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                                           KYLAN RICE

 

                                     



PARADISE


                 The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven…
                                           John Milton, Paradise Lost

 

 

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I’ll call it retrieval, the pure fable in which I was told not to interfere. The lower brush through which I walked was more like smoke or dusk affixed. The landscape included not only a horizon but also a syllable. This was the syllable for day. 

 

 

 

 

Again the actual must cede to the actualized a portion of its sovereignty. Likewise the orchard must cede to the word "orchard" a portion of its visibility. To look into the world and see only the shadow that one globe casts over another.

 

 

 

 

As we walk east toward the freeway I wonder out loud whether the lyric voice can be used as a mode of summoning. In other words to speak with the lyric "I" is to invoke not only a speaker but also a host of other figured referents. Now we can explain the inexplicable "you." You opt for artificial roses. You opt for a bowl instead of a vase.

 

 

 

 

I knew somehow I was getting it wrong. A column was no longer a column. Instead when I walked under an arch or a barrel vault it was not communion I felt but self-creation. I had substituted stucco for order.

 

 

 

 

I had to account for the patterns of frost as they transfused across liminalities or across the out of doors. To transfuse in its original sense meant to pour across. This horizontality of any eventuality has remained for me troubling. A parallelism is the deathly perpetuity of two lines each going one way.

 

 

 

 

Imagine a series. Now imagine the interrepetition of many series. I walk through a series of fields whose edges seem distant. We intersect with what we can. This is the fundamental problem associated with "just being."

 

 

 

 

She said it was strangely comforting—the way in which I turned consistently to frame analysis. Put simply the world in its own constituent disarray. Every disarray can be constituent. Every disarray can be its own. I had built a thought out of degrees. Entirely out of robin's egg blue.

 

 

 

 

A collapse is a visceral fact that extends. I tend to think like many others that the world can be saved by redoubling our commitment to the use of lightweight materials. Day to day the world may float in and out of its socket. This is known as infrastructure. The indeterminate potentiality of interstices.

 

 

 

 

I cut through. I noticed the copse had been burnt by a brush fire—and so close to the road too. A dark meridian and overhead under what sign. Under the yellow circumflex of leaves.

 

 

 

 

Then regaining a looseness of connection or semblance. Then torn between a desire to be close to my family and a desire to solve the crisis of the present. Minerva is said to be the inventrix of the olive. And what have I brought about—but an asymptote?

 

      

 

                                   

 

 


TYPO 22