Joshua Bird
How to Rewrite the Fly
Counterclockwise fidget
Aluminum; citrus drop
Down menu; otherwise gyroscope
In other direction; palpate; a pupa
Platter exclaim; level two now
Egress; altimeter forlorn gravity
Now clock; unwise and
unwell; Barren the part into; in
more; Crack round the
Flemish; issue
Issues issued; no suede no;
Cornflake is not ratified; catapults
Rearrange calligraphy; outside
Milk buckets go;
Aluminum; citrus drop
Down menu; otherwise gyroscope
In other direction; palpate; a pupa
Platter exclaim; level two now
Egress; altimeter forlorn gravity
Now clock; unwise and
unwell; Barren the part into; in
more; Crack round the
Flemish; issue
Issues issued; no suede no;
Cornflake is not ratified; catapults
Rearrange calligraphy; outside
Milk buckets go;
How to Misread Borges and I
Everything in art is a formal question, so he tried to do it in
prose with much blank white space ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::
— Frank Bidart
I enter, almost physically, ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
simulating prose after prose after prose in half-light and collected fictions.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::: I return
to moths, phials of attar, the subtle flavor or hemlock, maps gesturing toward reality
and strangeness, translations of I, even this one, even now along uncertain
etymologies, the lingering aftereffects of coffee, neon-drenched abandonments,
iteration after iteration and each etcetera as it sits helplessly as itself,
signifying itself. It’s not that things happen to us; it’s that my tastes are gradual, e m p t y a n d w i t h
t o o m a n y e x a m p l e s o f self. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: I walk through burnt edges, with creases
and caesurae on the face of my opacity. Each attempt brings us no closer. There are
questions. Have I been this ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: before now. This now.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::: I have read with enough frequency
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: to near memory. This I translates the next.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The font changes and so do I. The here the failures the locus of the I. This, too, will
be against fiction. The soft spots demarcating a page, a thousand gashes gestalting
over and over and over. This is how I have come ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::
t o e t e r n i t y , w i t h a n e m p t y m o u t h a n d a h a n d w r i t t e n self.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: I as
antithesis. I as far from formality as my hand can take me. I will be forever
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: out of my reach. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This I will be ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::
forever ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::
out of reach. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Your infinites have taken our time. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::
Or there’s nothing tangible left in today. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
I am nose-deep in mimesis. These very pages have been copied, translated,
mistranslated, transcribed into ad nauseam. It is easy to misplace the empty gesture
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: The lights in my room are playing tricks,
at the past-perfect angle, causing the illusion of typing in shadows. Except it i s n ’ t a
n i l l u s i o n . T h e s h a d o w i s r e a l e n o u g h f o r this. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: The narrator is more or less reliable than ever. ::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
This is real enough for realism. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It’s I, the other one, that has eluded experience. Despite all this time I have never
been ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: to the southern hemisphere with its complex
arrangements of imagination and fictionalized lines. There, pages are fashioned out
of context. A natural palimpsest of sand and etymology fills our open mouth like
distinction, if nothing else. There is mostly nothing else. I have tried my hand at
lineage, with this fragile and finite attempt, and the lacuna between you and I can be
crossed. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::
Asking nothing of realism, what Bidart misses, whether actual or now or not, is the I
that we never get from Socrates. One placed precariously on the page, where it
softens slightly, where the texture resists the third person, where a whisper has its
way ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Here on the spot marked I I have written this too many times among our detritus,
among an ego left on the parts of a page we no longer remember, among windbreak
and some remaining half-light. These are attempts at verso, at recto, at duality. S e c l
u s i o n , w i t h e x a m p l e s w a i t i n g t o be. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Whether misread,
illegible or mistaken for a self, I am among applause and a hard boiled dialectic that
has been too near fiction. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The moment for neon; or, how this, the night, could unfurl indifferently as we notice
a great ontology made it skyward. And mirrors begin to brim with an ancient
restlessness. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This is how I came to iteration. Like fragments, like texture, like figments stuck in
eternity. This is eternity dealing with the self. Bidart had the audacity by the horns
and bright lights, his finest cameo. He called it a desolating landscape. It is misplaced
like the amalgam of this I. Borges had the voice that will shiver like today. What a
c u r i o u s f o r m o f r e p e t i t i o n t h i s is. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: This
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: is
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
becoming. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
H o w e l s e d o e s t h e I e n d a s u b i q u i t y. H o w e l s e c o u l d I end.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A more interesting ambition darkens the etceteras. From the duality lost in instances,
in opacity, from those lost to the immediacy of penmanship, for this to
be. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Ink rarely dries in a caged habitat as we wasted so much dragging the I across the
simulation of experience and prose. There, the difference the image. So we halt,
here, among the typeface that took possibility way out of the way, knowing this I will
be severed, a slash along the old old way. I am constructing this now, this now. At the
end, which is also now, the distinction between us, the etceteras, will be intolerable.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::
prose with much blank white space ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::
— Frank Bidart
I enter, almost physically, ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
simulating prose after prose after prose in half-light and collected fictions.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::: I return
to moths, phials of attar, the subtle flavor or hemlock, maps gesturing toward reality
and strangeness, translations of I, even this one, even now along uncertain
etymologies, the lingering aftereffects of coffee, neon-drenched abandonments,
iteration after iteration and each etcetera as it sits helplessly as itself,
signifying itself. It’s not that things happen to us; it’s that my tastes are gradual, e m p t y a n d w i t h
t o o m a n y e x a m p l e s o f self. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: I walk through burnt edges, with creases
and caesurae on the face of my opacity. Each attempt brings us no closer. There are
questions. Have I been this ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: before now. This now.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::: I have read with enough frequency
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: to near memory. This I translates the next.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The font changes and so do I. The here the failures the locus of the I. This, too, will
be against fiction. The soft spots demarcating a page, a thousand gashes gestalting
over and over and over. This is how I have come ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::
t o e t e r n i t y , w i t h a n e m p t y m o u t h a n d a h a n d w r i t t e n self.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: I as
antithesis. I as far from formality as my hand can take me. I will be forever
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: out of my reach. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This I will be ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::
forever ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::
out of reach. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Your infinites have taken our time. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::
Or there’s nothing tangible left in today. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
I am nose-deep in mimesis. These very pages have been copied, translated,
mistranslated, transcribed into ad nauseam. It is easy to misplace the empty gesture
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: The lights in my room are playing tricks,
at the past-perfect angle, causing the illusion of typing in shadows. Except it i s n ’ t a
n i l l u s i o n . T h e s h a d o w i s r e a l e n o u g h f o r this. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: The narrator is more or less reliable than ever. ::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
This is real enough for realism. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It’s I, the other one, that has eluded experience. Despite all this time I have never
been ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: to the southern hemisphere with its complex
arrangements of imagination and fictionalized lines. There, pages are fashioned out
of context. A natural palimpsest of sand and etymology fills our open mouth like
distinction, if nothing else. There is mostly nothing else. I have tried my hand at
lineage, with this fragile and finite attempt, and the lacuna between you and I can be
crossed. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::
Asking nothing of realism, what Bidart misses, whether actual or now or not, is the I
that we never get from Socrates. One placed precariously on the page, where it
softens slightly, where the texture resists the third person, where a whisper has its
way ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Here on the spot marked I I have written this too many times among our detritus,
among an ego left on the parts of a page we no longer remember, among windbreak
and some remaining half-light. These are attempts at verso, at recto, at duality. S e c l
u s i o n , w i t h e x a m p l e s w a i t i n g t o be. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Whether misread,
illegible or mistaken for a self, I am among applause and a hard boiled dialectic that
has been too near fiction. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The moment for neon; or, how this, the night, could unfurl indifferently as we notice
a great ontology made it skyward. And mirrors begin to brim with an ancient
restlessness. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This is how I came to iteration. Like fragments, like texture, like figments stuck in
eternity. This is eternity dealing with the self. Bidart had the audacity by the horns
and bright lights, his finest cameo. He called it a desolating landscape. It is misplaced
like the amalgam of this I. Borges had the voice that will shiver like today. What a
c u r i o u s f o r m o f r e p e t i t i o n t h i s is. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: This
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: is
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
becoming. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
H o w e l s e d o e s t h e I e n d a s u b i q u i t y. H o w e l s e c o u l d I end.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A more interesting ambition darkens the etceteras. From the duality lost in instances,
in opacity, from those lost to the immediacy of penmanship, for this to
be. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Ink rarely dries in a caged habitat as we wasted so much dragging the I across the
simulation of experience and prose. There, the difference the image. So we halt,
here, among the typeface that took possibility way out of the way, knowing this I will
be severed, a slash along the old old way. I am constructing this now, this now. At the
end, which is also now, the distinction between us, the etceteras, will be intolerable.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::
Joshua Bird (he/him) continues to saturate the I of his I with a salvaged IBM Selectric II typewriter. His ontological speaking voice will misfire before our very eyes. He once was a mild-mannered birth certificate, apocryphal or otherwise. When not writing, he can be found sleeping in a simulacrum. Visit joshuabirdpoetry.com for further self-defenestration.