rob mclennan

Territory is not Map—

  

that is, for me, a marvelousness—the great paradigms of our meanings shift—“God, self, history, and Book,” to use Mark C. Taylor’s arrangement of them, shift—that is to say, in the Anglo-Saxon meaning of the word shift, divide and separate—and thus, because they are never still, they meander, like persons who have come upon a territory—“Map is not territory,” in a phrase that delighted Jack Spicer and me, when we found it something like 45 years ago in Alfred Korzybski—and equally, territory is not Map—

                                    Robin Blaser, “Hello!” —The Recovery of the Public World

In terms of agency, capability; ice pellets form a naked stretch

of frozen purpose. Does not fall harmless, house-organ bled,

the myriad agencies of winter. “Write what

you know” evolved into “Write

what you don’t know, otherwise you’ll never learn.” Appeals

are flecked, inelegant, locked; a single role, played

instrument. I must see where the fragment licked, combustible.

The only instance gives me credit. As if by chance,

by which the short lines of our meaning textured, breath-took,

blended or combined. Attention spans economy. Majesty, the nature

could not last. Articulate the sparrows, seasoned geese, the traffic-calming

speed bumps. A station at the banks, we were not progress. Flame,

a barking gemstone, dangerous or bled. Infatuated. Worst,

in his opinion. London fog, a hearty snowfall, paws

a land of magic, Styrofoam, the snow-plows jostle car alarms,

present unstable, scratch. Artless,

fallen, shade to blissful grey they were before

included, function-blessed. We cross the street,

we look at something, something else, engage

with shaded rocks, unfold. Black and polish, tarnish sight.

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