JOE HALL
Signal Rhythm 1
What do I read? How do I read it? Sammelband: There is no master book. Books come together, intuitively. Thread and needle bind memory. Reading as saying and marking. Reading as a pledge to who? Or plague, rag paper could be a vector for this. “They performed a regular circuit of the local mills, destroying machinery, cutting sacks, and carrying away grain and meal.” I don’t do much. Art in no pure medium. Art saved for when? I forget. To remember I am breaking books. Send me a letter on a page from a book you consider yours. I will turn a page in a book I’ve been forgetting to read for ten years. I will respond to you on that page. Don’t keep it.
Yrs,
Joe Hall
226 Linwood Ave, Apt #8
Buffalo, NY 14209
WATER & OIL
✜ came to drink, how could jelly drink, rinsing
ambergris, ✜ touched, walking along the shore
looking back to the tipped tree to know how long
¢ might take to find w: are you afraid
of the ocean? no, cross-currents of ice in
antifreeze burning wakes of stadiums drifting
are you afraid of flood? ¢ asked questions like this
as if ✜ was mostly a stutter, ✜ thought of
sticking ’s foot into a huge catfish’s gills, through its
mouth, the mounted camera and a deer on its trembling stilts on a
raft corkscrewing down the rooftop high water
✜ thought of stupid men holding shotguns against
one side of a bridge, against what they saw as a monstrous wave of vaseline
✜ thought of the inner surface of a long intestine crowded with
singing human heads like the seeds on the dry nonflesh against
the sticky flesh of a papaya, no ✜ said, ✜’s car on ramps
the oil pouring out of the block, no ✜ said, are you afraid
of time ¢ asked, ✜ knew the tide would rise, ✜ looked
back to the tipped pine, its green in the river
✜ knew the tide would rise to the line of the muscles
they would drink, ✜ knew how long the steps
would take ✜ to her or for ¢ to come to ✜ but was
✜ turning back and was ¢ coming, the flood
was coming—are you afraid of me, ¢ asked,
✜ thought of you walking down Barnhust
✜’s father pulling a hat on his head or leaning a chainsaw’s
spinning into the shins of a tree or holding w upside
down by his knees, ✜’s mother passing the welding
flame over the bars until they were soft
and joining, of n in all the silent tenderness
of n’s things, ✜ thought of how the screen melted
in the orange floor, like a candle, radioactive, waking
up in wet shoes how you can’t breathe heavy
elements and that’s what the air was when n died north
of Thurmont—mud—the spray of feathers—✜ is afraid of losing
you, your questions, loosing this red signal
to what ✜ don’t know is ✜, you, ¤, this signal, what
it turns around itself like cement in a mixer—Joe Hall is the author of three books of poetry: Pigafetta Is My Wife (Black Ocean, 2010), The Devotional Poems (Black Ocean, 2013), and, in collaboration with Chad Hardy, The Container Store Vols I & II (SpringGun, 2012). He lives with fellow poet Cheryl Quimba in Buffalo, New York.