BLAZEVOX[BOOKS] Buffalo, New York

Vertigo Diary by Larry Sawyer Copyright © 2013 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza Cover Art by Andrew Lundwall First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-137-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2013932521 BlazeVOX [books] 131 Euclid Ave Kenmore, NY 14217

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We were served fresh, hot slices of the red white and blue. Then crawdads, potholes, and aria-humming policemen. Spring was a masked phantom, leaping naked from a rope into the creek and you said your shoulders were ripe red as ambulances. The silt in our throats made dunes, mouths agape gawking up at summertime jets hummingbirds left tiny autobiographies on windowsills. The rumor was we were hard of hearing after school we diligently practiced our disappearing bicyclists echoed off through autumn woods’ brittle matches: winters we were on the brink. It was then while mother was outside busy changing the sky a soldier on Main Street was seen plunging headfirst from the diving board of that movie house marquee into the fog.


If the women are happy in the trees above the farm we’ll guard the clocks. In sour buckets filled with spring on purpose we wait for the army. But will they appreciate new songs? Watch this poem sing about mistreatment at the hands of the protagonist in a choose-your-own-adventure in which we, while wearing the most scientific shoes, assert with no small dissatisfaction that his majesty’s marvelous lake is merely cloud.

Intrinsic to our suffering acceptance like a wheelbarrow carries all our definitions of comedy. The challenge then is for the overripe clichés, as they fall, to rather float skyward. To their telegrams I respond with a ponderous liberty freed from the fog of sleep. I wander the countryside, useless as the door of a church.


The browning edges of the photograph are the outskirts of a map, in which may be found the beasts and drooping trees living green in the memory and we inhabit those regions, completely forgotten until once again we glance into that other world and return to that day that haunts us at the edge of a table, which pretends to go unnoticed but now we are aware, and this awareness is an elevator that carries us upward in our minds. What we resemble most upon realizing these invented scents at the cliff’s edge is that a photograph is a scalpel performing the most delicate operation.


But we, and the very tops of our hills Oh, and if only for chance moments But she shot me directly in the twig And I’m a big dummy for believing it But in those days even the music boxes. Our cataclysm, our accessories On a mission narrowly averted Two precious self-portraits Swabbing at our duhs, these Excruciating thingies But she kicked me in my speaking part Squarely in the script Should we be sitting still for portraits Else moment to moment shrugs Autumn is such degradation And I Europe and you do, too Like we were nothing, birds are kind of not Friendly, look they fly away.

Post-future we glimpse [see Diagram of Risks] what I call moment salads. Such quantifying croutons, although their exegesis is insufficient dressing.


Why was each moment such a miniature Troy? Grief is the calculus you lack. Don’t kill yourself over it. A raven sleeps in each fold of the wind. Notes about me are locked in a glance across an omnipresent table. It’s useless, according to my analyst, to ponder dogs. We’re outer space primates. Meanwhile the continent ticks. No one groks the combo. This coin is the lord of your hand. Her dress is plural. Such greasy wine. Where’s the zookeeper with the bill? Under the piano of summer, we’re deep as beans.


Such a huge erect tree A flagpole to some, Freud saw a cock. But it is spring that wields such power over our bodies. Hello, sadness, wrote that horny French poet Paul Éluard, and I Agree that I see a huge tree sticking the middle of a flirtatious eternity. I mean imagine doing it in a dressing room while trying on poetry.


Anyway, why monkeys? Which is a question anyone would ask. Smile no matter how much elation graces the outage, fjords clacking. Get it? Aluminum orchestras, plunger Romanticism. It was stopped up. Hecate’s iffy gaze, unguent, tames history. None of the government elevators work. Tomorrow: chemists wearing saucy watches.


The mountains on the bottoms of shoes. On sinless display behold the subway. Thanks for nothing we shout thanks for ketchup and goo. In words faithless, figurative, especially enlivening. Instead of ants, children, lilacs, furniture, terrorists, the furnace of men, nasturtiums, alligators, hymns. The city accessorizes itself with sirens. In words faithless. I know the city with its fuzzy numbers. Numbers that sometimes bubble like a fountain. Numbers that emit bricks not clouds. Chaos of veined streets, some clogged arteries. The projector plays itself. The city’s striking single-mindedness looms cartoons, lions, ice cream, ferns. Each store window metastasizes into another sale. My fear of the language. To describe an unlocked gate. A whale barks in parody on a sign, its oceanic nearness too close to our table for comfort. But the carburetor of our ambivalence like the Imago Mundi, the earliest known world map shows a circular landmass with seven islands, the third of which being where winged birds end not their flight, the fourth has light brighter than the sunset, and the fifth lay in complete darkness. When I was younger I liked the thundering. To lie in darkness and listen to the sound of my voice. I would pronounce words like diaphanous. I didn’t have a terrific appreciation for rope. There is an ideal series of events which runs parallel to the real ones.

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