Distil Later

[Allen Bramhall]

llusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog
music tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark
isn't tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How
much more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As
the frog goes, you listen, it splashes. It marks situation on the map.
It is not hungry but timed. You are timed. I am timed. This table is red
now, timed. The illusive part of the next sentence won't matter without
frogs. Frogs play with us. Their chair is a refrigerator tuned to
staying. Their refrigerator is a stair tuned to chaining. The cat offers
nothing yet, simple awaits by an empty bowl. An average works out to
extension, as in the wide night or the bones of breakfast. When we hear
that a poem exists, someone in the dark perhaps, we are alert. We remain
so until the poem falls apart. Gravity of poem, in its frog voice, stays
with us. We look at gravity as a thing. The thing somehow remains, as it
disappears, not beaten, not exactly proven.

[Jim Piat]

Subject: Distil Later

llusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog music
tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark isn't
tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How much
more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As the
frog goes, you listen, it splashes. It marks situation on the map. It is
not hungry but timed. You are timed. I am timed. This table is red now,
timed. The illusive part of the next sentence won't matter without frogs.
Frogs play with us. Their chair is a refrigerator tuned to staying. Their
refrigerator is a stair tuned to chaining. The cat offers nothing yet,
simple awaits by an empty bowl. An average works out to extension, as in
the wide night or the bones of breakfast. When we hear that a poem exists,
someone in the dark perhaps, we are alert. We remain so until the poem
falls apart. Gravity of poem, in its frog voice, stays with us. We look at
gravity as a thing. The thing somehow remains, as it disappears, not
beaten, not exactly proven.

Now you see if I'd written that I'd be a happy man -- finally one sort of
true thing! But no, all I can write is this vernacular bullshit listening
to myself supposing there is something just in the feel of the words in my
mouth and my thoughts of mom as i say them - that it's the mere saying or
hearing of the words --- a fetish I suppose. But no worse than the
country's obsession with with our own pedophilia -- getting kind of scary
actually. But of course this has nothing to do with frogs or what doesn't
quite exist and our desire to give voice to what nags

Love your poem, Allen

Jim Piat