on a day in 1909, or some such, Ezra Pound writes to Wyndham Lewis, and
the course of literature as we know it changed, roughly beginning at
Point K or M and traveling a fine curlicue before coming to a Point not
yet named. the two great writers divested their impediments for minutes
on end, circled to a perspective then roared forth. forth is a country
that has never, ever been mapped. Ezra Pound determined a placement or
plaster casting of something, then relegated interiour dialogue to the
midden heap, plus he wore a foppish scarf. Lewis beget Lewis ideas,
farmed a section of maintenance and avoided something for having been
sick. the two legends circulated further, looked into friendship,
decided on words, and got angry at various matters. death and treacle
can both be very slow but not every answer adds up. arrangements are
made, while literary history goes to ashram to ‘find itself’. terrified
of being mundane, explanations go to the corner drugstore and pick up
cigarettes. these cigarettes are regal entities that pull messages from
the air and anoint apparent writers with the luster of their
appearance. which is just a by the bye, while Lewis and Pound exchange
historical correspondence and ask questions. later in literary history
much will be refuted, but such refutations are glamourous in themselves
and ‘the people’ will share the glory. constancy stains urge with a
process and a wink. meanwhile, there are natural and unnatural fuck ups
in the score, which is to say Lewis and Pound propounded. factions
deserve attention, say the people of faction. relentless resource is an
arid beginning to a munificent creation. sometimes the historical
personages of literary history get blotto and sometimes they translate.
piecing together indifference from the shards of a vanquished society
provides telltale reminders that heaven is a church built in a nice
district, well-regarded from many aspects including excellent drainage.
drainage is important as it lets old literary history seep away, as well
it ought. Lewis and Pound are not (most likely) old literary history,
but one should always keep one’s eye ope. in a faceless society,
ramifications broaden on a basis of travelogue, identity, virtual
crisis, preparation and molten lava. perhaps this is an attempt at
resolution, or restriction, or timepiece. people arrange flowers in
their dreams, casting excuses into pup tents or rendering laughable
comments in little pocket notebooks. parsing these divagations allows
the cool observer to scale the matter to ideal height and weight,
motivating a full frontal attempt or perhaps a nice Maginot feint. Ezra
Pound stood nine feet tall and Wyndham Lewis was nearly so. they crushed
victors with their toes and bought time wholesale. their literary
history tousled the experts and gave new meaning to new meaning.
researchers even today say that yesterday was tomorrow. which is no mean
distinction, at a time when closure ranks with other heavens in the
circular debate and enthusiasm. cartridges are simply left on the
battlefield, no longer needed. artistry is gone, or left to hang dry for
the nonce. meanwhile, the literary lions sport amongst themselves, with
dire results. well, not dire, and not exactly results. but at least we
can say that we can at least say. Ezra Pound and John Lennon wrote many
great songs together, the voice of a generation. while all heedlessness
blurs. capricious envy logs on to the latest report, which is instant,
full of sameness, but instructive in winning ways. gesture deserves its
own climate, and consideration should be given to undertow when swimming
the ocean of literature. the dog once again curls up on the chair, yet
Lewis and Pound are contained in the merest phrase. effort is made to
apply wildness to zones of verity, but this is easy talk. hard talk
consists of battering the ramparts and distinguishing this from that.
this is here; that is there. what could be simpler? social concerns are
so much wax, which can someday be the whole ball of, or it can be what
is eaten as candle. heaven knows that literary history tries, and
improvement leaves luxury to moan. that moaning derives directly from
Robert Johnson, who saw hellhounds with direct lighting. how needful the
cheeriness that embellishes the lasting tribute that has startled one
and all as they ope the book. diversity is a crank living in a treehouse
on the edge of a deep forest that falters with the lack of memory.
incredulity syndicates and rocks the market with formulae and tripe. the
tripe is perhaps fresh, but who can tell? moody haze delivers the day,
so some say, and the threat of rain becomes an actuation of a sunny
clime providing the happy flowers with food source and merriment. Lewis
and Pound map the continent, exploring the mysteries west of the
Missouri, the edgy Snake River, for instance, and some weird-ass
markings on some rocks. just Maginot, says the writer, chuckling to find
how useful it is to let go. in preceding sentence, ‘go’ is a verb. ‘go’
can also be a noun (in this case ensconced in a prepositional phrase):
‘on the go’. delicacies thrive in wastelands by choosing their own to
feed. were Wyndham and Ezra delicacies, pariahs, dentists? does
usefulness apply to the versions lately tendered? can literature survive
itself, and will its future be later than we think? questions, all.
distilling the margin for essence may leave a bad taste in the mouth,
but it could also delve the regulations and fire up equity that might
sail to attachment. gesture is tribal. tribes are relative. time
consists of functioning undulations that can include Wyndham Lewis and
Ezra Pound but, perhaps, need not. who the fuck knows? literature is the
prow of the ship, and the ship is a grassland, that is: placement of
security. such placement boldly delineates very little, yet it is fun to
think it could. it could light the way to the other star or evolve
people to a new altitude or alienation. language has fractions instilled
from the beginning and deliberations that roll on. literature is no
trifling beat. Pound and Clark (who is Lewis) place virtual signposts
along the way. no roaming charges remain. lofty sentiment flowers
because it has soil at its toes. the people are gripped somehow, pulled
by the tractor beam into the next couple of centuries. relevance is
miasmic. poetry is here, and there, and all along the way.
