the rapt and the troublesome

by casimir frederic coquette kaplan

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about

DRONES.

epigram: saturday/been a sonnet

short-term miserliness
is its own fickle little economist.
make coffee in the morning now.
do this because it saves you a quarter
and four quarters saved makes a dollar
which makes a whole soda if you go around the corner
saturday, if there’s time.

there’s a bag of water on the floor.
how do i live like this?
summer?
adds up?
must. simply does.
the consolation for that is,
sleep is hard.

*-*-*

and here comes that taste of morning again --
do you call that pride? when you can say
“i thought of that! when i was young
and useless!”

credits

released December 31, 2014

thanks to everyone who recognizably knocks and rattles in the recesses of this recording

thanks to magoni for letting me borrow his 4 track

thanks to anyone who would find this a suitable reading soundtrack

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license

all rights reserved

about

casimir frederic coquette kaplan Montreal, Québec

i'm your jagged ball of nonsense
fingernails dripping from my lips

also i'm in a band: www.boyfriends.horse

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Track Name: home - lamplight on asphalt
I
the feeling being shared is a shadow cast
by a brightly colored parasol
like a year’s worth of unpremeditated and precise mathematics
among construction fumes distorted by summer heat
evaporated by continental chill
observed through the same wooden lattice
its resolution deteriorating with time.
the creeping concrete the only rounded thing around.
the solution pursed for climbing cigarette butts
quantifying discreetly the shame of each sad imitation of renewal.

II
the animals draw the same arcs
and the same water as us
they just don’t know what metal tastes like.
they live in a nightmare of comfort and altitude
we’d obviously sooner be spit on than choose.
our tediousness to them must be very complicated.
if only we had invented them
we would be proud they eventually fall apart.

III
i am not afraid to replenish myself with you
no more than i’m afraid to eat enough to live.
tiny moon pulling me gently up a grassy shore.
me the happy breath of the sea, the wind at my back,
steaming like a sleeper in snow,
reading the dead leaves by you on the shifting low ground.
your radiant sonar whistling in the caves.
there’s all manner of light from you i’m learning how to see.
there’s desolation yet here waiting to be drowned.
i am afraid of waking up until you come out.

IV
i’ve felt the cold feet of morning
jet-black with unswept dirt.
we build our world as a painted desert,
shake it like a vial until its colors are inert.
i can’t see any other world but this one.
we’ll blow on everything to see it breathe just the once.
a slowly dwindling exhaustion, a happy high on alien air,
the general direction is up, out, the escapeward dimension.
shafts of light faraway and warped beyond navigation.
but i’ve got my own crooked lenses
blasted smooth for my own crooked purpose.
these eyes are no good in water or any other cold murk
they only record things built by unreliable heat.
i shut them against the sand and hold fast to the rope.
Track Name: bookmark - fluffernaut
i can't turn to look at you, home,
without feeling tired.
i'll wear you as long as you wear on me
like a bolt of static guarding a door.
there in every memory that pricks my ear bleeding,
every dream of watching my lovable ones get eaten,
is a patterned panel of shadow-proof glass
obscuring me in vinegar
while lighting up my pillow like a candle.
i'll chew on straw in my empty bed
until home becomes something better.
Track Name: canned bread - earthenware
the country moves and shifts
on a time scale observable to poets
a poetry of change in the city
seems more a limited possibility,
change in any city rather quickened and familiar

what movements of the city are observable to poets?
enveloping flows of creeping rivers fresh from the dirt,
an icy desert shifting with atomic speeds,
in apparent reverse, churning and circling,
the city is the realization of its own potential

to subsume time to rhythm and reduce life to the minute
and narrow up the avenues where the roads
kneel to altars of direction at the margins of the water
in unmitigated enmity with the millstone
and compressions and expansions of vital rarity

no appetite for death but for endless minute transformation:
a monument to pride in the ugliness of imagination,
a polyhedral plane where the ugly does not deserve to die,
the wheel reconstituted in its own image
and the only thing to see for miles around
Track Name: all my problems - our unsold plants
the rhythm of the british
and the syllables of women
had me staring at my shoes
before i knew of “fucking proper.”

is this why no one thinks that i can dance?

perhaps i learned at an early age
that rock and roll is married
the rush of traffic in the suburbs.

maybe that’s where all my problems start.
Track Name: frozen tread - workday at the shovel shop
winter looks and is dirty,
the dirtiest,
summer’s all showers,
all showers.

winter’s dirtiest;
everyone all at once looks
everywhere all around and says
when it’s this fucking cold outside
who could possibly give a fuck?
Track Name: rock n roll will never die (because it dies with me) - cynicalist
for ian curtis

love dies like a star,
whatever’s left cold but unfrozen,
unmoved but not unmoving,
shot through with ripples like a dormant wave.

i’ve been assured that size is the only factor,
irrespective of what was produced, its light a language of its own,
the simple act of seeing which requires years of careful study,
and itself the fruit of countless hours of observation.

the difference is that its history is imaginary.
the difference is that its truth is true precisely
because it exists wholly within the one thing; but it’s also true
there can’t be one single thing that makes it possible at all.
Track Name: sea glass - frigates in freefall
I

there’s my foot, there’s my ankle,
there’s my roommate groping at the door;
there’s my walls full of corners,
my window to the empty alley.
there’s every effort i’ve spared
to live among salvage like a tiny boat
teetering above the murky water
like foam falling softly into a drain
stopped up by hair.

II

i live in a pile, i am a pile,
i am that i am a pile,
my love lies piled; i’m in love with my piles.
i’d never touch a stack
but i can push a pile all around the room.
i’m good at kinda sidling up like a dancer
and i’ll cradle it in the wave-like crook of my neck
like a drowsy swimmer as the tide rises
(and the sun sets and the clams spit)
and the sand is like soft shoes.
no one builds a castle out of junk;
you pile it up as high as it goes and then just sit on top
cause then you’re king of the actual world and not some castle.
and i smile as i dig the hole and build the pile
then dig the tunnel underneath
and build the channel that connects it to the sea.
Track Name: the you is not wrong - the end of the night
it is not unjust
i only call it unfortunate
because that is what it is

(the shower rod clangs resounding as a bell
as the leaf-turning razor bleeds hair)

i am as warm as the leaves are green
as the window is shut
to the alley closed
in with the waste bins

the sidewalk here is steeper than it looks
like the watery snow that the street can’t contain
is weighing it down

i am contained in the bright green lights
that make up the corner
i am contained by the piles of books
that embrace this corner

i am an island of white
washed out
awaiting stain

i am a loiterer
a buffer layer
on the corner
awaiting our return