Three Poems by Francisco Guevara
More than a page’s capacity to document how fact took place, I am interested in the way sound can become revolutionary inasmuch as the word ‘revolution’ asserts the necessary paradox of motion in its etymology. As revolution implicates the tension between old and new, the force of its rupture is also present in our sense of the world: one’s gravity, the passing of time and our states of being here.
I am interested in the way etymology creates the circumstances of its word’s failure, and yet it makes language impartable. I am interested in thinking through revolution in order to think about the productive (read: ethical) implications of participating in the newness of rupture with the truss of tradition while operating in the present progressive. In these poems, I wished to unsettle the addresses of Adam and ‘I’ in order to acoustically render the experience of feeling at home in them.
There was the climate lingering on: the business of bearing mymy my myan original, drying leaf's last flutter. What Adam swept during a pretense of a rose is—or, my rendered elastic what he had hoped mym y to be another immovable hue. For natural read his voted-on sense for m y “what stays & away.” So far from feigning Adam & a pavement, ever after its symphony scored a crowd: do you remember your peopled to a tree's? my Do you remember the unaccounted, braced-for apology ahead? my In the humdrum ocean that stole you?
Ha, ha, ha Adam dirtied refusal, soiled his crumpled letterhead
a lesser suite. Shook one's else, your etheric “we shook ourselves with” when
he bore an oak branch to bloat A passage deadened enough to gag. Eyes gravity-
fed with a tick-tocking heart, with what the room
couldn't stand & another for. Dearest Adam arresting with tongues, couldn't you awe
your difference between? Your arterial, you're looking over one's
shoulder for one's wanting embraced. Your arterial we shook
ourselves with: his assembly lined & sworn flaw thrown off what he counts and climbs
On the evenings of November I harvested silence for an I that was my voyeur after having looked out of a skyscraper enough to feel at home in the lie of falling for the ground I couldn’t see. In the sense of storms betrayed by their names’ passing, I returned to transcribe a skyline that was more a seabed upon a traffic light’s sense of keeping time against a street against the trial in every sentence sighed as that storm struck, and her haze misread for dusk rendered the guilt I felt from looking away in order to think myself into trafficking wherever one was raised and therefore became December in the spirit of a cigarette, yet, perhaps, to begin without having to be in a room trembling from trains passing, nay, forging through and through a key to praise forests there in the uppercase, and every other page waiting for an ark to sail a home away from the haunting I was after I awoke drenched enough to mimic newness by foot without doubling back for every shadow caught inside another shadow’s strain, and after hours soiled from calling it work, the rot I incurred until a flood’s current could finally return me.