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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;
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.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::::
​:::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: :::::::::::

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.
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