Wherefrom
as harmonium despair (we trial six-handed instruments) as immortalities
exhalation:
we need every breath you give
we must bind it with our own
so the One receives our dyad
inhalation:
(word being soul)
instrument:
by through-takings, would you shelter me,
O whistling, flute-playing-Pan,
through the body of a child,
through-bodied-father
embodying the all —
turnings-conjoined-
round O whole-
playing-part
grown-in, would you put-on your hands?
chord:
to take care is to hold
sisters crying-out
in-visibles
to cure
//
ἐκ δὴ
τούτου τοῦ λόγου
διαίταις
ἐπὶ πᾶν
τὸ σῶμα
τρεπόμενοι
μετὰ τοῦ ὅλου
τὸ μέρος
ἐπιχειροῦσιν
θεραπεύειν τε
καὶ ἰᾶσθαι
156ξ
//
mogis pos
ritual persuasion
and he says,
then i shall write it down,
beside you,
the song.
but whether
(all of this is)
we being irreducible . . .
if you persuade me,
or even if not?
maybe (all of this is) really
just we being incorrigible?
(me and you, we-women laugh, and hes laughing too)
(i remember when you tasked me a simian-similar-ask)
(oh, its very important to him-and-us that this all be light-
hearted-funny. her laughter is the sound of the ego, dead
and dying many times over)(inside comedy inside tragedy
inside comedy until he is goodly dead)(tears our witness
as the armor of its insanity protects the truth)(humor is
the most difficult to carry. the loss of the comedy portion
of Aristotles poetics kills us here, but one thing i remember
he says — i dont have time to find the exact line, but did
you know, that poor Aristotles books werent written by him,
but reconstructed from lecture notes? well, one of the most
funny-being things was animals acting like humans, i ass-
umed also humans acting like animals. but i remember us
laughing at how un-funny that was.)(i said to the mask-
maker, isnt every mask a monkey mask?)(love, i demand
he agree)
if i-we persuade you-we,
he says,
O Socrates.
okay, okay. we
let we-being irreducible.
and the name of me,
which i-we will call,
would you-we perfect it?
if not, injustice
is we-without-you,
he says.
for yours is not some oligos logos
amongst we of the leaf.
but i
as being a child (make-music perfect tension relief)
by the names (which have been diverse and wild)
by the dresses (often inappropriately we-coded)
by the beach (and her sunrise you already kissed)
by the valley (and her cooling rivers i already miss)
by all of this here (& the seventh letter in my first)
always-already-remember-together-being-you
καὶ ὅς
Ἀπογράψομαι τοίνυν
ἔφη
παρὰ σοῦ τὴν ἐπῳδήν
πότερον
ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ
ἐάν με πείθῃς
ἢ κἂν μή
γελάσας οὖν
ἐάν σε πείθω
ἔφη
ὦ Σώκρατες
εἶεν
ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ
καὶ τοὔνομά μου
σὺ ἀκριβοῖς
εἰ μὴ ἀδικῶ γε
ἔφη
οὐ γάρ τι σοῦ ὀλίγος λόγος ἐστὶν
ἐν τοῖς ἡμετέροις ἡλικιώταις
μέμνημαι δὲ ἔγωγε
καὶ παῖς ὢν
Κριτίᾳ τῷδε
συνόντα σε
156α
//
mogis pos
🌑
we of the leaf (hemeteroi helikiotai)
we being irreducible (say you)(they say)(O saying one)(i say)(the saying)
that itself (it let)(let it) would be a leaf
but some song (she) sung upon the pharmakon (lets it)(it lets) be me
if someone would sing (she) along (you) and at the same time (me) (inquire)(use)(consult)(entreat)(experience) (being slightly wounded) by we
all in all in all we will make a (healthy) living tree (and overgrowingly) would make the pharmakon
but without (send it up)(let it grow wild)(accomplish it) of the song
no help would be (neither to nor from) of the leaf
καὶ ἐγὼ εἶπον
ὅτι αὐτὸ μὲν εἴη
φύλλον τι
ἐπῳδὴ δέ τις
ἐπὶ τῷ φαρμάκῳ
εἴη
ἣν εἰ μέν τις ἐπᾴδοι
ἅμα καὶ
χρῷτο αὐτῷ
παντάπασιν
ὑγιᾶ ποιοῖ
τὸ φάρμακον
ἄνευ δὲ
τῆς ἐπῳδῆς
οὐδὲν ὄφελος εἴη
τοῦ φύλλου
155ε
swan-song ( of generosity in a state of war )
two blood-soaked abortions ( at least )and decades
of( mind-)( mood-)( me-)( them-)(-altering-)birth-
control
for lack of place
for lack of safety
for gluttony of fear
my fear to bring a living thing
into the state of war
the all-against-all
so leave me, lead me inside
again and again, layer me in
your wordless moment
your clothes, your close the door
felt hard and soft and then gently
until its just us here
and those in the palaestra, altogether( we
were )( they were )flowing around us, in a circle
( it would )( will surround )entirely( shelter us )by care
until now
as these grow binding
and needful
O well-begotten, world-suffering, well-
begetting one, would you be born
could you still hear
my word to call my child
by fathers countless and guardians mighty
as her white-arms enfolding generosity
καὶ οἱ ἐν τῇ παλαίστρᾳ
ἅπαντες περιέρρεον ἡμᾶς κύκλῳ
κομιδῇ
τότε δή
ὦ γεννάδα
Charmides 155δ
cf Aristotle nic ethics 1100b30
eta uh-
oh
🌗
our wordless moment
and after the showing
of Critias that i
would(suffer)be(ing)(it)he
knowing the pharmakon
and it(you) would look right into my eyes(is)(isis)
a sort of helplessness(amechanon)
and it(you were) leading up as(if) will(ing love to) ask
(would you be here forever
i am already here
were this my nature)
ἐπειδὴ δέ φράσαντος
τοῦ Κριτίου ὅτι ἐγὼ
εἴην ὁ
τὸ φάρμακον ἐπιστάμενος
ἐνέβλεψέν τέ μοι τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς
ἀμήχανόν τι οἷον
καὶ ἀνήγετο ὡς ἐρωτήσων
155ξ
for setting practice
who
(going)(coming)
between
me
and Critias
sits down
ὁ
δ᾽ ἐλθὼν
μεταξὺ
ἐμοῦ τε καὶ
τοῦ Κριτίου
ἐκαθέζετο
cf Phaedo 67δ
my dawnlit daybreaker
there beside himself he would sit
until (their own) (dawn)
of the (ones) seated at the eschaton
the (one we) raise up
the horizon (we) throw down
ἵνα παρ᾽ αὑτῷ καθέζοιτο
ἕως
τῶν ἐπ᾽ ἐσχάτῳ καθημένων
τὸν μὲν ἀνεστήσαμεν
τὸν δὲ πλάγιον κατεβάλομεν
american shade
well that was a beautiful city
i think he had a beautiful tan
i heard he tried to make peace
in the tropical asian southeast
left footprints on bigfoot and a beach
made marilyn milkmaid the moon
runaway chevy fifty-seven bridegroom
the flag that got left on her face
and then he lost interest
when he lost faith in my body
i assumed it was me, in washington d.c.
my mother my father implicitly
somersaulting the scene
there were sprinklers and sparklers
and lipgloss from a rich invitee
at my eleventh birthday party
so it must have been me
was i jackie or sara
should i have offered my face
like courtney then lana and everyone else
become a magazine fiction
lolita fillers, no filters, no friction
trade a dick in for my diction
go down for an icy-hot la embrace
but i assumed it was me
i bought in, i got out, i was clean
now im your summer ambition
if you cut me down to your size
you can grab me by the waist
be the one to take me back
if you put me in my place
will you teach me willing words
will you rearrange my face
i strip naked for a tune
if you touch me like i touch me
reach for my dangerously thin body
when i put makeup on my eyes
i can still look twenty-one
its when i start to cry for him
its clear im done and dying again
but now that ai fills the sky
we could really write a hit
throw pinecones from behind a tree
and when you dont show up for it
ill cry for a squirrel
he got famous with a book
from a girl it took the look
but it will never be okay
for me to hook an iamb
i tried to be a flesh machine
i fucked the literary scene
all the women there were mean
and the fathers gave me hpv
i thought it was a dog disease
that was the shape of me then
when he lost faith in my body
and i assumed it was my face
i took ballet classes in houston
practiced lightning earns his grace
i was too stubborn, it was me
everyday a tempest fought a system
i parted so many ways i parted
the ocean
even so, most days i dont know
if i can make promises again
even for roses, violets for you
eve or the planet or my ghost best friend
for who made me, who left me, i left him
cherry-black abortion vasectomy
and he was a baby then too
and i know what it looks like now
babies having babies
he was the last american man
it was a dream and he was dead
before my life even began
face of an unsolved mystery
slid right through when previously
sleeping through history
i assumed that bob did it
but it was just he, most easily
who delivered the unfortunate news
//
nevertheless, this
he was saying
if he would be willing to strip
he would seem to you to be faceless
so all-beautiful is the form
οὗτος μέντοι
ἔφη
εἰ ἐθέλοι ἀποδῦναι
δόξει σοι ἀπρόσωπος εἶναι
οὕτως τὸ εἶδος πάγκαλός ἐστιν
154δ
when god comes through (the family)
whats aorist is prologue proves
whats epilogue too poor
my past-progressive cousin turns
world future-perfect war
my uncle means the tyranny
what notes a slippery noose
what wills the wise unwilling wipes
my riverrunny nose a name of Zeus
//
Charmides
the son
of Glaucon
our uncle(godproblem)
and my cousin
Χαρμίδην
τὸν τοῦ Γλαύκωνος
τοῦ ἡμετέρου θείου ὑόν
ἐμὸν δὲ ἀνεψιόν
(i)(have seen and) know (him) of course
(flow)by Zeus
(i am)(they are) i say
οἶδα μέντοι
νὴ Δία
ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ
//
family tree
one
the wise only
(to be) called un-wills
and wills Zeus
name
🌘
rude wisdom
true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.
it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.
after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.
this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
well i guess (oimai)
// 234β
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι
//
the daddys issue
some days like i become your magazine
some days like i become your loaded gun
these days it makes no difference which oil( one )spill
yes i read your letter yesterday and all
the days before, your hollow men, your dump
truck spat into my bed, and im not sure
it got there but i wrote you on the third
to say, how dare you write me when you never
learn to read a single fucking word
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
whether id recommend (para-aineein)
for you
to gratify
all
the not-loving (ones) (me erosi)
// 234β
εἰ ἅπασίν σοι παραινῶ τοῖς μὴ ἐρῶσι χαρίζεσθαι
//
oil spill
Saxophone Appreciation Day
a person is (still)
a possibility
of change.
one day on earth (again)
a kind comedian
or a possibly retired RN
remade me by scattered clouds
ever since then
its like i was given
a tiny floating pill (pill)
but dont blame him.
Bognet is also Like
the times. goes out
and in, mudworks
the hardly-forgiven
swallower-set-whole.
of a tiny rubber boot,
of preservation,
of a soul.
but i think they got it right.
That once you hear
and train your ear-
Pore on that Play-
out thats Really
In, that
Saxophone —
it gets you
by the vowels,
by those star-
climbing
Bowels.
and doesnt ever set
you down!
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for such as these
are the demonstrations (epideiknomai)
of love (eros)
// 233β
τοιαῦτα γὰρ ὁ ἔρως ἐπιδείκνυται
//
to out of my pores by coldscars
and You would be forgiven by Michael Julius
(how could one not
be grateful
to be feasted
with such clouds)
with Aristophanes “The Clouds”
“The Saxophone Song” by Kate Bush
Black Lives
Black Thought
Black Music
and of Socrates lore
from Plato’s “Symposium”
when the beloveds ridiculous
body sits beside
in conversation with
the comic poet
//
🌘
the legacy of Alcibiades
i cant forget the mutilated herms
and glitter-ruining the sleeping streets
his point-and-shot defection from a dream
but i never saw such a beautiful city
as when standing vigil on the battlefield
his silent party drinks the wine-stained dawn
and i will never see such a beautiful city
as when my knees buckled by your ivy wreath
so i lie with dancing girls for Achelous
freedom advice
to where im from
from where ive been
when you cant see the room
stop throwing stones
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
it is easy to know
if they speak the true
// 231ξ
ῥᾴδιον γνῶναι εἰ ἀληθῆ λέγουσιν
//
ἀληθής or alethes is usually translated as “true” but means literally unconcealed or unhidden (a - lethos “concealment”) —
if they speak (the) unhidden
the idea that what is true is what is unhidden is well-matched by Heraclitus fragment B123 —
φύσις κρύπτεσθαι φιλεῖ
nature loves to hide
which is another memorable triple-shot
//
of the lovely maker and the might of Achilles
i think often of Achilles triple-shot
how he returned to the war before his armor was made
by Hephaestus of the golden-dragging foot
to his naked rage and slaughtered twelve with just his voice
then we are gifted some pretty face of a shield
and as all the seas daughters in threnody behind him
his myriad aunts and his mother verging on hysterical
its light-footed Vulcan tuning weather that i remember
and as amber waves of hair around her loomed fluvial
like civilization swashing blind into the bloodstorm
although material and form were mountainwork and metal
a cetacean iris was blooming around her tectonic teapot
//
rereading book 18 of Homer’s Iliad
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for not by force but willingly
// 231α
οὐ γὰρ ὑπ᾽ ἀνάγκης ἀλλ᾽ ἑκόντες
//
upon reflection this poem was influenced by a question received via email, “how did you come to learn Ancient Greek?”
winter under wax & wick bottled
winter under wax
on church circle, dark december in the upstairs bar
a brass banister slides under my pink merino glove
words quiet, two or four of us at a mahogany table, hunter
green and a glass globe of spiced amber medicinal
or new years post-midnight, lit sobranie at the window
my flat over the cobalt classy resto where i worked
high-waisted and fetching wine for devil’s cash from tourists
my slanted bedroom walls still blue for my boss’s baby
alone finishing a bottle of champagne with poetry
down gazing over main street empty, marketed, icy
and lantern halo; uphill from the glossy wavering city dock
of Annapolis sleeping under the falling snow
in great hall, a baby grand conceived her toasty fingerprints
you found me there, immersive conjecture duo lingual
brought me back to your apartment, requested we tango
through leggy glasses of burgundy whether i broke a heart
doorways into sympathy revolving thresholds of regret
fellowships unbraided by such shallow recklessness
the turning years a blur between slow burns of clarity
or tether to a substance so precious it couldn’t endure
and was sanctuary sweet, i ask at the temple of winter
retasting an icicle of rarity until it self-sealed under wax
and aged like honey; when all around it had decayed
knotwork to dust, the bitterness of ashes and Egyptian sun
//
wick bottled
wax profane
waning lunar
wick bottled
yes
and i, old lady, lug down
but 61 ivories from the loteng
dear i’m sorry for these years
pyramidical procrastination
now
are they enough
for journey to Jeddah
//
adding a note that Pharmakeia’s triptych, especially the part entitled “big girl”, was written in response to this glorious depiction of a windmill and the accompanying poetry; because without the windmill (glorious) a reader might miss the Don Quixote tether, and the thought of that made me sad.
i first read Cervantes' novel in college; Madonna and Man of La Mancha are both nostalgic cultural moments from my childhood; Pharmakeia reaches for the latter—
I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea
And thy name is like a prayer
An angel whispers, Dulcinea, Dulcinea!
presently weeping luteal for an old man’s impossible dream. happy pmdd! <3
//