by Michael Palmer

    Write this. We have burned all their villages

    Write this. We have burned all the villages and the people in them

    Write this. We have adopted their customs and their manner of dress

    Write this. A word may be shaped like a bed， a basket of tears or an X

    In the notebook it says， It is the time of mutations， laughter at jokes，

    secrets beyond the boundaries of speech

    I now turn to my use of suffixes¹ and punctuation²， closing Mr. Circle

    with a single stroke， tearing the canvas from its wall， joined to her，

    experiencing the same thoughts at the same moment， inscribing³

    them on a loquat leaf

    Write this. We have begun to have bodies， a now here and a now

    gone， a past long ago and one still to come

    Let go of me for I have died and am in a novel and was a lyric⁴ poet，

    certainly， who attracted crowds to mountaintops. For a nickel I will

    appear from this box. For a dollar I will have text with you and

    answer three questions

    First question. We entered the forest， followed its winding⁵ paths， and

    emerged blind

    Second question. My townhouse， of the Jugendstil， lies by

    Darmstadt

    Third question. He knows he will wake from this dream， conducted

    in the mother-tongue

    Third question. He knows his breathing organs are manipulated by

    God， so that he is compelled to scream

    Third question. I will converse⁶ with no one on those days of the week

    which end in y

    Write this. There is pleasure and pain and there are marks and signs.

    A word may be shaped like a fig⁷ or a pig， an effigy⁸ or an egg

    but

    there is only time for fasting and desire， device and design， there is

    only time to swerve⁹ without limbs， organs or face into a

    scientific

    silence， pinhole of light

    Say this. I was born on an island among the dead. I learned language

    on this island but did not speak on this island. I am writing to you

    from this island. I am writing to the dancers from this island. The

    writers do not dance on this island

    Say this. There is a sentence in my mouth， there is a chariot in my

    mouth. There is a ladder. There is a lamp whose light fills empty

    space and a space which swallows light

    A word is beside itself. Here the poem is called What Speaking Means

    to Say

    though I have no memory of my name

    Here the poem is called Theory of the Real， its name is Let's Call This，

    and its name is called A Wooden Stick. It goes yes-yes， no-no. It goes

    one and one

    I have been writing a book， not in my native language， about violins

    and smoke， lines and dots， free to speak and become the things we

    speak， pages which sit up， look around and row resolutely¹⁰ toward

    the setting sun

    Pages torn from their spines¹¹ and added to the pyre， so that they will

    resemble thought

    Pages which accept no ink

    Pages we've never seen——first called Narrow Street， then Half a

    Fragment， Plain of Jars or Plain of Reeds， taking each syllable¹² in her

    mouth， shifting position and passing it to him

    Let me say this. Neak Luong is a blur¹³. It is Tuesday in the hardwood

    forest. I am a visitor here， with a notebook

    The notebook lists My New Words and Flag above White. It claims

    to have no inside

    only characters like A-against-Herself， B， C， L and

    N， Sam， Hans Magnus， T. Sphere， all speaking in the dark with their

    hands

    G for Gramsci or Goebbels， blue hills， cities， cities with hills，

    modern and at the edge of time

    F for alphabet， Z for A， an H in

    an arbor¹⁴， shadow， silent wreckage¹⁵， W or M among stars

    What last. Lapwing. Tesseract. X perhaps for X. The villages are

    known as These Letters——humid， sunless. The writing occurs on

    their walls

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