Poetry Project Newsletter, #189
CAN THE OLD NEWNESS GUIDE THE NEW OLDNESS
(from "A Book Of Questions For The Palindromic Year")
This was started in 1991 and resumed in 2002 and completed in 2112 - etorres
The first palindromic number is 11. The palindromic years of my lifetime have given me my palindromic birth years. In 1991, I was 33 years old...11 years later in 2002, I'll be 44 years old. This process has illuminated a particular awakening for me, which I will share with you at this point. My Christ year will now give way to my Extra year...which is what I've chosen to name this occurance. An 11-year clip at one fell swoop. An instant evolution, happening in one swift charge. I have lived as a 33-year old for many years. Adding both numbers, I have carried on like a six-year old and I expect it's now time to act like an eight-year old. For what I imagine will be the next eleven years, or ten...losing the one extra year in the palindromic cycle. Apparition of a lone year in search of its leap.
The One year was born and went its lifetime looking to be inserted into someone's life. The One year, an only year, flew in and out of humanity granting someone an extra year taken out of someone's life. Having no competition the One year wished to be the Extra year instead. Trapped by its function to begin, desire inserted itself by way of palindrome, fooling One into becoming New instead of Extra. And One appeared as desire dressed in longing. And One merely waited for revival. And who wants to be new. Anything but new. Shiny newness will always gets stepped on.
The last time something new was discovered was when the word New found out it had nothing between its letters. In this way New became Old quickly. An older newness has prevailed over the new Old order. There are now countries standing in line, waiting for this new Oldness. A controlled oldness cultivated by Chaos. If we re-structure the word Chaos and plant it, so it can sprout amongst itself, the old Newness will get re-cultivated. However, the new Oldness will never co-exist with the old, it's got to fold into its own poppy field. For in this reconstruction of the word Chaos, it's been exposed for what it really is…Chaos is a flower. A poppy. / Barefoot in the moon / Saying bye bye to the sky / Saying hi hi to the day / In the bloom / Of barefoot poppies...
Eleven years later I revert to ten, after this one-to continue my palindromic cycle. Is this my Extra year? In this, my extra year, have I met who I've taken this year from? When I next shake your hand, look into the eye of an extra year. In that glimmer of sleep you may find yours. When I see you next time, remind me of where I was. Or, if it's your job, where I'm going. This portal closes quick and limits exchange, but I am monstrously proportioned for expectation. The burden seems to overwhelm but the connection is inevitable. This is offering those smackheads out there, a lifetime of possessions in my head. But palindromic lifetimes are a dime-a-dozen-nezo-daem-id...and I expect this liberty will soon pass.
You search an entire year for a time you were one. A speed forever out of direction. Trapped in its formulent wings, a new oldness lets translucent days unfurl an entire year as one instant. And this one, right now, has just occured. And here I cast it frozen in print-on the 3rd day of my extra year I've taken my pen and layed out the beginnings of a promise. And on this the 44th day I've killed it, needing to travel light. One came down and asked me what I wanted. I was unprepared. After I go through you I'll know what I want, said the palindromic yob looking at his reflection.
And here I ask the listening lickmob...who needs to travel light in a year of reversal? Carry a promise and its burden constricts movement. Surrounded by possessions I am home. Missing my pinkie ring, its replacement lies waiting for me this year. Losing it is a mark for change-I am searching for my next year, to wear on my finger. A band of metal to encircle my skin. No power to it, no morality, no vanity-just a ring. A marker of time identifying its arrival. Possession-possassion-passion...surrounded by passion I am most at home. In my head. A lifetime of possessions in my head, their access still renews. The sum total of each palindrome is renewed by the year of its arrival. This year equals 4. The last one equals 20. Take each one in history. The sum total is always even, but this is too easy. Better to take your extra year and say what was done with that time. Loudly. In a room without openings surrounded by possessions. Re-invention as the master of sound or dnous for etsam.
To relate the palindromic tendency to your world, filter every occurance thru your personal history. For example, there's the matter of the palindromic date. Falling on the 33rd day of the palindromic year. Which was the 33rd anniversary of my father's death. This is not fiction. He was taken on an icy road on Feb. 2, 1969. They say he always worked late. They also say he was a womanizer and a poet and that his children were always first. And that his son would re-invent an extra year on this date. Or in the accumulated histories attached to this date.
A palindrome assures continuity. The entry into itself is reborn at every passing. Palindromes are the most human word, to become itself in the course of its lifetime-a palindrome reminds itself that, in the end, it is still alive. Still there. This year will be here, still, as a comment on every year. Age as a coward stepping through time.
It is the first palindromic year / Chaos is a flower in my head / The bees of humanity buzz about me in their glorious stink / It is eleven years from now / Stepping back or forward / Here in the hills of Chaos / Terrains of Discovery reverse themselves / Lifts of weed grow ten miles long / Blades of grass grow ten miles long / They take turns growing into and out of each others / Here in the hills of Chaos there is no trash or waste just Chaos / As far as the eye can see / Can you? / Chaos is a flower / A poppy / Papi, papi / Tell me how I'm gonna grow / Tell me how I'm gonna stand like you do / Tell me how I'm gonna stretch like you do / Tell me how I'm gonna be just like you, o-oh... / Mami, Mami / Tell me how I'm gonna grow / Tell me how I'm gonna dance like you do / Tell me how I'm gonna dream like you do / Tell me how I'm gonna be just like you, o-oh...
There once was an eleventh day. Greeting itself at every passing moment. A twin. Eleven is the first twin. Knows its island. What surrounds it. What maintains it. In 2001 there was an eleventh day. Its outstanding feature was that fate chose a number any child could understand as a twin. Reflecting on each other, as twins do. Eleven is the first palindromic number. I, the first palindromic word. These twins were placed perfectly. In the order of their missing history, on the eleventh day, I was truly standing. Aware of my beautiful people, moving as one. I submerged my listless demise in awe of the slope's determined slant-gaining on my last name. A speed forever out of my grasp.
Instants reborn in the crossfire. Re-incarnations ready for achievement. What my extra year will bring to someone I've never met, is the prospect of extra time. The desire for time is deeper for someone who cheats desire, who rubs from their skin an extra layer of time. This is another desire, to find where extra ends. To state plainly the one extra moment of desire. Or in this time, to else the earlier chance of numbers. Where years reversed. Way back, at the start of this writing. Useful now, in this multiplication of skin over human word-clarity in exchange for the understanding of clarity.
I saw this man wearing a shirt today, he was my brother but holding not my brother. How men say brother but really mean gender. Is my gender enough to be home? Half my planet is home. Is year a home? A time once found itself to be time and made itself desire. Half-desire is home.
When walking through your pre-ordained doors, listen for the frictive rub. This starting, to stop and back, this constant travel, noisy in the right light, is endless in reversal's opposite-and, according to your sky, replaces what is time. This is about goal and arrival. About creating once you've landed. In the instant of this, chaos is attractive. Language-words as hills, passing back & forth over themselves. This is the instant of itself at home. The palindromic yob loses sih edam-fles at yreve tnatsni. Cover me now / My blue fated draper / Date mating undertaker / My blued over-robed coverer / Cover me now...
This was a boy. A small one of me. Made this instant. From a talk of my own. With someone. Maybe me. This boy was a talking of someone. Made to fit my mouth. My mind. This instant was a boy. Running in place. Saying I had to have been this once-this time in space. I found this home. And where a time found itself to be time-made us make me. What I say is us-is made the instant I say us is me. In my mouth what is time is what I desire. I haven't met you yet. But I am sure you will enjoy my time. The one I made for you-with my extra year.
