For the Ride

by Alice Notley

  One’s gonna build an old ark on the glyph walls and take some words to a shaky

  point further on no one knows the tense of. Or it’s now, already always.

  Build the language destroying hierarchies of pastness, all too finished for

  this crux, vortex of change that One is, and will die of, but the words can’t.

  What dies? Part of the tissue but not soul phloem. Or phlogiston. Save those!

  Save those beautiful words. Okay, One now turns glyph to arkwise.

  Floats One up; words to be must wait in Underglyph until callèd.

  Doth One need a system? How can One choose? And can’t build a dumb ark.

  This for choice, proclaims Qui. Willow on glyph wall grows some branches

  downward. They’re messages, Qui says to One, speaks from dark of the pond—

  where One was, but dark’s big, stretching ever—includes every one’s mind?

  Pool of minds. One sees branches are long cloth ties, suggestions from the minds,

  Qui says, of all the pooled. Mind wants an aspect of language to be,

  sends message to the tree. So technical. Qui clears throat, wrack ahem:

  One takes tie from wall, reads it calls up the comatose Parts one.

  Parts one authenticates it. Or can get direct from teletype?

  Let’s have this process, uh, made formal. Ones’ll build a new language—

  sort of new—bricolage: why waste a thing? Always start with something.

  Find out way to mix things for perfection’s fear and its course. One will.

  One will make a perfect thing; one will define perfect to suit one.

  So it’s not gist words, says the One. No it’s parts of the whole langue!

  One sees birds in the not-a-willow tree—vast arbre de ces chiffons—

  these birds are large and green: dovelike parrots, perroquets escapèd

  from ships to live in global warming metropoli, jolies mais

  omineux. Always in future, a one. Don’t need the tense, becomes

  in present, in the now. One is acting under orders from Qui . . .

  pond voice brain’s the glyph. Mood of colors. Parts for previous

  characters? Wideset, son, and Shaker to board eventually (faux

  future—a possible tense) as three words. What about France and son?

  France is dead. Not to One, or One is France. Is France a word? One’s not.

  One, oh what is the One? One is the frame. Ship to be built, and glyph.

  One has terror of act. Time to begin. First rag selected’s a tense: to begin.

  Je commence with a new thing, really. Out of chaotic wall,

  out of colors and transit meaningless, out of hung words to be,

  rags hung down from projected shaman tree, one’s forcèd to begin.

  Here’s how further it works: What One, One or Qui okays, is part,

  or a word, goes on board. Where is the ship? Oh it’s being built too,

  north wall: but be careful what One say. Is there correct speaking?

  Mais non, évidemment. Cette langue exists to help one change one’s con-

  ception of oneself. Yes? This new rag says: One wants expansive tense.

  In the expansive tense, the present with adverbs detaches from

  walls of glyph. Langorously not model but creeping spaciously

  findingly permits cells, amoeboid of one, stretchingly to reach out

  across glyph to real air. Is there real air? Just about. Air’s its own,

  not one’s, but the common breath of ones; glyph doth include the real air?

  yes, including vraiment the other air. Stretch to a better air.

  The rag specifies this: Feel tense come into One with its own time.

  Tense enters the One, like a drug, with some languor or danger—

  dangerosité—One doth change. Words then of One, vice versa,

  are infused as if time diminishes its hold, its stresses.

  Parts one says into One’s earring, Got it? Yeah, one has new glue . . .

  But is this a coma really? Parts one: maybe to be is.

  Wait! teletype’s coming in. Says, At the beginning—not there,

  no beginning, but at “it’s an accident,” unplanned something,

  and it’s part of the purpose, see: Where does that come from, purpose?

  Oh, but nowhere. Like one’s nowhere. Isn’t that gist a question?

  Qui says, One’s somewhere, in the glyph! Only tense there is for One.

  Is there a tense of becoming? Illusory, says Parts one—

  one’s coma’s static in the store. Does One want this other part?—

  A request for a provisional you. No. One can’t accede . . .

  can’t provide a you. What does Qui think? Nightmare in the coma,

  that’s the glyph. Store’s a sub station: keep the categories clear.

  Why? Precisely. Say what One wants. Back in the reign of the seal

  (provisional past) One is sealed. Remember, the one human body,

  closed? Now One’s bodiless of glyph . . . bodied but unsealed, indef-

  inite, like infinite, undefined by the words of sealing,

  “I am a man upon dry land.” How dry that was, how bagged!

  One needs you pastly to break seals. But they’re broken forever—

  if ones are all you, you’s undone, as a form to make intimate.

  Isn’t there still you, as in heart? Seal’s heart’s wrapped in sealskin,

  pastly, now heart’s unwrapped by the expansive tense inclusion!

  Where is the difference? In mind, it’s in One’s mind, different.

  No one’s like One. Who’s talking all this time, Parts one or who?

  Is Qui a confusing usage? Qui says, Not confused: Don’t know

  who’s speaking. Is it Parts one who says, Ones all speaking together?

  Another message from tree: Anthology needed to go on now—

  Is “to go on now” a tense? One goes on now calling one’s lover’s name—

  part of the expansive? Anyway, One’s distracted, let’s see, an Anthology—

  message continues: Of what’s being written, not so much of what was—

  Why?—one discutes with rag—Need gems already in the new langue—

  Not written, langue not known—Being written as langue is further known.

  What is to be now is. What’s to be is kerneled in each word that

  comes out of the ones here or hereabouts. Ones aren’t content with them

  but they keep coming. Work with what is. Poems too piled neath tree

  which will change into mast. How many sails? Variable like walls.

  Where are the ones going? Purpose of ark is to weather without

  knowing where it’ll land. Maybe, the only sail is the whole tree.

  What color is it painted. Shifting green, with a grey and blue—

  partaking of ocean, ocean of change, and of novelty.

  How soon does one depart? Pretty soon now. Ark’s almost built. Callèd what?

  Ark. Or maybe Radio Free something. Hey, Radio Free Ark?

  One likes that. Look who’s sneaking on board it: the two soul-sucking ones.

  Does one really need them? They’ve vanished into the wood, One, like shades,

  psychic haunts. Ones’ll have to war with ’em. Inevitable it is.

  Look! Parts store’s being transferred to the hold. Oh but one’ll miss pond,

  oceanic now in a Storm. No more lovely Augusts with lilies and crushed

  paint strokes dark like mind of One’s own surface. Sometimes the Ark’s crystal—r />
  there! Glassy mass of ship, glinting against naval blue black passage.

  Is this just a passage? Is it the rest? Is the rest a new tense?

  One’s language begins to lose clarity, or to gain, or One

  abandons the concept. One expands and goes oh so suddenly—

  Radio Free Ark pushes out to sea. Is it an ocean wide?

  Or an image of that? Whatever it’s, One’s fearful, near wordless.

  Who is pilot of this here ark? Qui is the ark’s own pilot.

  One loves Qui for it, so easy. But embarkment brings words

  can’t control. Waves of gibberish. How can One read a message

  if One can’t talk One’s own lingo? Oh what is it? Won’t abate

  without règles, chaos’s wavelets, sea of viscosity’s hatrack,

  head and tongue addlepated skull words, like an attempt-speak.

  Keep next to dancers, flying fish. Seriously injured globe,

  need One remind One of the truth? This dream is ending for ones—

  Only accept it in opaque storm of the interviewed orb:

  what language does Thou speak, oh world? Volontiers, volupté,

  any ole balance, zézayant. One lisps trying to play the boneth,

  xylaphoneth of niños, lizard babies, dinosaur-bone fashion.

  Before, that was before this spot one’s in, breaking down. To knees.

  Save some words for someone who might survive on the dead fan flames.

  Ones that send requests for the langue hardly talk a talk; mast tree’s blown,

  willow ropes whipping in vicious no-wind, crystal force mental danger.

  Parts one calls up: Definite request for tense to go on through any:

  present continuous with piquancy’s staples: infinitive of verb

  to continue, in to go on tense: conjugate: one goes on continuing,

  ones go on continuing. Is that all? In this tempest that’s just enough.

  One’s howls fly apart, One can think a little. Where doth go at time’s end?

  Time, the human concept, dies with the ones if the ones, all of them, do die.

  Former the ones. Speaking to all the ones in One’s mind of interlove.

  What can the ones do to live? Is there anywhere to go on to, ô ones?

  What, France, dies when everything one is appears to die, deformed?

  One isn’t that one, even if all the ones die together—

  is one? Yes. Asian hotel room whipping around on the wall—

  One’s in wall, is wall, says Parts one, but realer than before. One needs—

  what does One need besides a world, made of countries like dead self?

  Dear of self planet’s shrieking, stay back from One! to words I and we.

  Ego walks vortex? I is destroyed—And who knows that? Qui does.

  Can’t live without world. Carry her body away, blanketed,

  remember poppies, cornflowers, lark, and the troubadour’s song

  imitating flight? Oh be clear. Clarity’s complex, not fact

  singular; chaos doesn’t destroy it, is it; angry now—

  or, more active than usual. What else of One’s language?

  To stay alive one needs a tongue, more than ever. Parts one says:

  Here’s a little hit from the anthology. Keep one abounce.

  From the Anthology

  Leaving world for dissolution, must one save

  personal carmen or amor, as for thou?

  I have saved I for loving you, against one’s

  rationality,

  I’ve saved I for you. It will sound foreign to

  no-ears one’s left with, as chaos takes us home—

  What is us? The ones dissolving, Tyrrhenum

  not really mare

  overtaking ones on the way to time’s town,

  killing that for more than even saecula.

  Older than Latin is the angry mother

  whose marmor white sprays.

  One can’t speak but of collapsing sky and land

  though longing for a personal structure

  as defined by us, I save the I for you

  just in case we’re left.

  One’s mind’s words going on going to pieces. La couleur jaune one’s got,

  ahoy, separating from anything, as if thou were thyself . . .

  could be color like air? Not a, symbolical fraternity,

  object cum sunshine or cowardice-ripped. Color’s ripped free, is One?

  Talk to me, Self, don’t Say it. Qui is the One. One ripped off from some self—

  Nothing to be lovèd. Unanchored One. Maritime is timeless,

  putative of the brain. Thinking’s not it, it never was, it’s late.

  There’s another thinking—it thinks for you—From where? In space inside—

  Where? Only imbeciles suppose that one’s in one place at a time.

  This here langue has to put one in more than one circumstance at a fois.

  Second universe born. Okay? Constellations are different . . .

  Going there with these shreds. One isn’t shred. Bits of words on the tongue.

  Bi o wo on th tng. Thusand yrahs. Mor. At one time yellow.

  IV

  THE LANGUE CONTINUED

  Previous universe. In a prior world there’s another she.

  Forbidden, tense and pronoun forbidden. Say one’s in transition.

  I watch her from a star. That’s forbidden. Have to come from harsh star

  as well as chaotic ark in order to change and save the word.

  I’m in both places now. On the ark something’s real and it’s a smell.

  Where does scent come from, One? It’s more mysterious than color is—

  Is it? No way to make it be abstract—stinks. There’s a corpse somewhere.

  Let’s say ark’s calmer now. Enough to smell something, some one says it—

  Or was it something one once smelled somewhere? Pastly. Forbidden he smelled.

  He? From days of gender. Smell lingers on, in the ark of saved words,

  Radio Free Ark. How free? Woman’s body, one says, but the smell

  is unique, that of cannibalism. Ones ate One’s body, hers.

  Smell putrid also sweet, like none other. Hooked on eating her flesh.

  Smell’s still here. Permeates. Haven’t they finished eating One? One shouts.

  Ones can’t finish, the smell’s all over ark. Dark rue de Passé,

  corpse in wall of one’s fright. Face the odor. Which words are ones saving?

  I can smell it from this star. As many worlds as one can be in

  at one time, save these words. The rag says, Want to be in more than one.

  Are they eating France’s corpse? But it’s One’s, One says in hysterics.

  The two soul-suckers smile. Can One understand what’s happening, One?

  Qui says, as One mouths, They’re eating One, everything is of use;

  but should it be? Should use be a dominant quality, a word?

  They use me, I mean One. Inventing female as succor. Addicts.

  Try to get this right this time. For the ones. Can’t have her anymore,

  she’s One. The smell’ll purge via storm, will come back again soon,

  strike out will, no future. There’s no future, if one’s old enough.

  Future’s a way of killing One off. Of telling One to wait;

  or that One’s gonna die. I’m watching from the star. I’ll never wait.

  Getting rid of old verb tenses is a chore: don’t wanna talk no more.

  One collapses on deck. Sleep, baby; No. Tell One something newer
.

  Thine is the ark’s corpse studded with wordlings. Not a corpse: skeleton—

  it’s a white bony ship, going nowhere, through the midnight stars now . . .

  lull in the action; One’s like a beetle, dark wings capelike around—

  Can’t describe consciousness, nasty technicians, ’cause it’s all, too, they know.

  Studded with the faint stars, it envelops. Constellation of egg,

  there, shaped like origin. There’s one shaped like words: Becomes a kiss: why?

  One don’t want to be kissed. One don’t want to read someone else’s mind,

  up there. Erase those stars. Start over; don’t spell. What is the ultimate

  outside, Ma, in One’s eyes? Illusion’s richer than One thinks it is.

  No. It ain’t. Listening only to One, inside the beetle cape—

  Before the slaves of their illusions come to make one join their forms—

  Rest in these, Baby Cool. Aren’t universes thoughtfully like thou?

  Is One I or I One? Neither, all’s One. Simultaneously,

  above fray One’s in, rests constellation of dark mementos, leaf-shaped,

  not willow, generic: cutout feuilles. World One is never in

  pastly—tugglingly calls. Never lived there. Never live there rather,

  dratted past—history’s tense—who can need it? Qui whispers, One doesn’t,

  these are constellations of the present: danger in shape of bee,

  apis—swarming of stars. Starting again. Conflict on dead planet—

  is it as dead as One? Yes One thinks so, in tense of going on.

  Because there are other dead people, want to take over One?

  That’s it, even in death. They want to kill, words is it, or One’s words,

  steal or kill, still would kill One in the ark, want to order ark

  into mirror of old leader on top, still, never let go,

  dead power king of one, constellation being built—the old

  creeps always back. Get up and kill them! Okay fearless etc.

  Some ones are crying: opportune for some leaderly bullshit . . .

  Climbs the mast or tree. But, says One, arising, who’s here except words,

  One, and Qui, and other phantomic amoeboid splits off One?

  Qui says, the soul suckers aren’t of one. The old bastard wants it,