Three Poems by Francisco Guevara

By | 31 October 2012

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.

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