide more theme, more clarity.  

Phil,
Good observation.  Would you believe it was meant figuratively? 
Appreciate your coming back to this.

Good feedback.
Cheers.

T