Topekan Ethos

Ben Lerner

The Song Cave 2010

I

Widespread views among the educated.

Over the Peria valley, wide spread views.
The view that only women should
Comment on the view that women should
Cover their heads while praying.
My personal view is neither here nor there,

Neither structural nor cognitive, although

Both those views are true in moments,
Both those views are represented.
Pilots at Elmendorf Base have shared their views.
The view from the Sky Walk is astounding.
This is one result set of your query.

Protected from obstruction by an easement,

A sense of immersion is preserved.
A sense of immersion is forced upon us.
Heavily framed, observed as through a tunnel.
This makes death real. He looks so peaceful.
Increasing the focal length and distance,

Increasing the angular extent of scenes

Until they are perceptible to senses
Only women have. My view as a woman.
The rise of female suicide bombers.
The rise of female consumerism in China.
The rise of female authority in novels.

Most people view these as the same.

As a mother of four, I agree, but as
The mayor of the Northern district?
The Peria river flows, but does not link.
We need to view this as a system, not
As burial ground or office park but as
Awesome process incorporating both.
If I don’t agree, they’ll take my children
Who have few views about proposed
Reforms, just ask one. If you put your keys
Behind your back, they think those keys
Do not exist. This is outrageous, in my view

Akin to gambling, at the very least

Akin to a Soviet attack, crisp fall day
Akin to hip replacement. He looks so real
Playing with the other kids, a woman
Offering him soft cheese. Object permanence,
A brief and straightforward guide.

Talk to your kids. They have no inkling.

They are incurious as the imagined North
Is incurious about the decline of bees.
Heal yourself by clicking on a potion.
Make of your body a fountain of light.
Object placement: confound, uplift, persuade.

Like a strong coastal storm that eyes

The mid-Atlantic, or like slamming the face
Into the pavement, repeating, “You’re not
Welcome in France,” or like real change
In Boise, peaks and flares, flares and peaks.
My personal view: marriage between women.
II

The sort of peaceful, happy feeling of

Relaxation one experiences there, one does not
To go back home. We used to visit Ushu enjoying
Snow covered hills in summer, gathering
Walnuts from the the trees. I am 64 years old.

I am also looking for more information, some

Links and pics, trying to understand if I’ve
Arrived, if this sense of imminent decline I’ve known
Since I was a child might, in one of life’s ironies,
Be arrival. I know there are invasive species

Which can be dangerous, causing harm or even

Death to humans (e.g. brown tree snake).
I know that some of the chord names look odd.
I know some of the young men here tonight
From Norfolk State, others from Rocky Hill,

Still others from the Hot Springs Chapter.

I am 64 years old. It means so much to me
That you’re keeping Wyoming safe from them
While balancing on an oscillating platform.
My students made you these musical cards

That explode when opened. Could it be

We have no right to the words, these new
Font families and serifs, that only pure
Epistemic proceduralism can make good
Soldiers from a bunch of stoned recruits? No,

I am a 64-year-old veteran without insurance

In the lap of vegetative sky-high mountains.
I believe that Pushto is the greatest language.
I faced a lot of problems and we still have problems
(Lake of awareness, mishandling of systems).
III

Visual triggers are generally cyclic.

I’ll be working (I work on a computer),
Watching TV in a dark room, or even
Turning the pages of an oversized book

Of Renaissance paintings, when suddenly

(I’m an art critic) the urge is upon me.
The next thing I know I’m running hard,
Harder than someone in my condition should

Be physically capable of running (I’m

Overweight, though not obese, and rarely
Find time to exercise because of my
Schedule), discarding articles of clothing

As I gain the wood (I live near a park

And work from home), branches cutting
My arms and legs, chest and face, until
I reach a little clearing (I used to come here

To smoke pot when I was back for winter

Break; I went to Brown, like your father,
But grew up here, in a rambling Victorian)
Where I vomit from exertion.

What happens next is harder to explain:

I hear or believe I hear the humming
Stars (I mean “humming” literally: singing
With closed lips, but also indistinct

Droning), I lie down on the fallen leaves

(The fits tend to happen in late autumn),
Kind of roll around until (I don’t know why
They stick to me) I’m completely covered
In leaves and debris, as if a section of
The forest floor itself had woken, arisen
(The stars fall silent), then I exit the wood,
Running just as fast, but this time feeling

Nothing, no pain or fatigue, beyond

Objectless and overwhelming rage (sexual).
It’s as if only the neighborhood pets see me
Gliding to their owners’ homes, marking

(I don’t know how I know which to mark)

Doors with a small smudge of blood (I use
The cuts on my face, the blood has mixed
With tears by now), less of an X

Than an abstract, glyph-like image

At once modern and archaic (Motherwell),
A signature on the verge of forming
Impossible tangles of line, expanding

The personal into a background gas

Or mighty sermon against the felt effects
Lastri commended, dated on the reverse,
Imprecise coloring to generate feelings

The frame dissolves, most often confused

For his mentor (Titian), known above all
But destroyed by fire, hands of disciples
The X-ray detects, but less of an X

Than harbor lights, weird to be hailed

By period styles from adjacent rooms,
Orange and lavender get on my nerves
As dominant notes, as they are here

Privileged by critics over the aural

Dimension of depth that texture refers
Back to the pitcher issuing milk, and I
Choose “issuing” carefully, acutely aware
Not only of donors, but also their thoughts,
The sole true whites in an otherwise dark
Field, possibly corn, possibly paint,
The halting problem, undecidable hills.
IV

Starlicide or gull toxicant does little

Harm to non-nuisance animals, hawks
And mammals are impervious, some

Innocent birds will die, some rain

Down on the sprouting rice, but I,
Having consulted the literature, friends

At the university, my own conscience,

Would do it again, move ahead with
Aerial application, preferably at night,

Although drift control can be a problem,

Off-target contamination happens, nothing
I say can change that. Strong feet,

Strong and direct flight, gregarious,

Probing dense vegetation with their bills,
Metallic sheen, plumage color changes

With angle of view, or does it only

Seem to change, I don’t really understand
Iridescence, whether it’s a property of

Surfaces or eyes. I don’t consider myself

Haunted, know what I’m hearing
Against the roof is hail, large rain

In the summer, but do wonder why,

Given their numbers, we so rarely find
The bodies of those who have expired

Naturally. You’d think they would

Come to rest on mountaintops or oceans,
Fall constantly. Maybe migratory birds
But generally, they must get eaten quickly,
Before humans find them, which means
More scavengers than we think

Even in cities, or it indicates that birds,

Who it makes sense would be the first
To know when and where a bird had died,

Devour their own, a notion I find

Comforting, don’t know why. There is no
Equally effective sound repellant available,

No words for what it’s like in English

To be all alone up there when at-risk youth
Bolt from the corn, smoking probably

Or making love, now lightly dusted with

3-chloro-4-methylaniline, which glitters.
I feel like Ankur must have felt, happier

Than ever before, with the possible

Exception of the time your mother emerged
Unscathed from the truck, a miracle really

Given how far it fell, moonlight fingering

Beaded windshield. I’d been thrown clear
Before it went over, watched her search

The wreckage for a while, then slid

Down the hill, said her name. When she turned
I saw new distance had established itself,

Quietude as good a word for it as any

Memories of lighting up Xaysomboune
Province, fire balm fuel gel mixture

First dropped on bunkers in Germany,

Intense heat literally baked and dehydrated
The dead, giving rise to the word
“Bombenbrandschrumpfleichen,” meaning
Firebomb shrunken flesh, but I
Don’t consider myself haunted, however

Often I see patterns, simple circles at first,

Then interlocking ovals, now the ancient
Characters for sweet, drought, brave.
V

Perfectly pleasant to read through but isn’t

Something posterity will return to. You are of course

Doing everything I just passionately importuned

You not to, being overfast, extended, almost

Entirely citation dependent, also primarily

Descriptive or narrative rather than

Syllogistic and synthetic. You are counting

On refrain-like returns of syntax or actual

Phrases to serve as both citational hinges

And authorial presence-as-administrator (which,

In the absence of logically entailed speech

Counts as the instance of synthesis). This

Section moves in predictable Lernerian ways,

From commercial science into Topekan ethos

Into war (and easy pathos) into the I, speaking

At such generality-after-specifics that it must

Be read as a description of the form of all

The foregoing. You are not listening.

Your suturing found language, however poured

Into, through, and over classical boundaries,

Your attaching specific banalities to the non-

Banality of evil (war), all these are identical to

My writing about peaks, flares, abstraction upon

Abstraction without what (you call) counter
Terms. If you don't stop you will be recognizable,
Accomplished, but I will fall asleep, knowing

What you could have written. Now you’ll say

These are willed tensions, not simple flaws, but I,

Having consulted the literature, friends

At the university, my own conscience, would do

It again, move ahead with the fine

Distinctions, red impression, mixed

Of different feelings. Only a utilization total

In the extreme, something we haven’t seen since

Could have any effect on ocean alkalinity

Won’t bring him back. That’s why mom and I

Have given copies both to you and Matt.

Photoelectrostatic prints on polymer sheets

Equal weak attitudinizing, or you’ll say

Distance avails not, and place avails not

Granting your reception among initiates, blue

Blue windows. Because I feel I can trust you

I think it’s a brilliant exposition of a bankrupt

Mode: I was here, there, felt stuff, much

Has been lost, etc. Dozens of great lines,

Line breaks especially, but the inner dynamic

Pokes through. At least remove the incipit

At the left margin, on the other hand I like

Stuttering. Can I trust you to handle a response

Worked out over many years in secret
Us? Maybe you should write about her cancer
Towers, and if not, what does that say about

So that there are stakes to this resistance

Englobed if not worlded, speaking the English.
VI

Is our coverage keeping pace with our changing

needs? The bright lights of Minneapolis and the
dimmer lights of Eau Claire

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” said Bill Voss,

president of Flight Safety

How is our coverage viewed abroad? As we

approached the Cambodian border, we saw two
elephants. This turned out to be mere prelude

Not simply a story about space concerns

If you look at a picture from the sky of the Korean

Peninsula at night, human settlements, fires, gas
flares, heavily lit fishing boats, lightning and the
aurora

Lightning and a new approach to global shipping.

“They would have been warned,” said Voss,
puzzled

Now I want everyone on that side of the room to

rotate their thighs inward, keeping their tails high

I want everyone to know who is standing in the way

of progress

Furiously spreading from rural areas, where it’s

home-brewed, into our cities and suburbs. Who is
vulnerable? Often, exhausted new mothers

By then we had concluded our captors were not

seriously negotiating for our release
Simply say “nose” then take their flat open-hand and
touch their nose. Then effusively praise their
“accomplishment”

I am a new mom and I have no time to study English.

The bright lights of Cleveland

“Hello?” she said. “Mandy?” I said. “John,” she said,

“I love you.” “I love you, too,” I said. “Write these
things down, O.K.?” “O.K.,” she said. She
sounded remarkably calm

And the dimmer lights of Eau Claire

 Topekan Ethos
is the fourth book from The Song Cave.
It is printed in an edition of 100 copies.
This is number:
The Song Cave 39 West St. 3rd Floor Northampton MA 01060
thesongcave@gmail.com

! 2010 by Ben Lerner

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