Neither a weight worth lifting nor a sound
worth amplifying, from the neutral perspective
it's a clusterfucked frequency, from the favorable
perspective it's an arbitrary one &
from the cinema's perspective, well,
deaf people cannot feel bass,
which, as far as science goes, is false.
Not that there's what to hear: Marriage
septic with quarrel. Brad Pitt septic with quarrel.
Brad Pitt's aging process septic with quarrel,
Japanese schoolgirls catatonic with kiss,
tourism, synthed-out Japanese cafeterias catatonic
with kiss, the perverse scatter-shot of story,
Mexican people, Mexico catatonic with kiss. O,
you're a curious globe, Globe, a snowflake
metaphor removed from poetry, mere puncture
away from that reddest of bloods (hence the cluster,
hence the fucked), a language, swollen with
understanding, universal (like the possession
of a bladder or blinking is universal), a sound
enamored with its own total absence, born from
a rumor of a silence that was art-like & life-like
& vague all at once, sort of banal, utterly convenient,
utterly cause-happy, &, of course, borrrr-ing,
crushed-up like a Pepsi on one's forehead,
one being "one with a muscular forehead," say
Brad Pitt, a brunette because we're serious,
a beard because we're bored, why not,
a failing marriage because many are, except
this is just one marriage & it's the movies,
& not much is happening save for this
singular gunshot (so witnessed as bang!)
& what this picture really needs
is more noise, preferably in the form of Japanese
synth music, preferably something semi-recent, from,
say, the last two years or so, an age
of less talking & less listening but
strangely immaculately memorably More,
though lately one wonders how to process
such surplus, such image-scaped spill,
such Mexico, such Japan, such Brad, such Pitt,
one wonders if it's all just a language of fractions,
an inverted infinite that has eluded the scholars,
some tower-cast blonde, some Global gobbledeegook,
an idea, idea porn, a gospel so miniature
there is no beyond?
