Michael, Dadoodoflow, offered a comment after my poem "A photograph, six poems remembered & tagging", and this is the result (so far): a poem that weaves into the verse versions. In other words the verse--the turning--as actual conjunctions. Nothing too new: many poets offer us choices. Below, choices in form allowing the poem to actually function differently; reading as doing ethics & poetics. Let's see what happens. I wrote this and then revised the poem as I went. So, it's fresh. The next step will be to add parentheses.
(A photograph & six poems remembered & tagging)
Our leaves of grass can never surpass platonic tradition alone. You! Empty signifiers, cocks and cock suckers, defining taste rather than tasting, stroking a long rigid dialect meaning for imagination, consuming, giving rather than learning to give;or Empty signifiers, cocks and cock suckers, defining taste rather than tasting, stroking a long rigid dialect meaning for imagination, giving rather than learning to give, consuming,and you will fade arbitrarily so out- standing perpetually. A spectacle. A thing that subtracts.andMaya Deren, at land, extravagantorAllen Ginsberg half-naked, snapping cymbals, singing mantras, fondling headsand lettuce pushing some thing on us and his generation dead now.orA photo of A and PO on my desk submits not wholly to my critique— smoke and black and white horned rimmed glasses—ora sinister nostalgia for a time I never spent but can afford.andIf modernity is a movement between presence and absence,then a post time is a whip for cynical earnestness.She moves, our Gertrude, for an academic Hamlet,something to hold false images towards— to mirror our erections.orThink for one instant only and only all timeabout those towers we built and our forests undone. A wilting-shriveled remonstrance from an ideal corner of thought. Maybe modernity’s false appeal to thought— a grotesque cogito out-reaching, “I think therefore I can undo,” should be read “not be” or “never am.”andI ran outside in my boxerspainted: I was not here!andIn Lombardia a Milanesespraid on a Rinascente wall: STO MALE!orIn our contemporary being eksists a word,between you and me endures an attendance, the housewife the tree between the poet in the car the voyeur the snowman the moment to be, the day to come, the proper cliché, the faked orgasm.ora fancied image not the thing itselfsome B betweenmy A, your C.andaren’t we a fortunate joke? a punch line tossed outwith reflective acuityat just the right momentinto an empty room.