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Locale
Poetry. LOCALE. "Reading and rereading this extraordinary manuscript, I find myself asking where these poems most completely come word, line or 'sentence?' The truth is I can't tell-the poems leap off the page at all levels, as if Jessica Grim has tapped into the secret of a fourth dimension. Playful, serious, intense and wise all at once, with an accurate eye and an absolute ear, LOCALE contains some of the most riveting poems of our time. The art of the 21st Century starts here"-Ron Silliman.
- GenresPoetry
86 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1995
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January 22, 2022
some of the images repeat differently
tightened sentiment controls
particular clipped tunes
(the lawn sent me)
please describe all visible damage
okay: bedtime
frail spins of hair as the light comes through my cheek
tower of biscuits
no-smudge satellite
review of one's own personal sentence
rattling as you write that
oh lonesome wind foils
covering all the bases
described as the last ripple of facism
it's lighter out than it was
long low bungalows
we are in a slowdown
heterosexual distaff
(the famous shrinking word)
"we have freed the criminal from geographic
proximity to his crime"
despair situates
led to its understatment
cannot reasonably entwine
water on rubbed rubber tiles
auditory cold flow
irreverent disc
stops throb, warp speed
* * *
Moving the memory back out to accommodate its fixation, its thickness. Dried sprig of jasmine... alternating between a readiness to be deceived by my own fantasies, and then remarkable daylight breaks in.
Really a very detailed description of some skin, is that a prelude?
We have counted as high as we can go, held our breath that long. Geographic punctuality, worries are seasonal, and heady. No time out.
That peculiar void waving at the end of your rope, "make it real." Whose words follow: flagtime stops. Research melodious possibilities. Infolded spectaculars. My specious mind. Positioning sharply into the fetid dusk. Scant starry field throws off a furlong scent.
Rich with it. Tallness a metaphor, the down slant. Comeback with motives on your shirtsleeve, sexy litigious gratuities. Skate free of the hole once it's carved. Through it darkness and indiscretion. Successive meanderings, veneration of ego. Full fragile carpathian.
Venal arteries. Her clear heart. The muscular anticipation. Because the supposed perception (the record, the death) forefront her difficulties with that stance. Cutting bruising wounded flesh as the body of the writer, what now.
Also in an iron surface. The vanishing striptease inside the glass throne. Brittle green algae. Neck curves to hold the light. Only barrenness will make you calm... that flat arena whereby exquisite sameness proceeds. Murmur vibrates as our tongues touch at last.
In the destroyed view of the world a room. Empty and level both. A genius lust, the skins of things walk past.
* * *
It's not over til it's over pastures
coating our dust with the ambiguous strain of desire
somber container
parsed to deter
liquefied timbre inside skull's secretion
our prepositional pride
before the kiss
acts like its own cage
a voice reasons with itself
yawn hurts our face
silver structure goes up
same themes pry
where is our tribe, the cord
leads umbilically towards your mouth
hardens the twines
serrates globules
you startle easy
prize glands decontour
on our coast swollen full
pressure on vocal flux
dedicatory amorousness
takes the plunge
any plunge
collapse description into it
sweet streets
saffron nemesis
go above ground
garden of speechlessness
they explode into the headlines
in lingua
* * *
Glamorous to be pediatric, misread. Prosaic steps from this island to that, lost in our ways. Is it really a fabulous move? Cater to the outside? Whose gradient did you say you sucked? Idle lipstick makes me pout, I collect them as they come, til that's unreasonable, how do you do it? Sassy misanthrope. That novitiate charm. Viscous boy gossip, so demure, so classy.
Owls for the taking. The tills still banging out their memory; listen, still not enough of what I want you to do for me. A busy life bucks up, "back in the saddle again," back in the brilliant audience.
Obliterating the mechanics of pain in the ceaseless inflated hour. It's not doting we're even after, afterall. It's whose taunting maimed ways we encourage. An emblem frantic to be somebody. Pithy nostalgic undertaker. Shortening lines, dental fidelity, thick reciprocity sandwich. In those silent shoes the blue circle endlessly, our sprockets have skillfully relapsing, just a simple deposit. Still, be quiet, I can hardly hear. Parts which're dependent on sound, the excitement will wake you up. Arms envelope their mates, too crowded to please, same legs you walked here with... rows empty.
tightened sentiment controls
particular clipped tunes
(the lawn sent me)
please describe all visible damage
okay: bedtime
frail spins of hair as the light comes through my cheek
tower of biscuits
no-smudge satellite
review of one's own personal sentence
rattling as you write that
oh lonesome wind foils
covering all the bases
described as the last ripple of facism
it's lighter out than it was
long low bungalows
we are in a slowdown
heterosexual distaff
(the famous shrinking word)
"we have freed the criminal from geographic
proximity to his crime"
despair situates
led to its understatment
cannot reasonably entwine
water on rubbed rubber tiles
auditory cold flow
irreverent disc
stops throb, warp speed
- After the Graft, pg. 8-9
* * *
Moving the memory back out to accommodate its fixation, its thickness. Dried sprig of jasmine... alternating between a readiness to be deceived by my own fantasies, and then remarkable daylight breaks in.
Really a very detailed description of some skin, is that a prelude?
We have counted as high as we can go, held our breath that long. Geographic punctuality, worries are seasonal, and heady. No time out.
That peculiar void waving at the end of your rope, "make it real." Whose words follow: flagtime stops. Research melodious possibilities. Infolded spectaculars. My specious mind. Positioning sharply into the fetid dusk. Scant starry field throws off a furlong scent.
Rich with it. Tallness a metaphor, the down slant. Comeback with motives on your shirtsleeve, sexy litigious gratuities. Skate free of the hole once it's carved. Through it darkness and indiscretion. Successive meanderings, veneration of ego. Full fragile carpathian.
Venal arteries. Her clear heart. The muscular anticipation. Because the supposed perception (the record, the death) forefront her difficulties with that stance. Cutting bruising wounded flesh as the body of the writer, what now.
Also in an iron surface. The vanishing striptease inside the glass throne. Brittle green algae. Neck curves to hold the light. Only barrenness will make you calm... that flat arena whereby exquisite sameness proceeds. Murmur vibrates as our tongues touch at last.
In the destroyed view of the world a room. Empty and level both. A genius lust, the skins of things walk past.
- Untitled, pg. 27
* * *
It's not over til it's over pastures
coating our dust with the ambiguous strain of desire
somber container
parsed to deter
liquefied timbre inside skull's secretion
our prepositional pride
before the kiss
acts like its own cage
a voice reasons with itself
yawn hurts our face
silver structure goes up
same themes pry
where is our tribe, the cord
leads umbilically towards your mouth
hardens the twines
serrates globules
you startle easy
prize glands decontour
on our coast swollen full
pressure on vocal flux
dedicatory amorousness
takes the plunge
any plunge
collapse description into it
sweet streets
saffron nemesis
go above ground
garden of speechlessness
they explode into the headlines
in lingua
- It's not over, pg. 51
* * *
Glamorous to be pediatric, misread. Prosaic steps from this island to that, lost in our ways. Is it really a fabulous move? Cater to the outside? Whose gradient did you say you sucked? Idle lipstick makes me pout, I collect them as they come, til that's unreasonable, how do you do it? Sassy misanthrope. That novitiate charm. Viscous boy gossip, so demure, so classy.
Owls for the taking. The tills still banging out their memory; listen, still not enough of what I want you to do for me. A busy life bucks up, "back in the saddle again," back in the brilliant audience.
Obliterating the mechanics of pain in the ceaseless inflated hour. It's not doting we're even after, afterall. It's whose taunting maimed ways we encourage. An emblem frantic to be somebody. Pithy nostalgic undertaker. Shortening lines, dental fidelity, thick reciprocity sandwich. In those silent shoes the blue circle endlessly, our sprockets have skillfully relapsing, just a simple deposit. Still, be quiet, I can hardly hear. Parts which're dependent on sound, the excitement will wake you up. Arms envelope their mates, too crowded to please, same legs you walked here with... rows empty.
- Is the Body Talking Sense Now?, pg. 73
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