By Matt Robinson
This booklet is ready reminiscence -- reminiscence as a poetic shape by which refractions of loss, restoration, discovery and identification shape an inventive reshaping of the prior. In uncooked brushstrokes, Robinson files the gradual cascade of occasions and characters slipping throughout the skinny membrane of expertise, shaping our histories. while, he experiments with variety and shape in a superbly sinuous writing. With this, his first booklet, Robinson makes a surprising debut at the North American literary degree.
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Extra info for A Ruckus of Awkward Stacking
Anything for fill, even the routine of an alarm clock — all artificial — a neon and plastic assurance, becomes warm and steady like breath. the ease in reaching it, in turning it off, and the reality of the excavation — the only inconveniences. 57 becoming earth a memorial, a myth-making: this victoria day weekend was a mass of earth, (for the first year everything is liturgy) we looked at what was left: baskets, last year's bacopa — a mess of hair, lost, (the drugs, you know) so we planted — we were zealots filling planter after planter: zinnias, verbena, marigolds — our offerings, attempts.
That sometimes it's better if we wait it out, if we don't recall graves. 56- a comforting archaeology, this that's the tough part, take the bed, the other half, for instance. when they take their leave, when the forms are filled and filed, when the news ends, it begins. strange, varied — the things that fill. a detritus of habits settles in the contours of a mattress's reminiscence: a crossword-puzzle book and unwashed sweater sediment. anything for fill, even the routine of an alarm clock — all artificial — a neon and plastic assurance, becomes warm and steady like breath.
47 new gravestone in winter and you become concrete, again, granite-grey, but hazy — like the stone-dusted labour pains of this incarnation. you, again, a stone, a name. between your flesh and this dusting of snow (which makes this, your winter, real) lies a name, a stone. when, on Christmas eve, these flakes fell around and on us as we walk (cold dust upon our flesh) you again become concrete, •48- (heavy on my flesh, heavy as a stone), completed: flesh and dust, not name alone. 49 burial It was not meant to hurt.