Lerner - Mean Free Path

About the Author Ben Lerners first book, The Lichtenberg Figures, won the Hayden Carruth Award from Copper Canyon Press, was a Lannan Literary Selection, and was named one of 2004s best books of poetry by Library Journal. His second book, Angle of Yaw (Copper Canyon, 2006), was a finalist for the National Book Award and Northern California Book Award, among other honors. A former Fulbright Scholar in Spain, Lerner teaches at the University of Pittsburgh. He was recently appointed poetry editor of Critical Quarterly. Acknowledgments Grateful acknowledgment is made to Critical Quarterly(UK),Jacket, jubilat, Lana Turner, Narrative, The Nation, New American Writing, The New Review of Literature, The Paris Review, A Public Space, and The Seattle Review, where some of these poems first appeared. I would like to thank Geoffrey, Cyrus, Ed, and my parents for their attention to these poems.

Books by Ben Lerner Mean Free Path Angle of Yaw The Lichtenberg Figures The Chinese character for poetry is made up of two parts: word and temple. It also serves as press-mark for Copper Canyon Press. Since 1972, Copper Canyon Press has fostered the work of emerging, established, and world-renowned poets for an expanding audience. The Press thrives with the generous patronage of readers, writers, booksellers, librarians, teachers, students, and funders everyone who shares the belief that poetry is vital to language and living. Copper Canyon Press gratefully acknowledges major support from: The Paul G. on behalf of William and Ruth True Carolyn and Robert Hedin Lannan Foundation Rhoady and Jeanne Marie Lee Maureen Lee and Mark Busto The Maurer Family Foundation National Endowment for the Arts New Mexico Community Foundation H. on behalf of William and Ruth True Carolyn and Robert Hedin Lannan Foundation Rhoady and Jeanne Marie Lee Maureen Lee and Mark Busto The Maurer Family Foundation National Endowment for the Arts New Mexico Community Foundation H.

Stewart Parker Penny and Jerry Peabody Joseph C. Roberts Cynthia Lovelace Sears and Frank Buxton The Seattle Foundation Washington State Arts Commission Charles and Barbara Wright The dedicated interns and faithful volunteers of Copper CanyonPress To learn more about underwriting Copper Canyon
Press titles, please call 360-385-4925 ext. 103 MEAN FREE PATH I finished the reading and looked up Changed in the familiar ways. Now for a quiet place To begin the forgetting. The little delays Between sensations, the audible absence of rain Take the place of objects. I have some questions But they can wait.

Waiting is the answer I was looking for. Any subject will do So long as it recedes. Hearing the echo Of your own blood in the shell but picturing The ocean is what I meant by You startled me. I thought you were sleeping In the traditional sense. I like looking At anything under glass, especially Glass. You called me.

Like overheard Dreams. Im writing this one as a woman Comfortable with failure. I promise I will never But the predicate withered. If you are Uncomfortable seeing this as portraiture Close your eyes. No, you startled Identical cities. How sad.

Buy up the run The unsigned copies are more valuable I have read your essay about the new Closure. My favorite parts I cannot follow Surface effects. We moved to Canada Without our knowledge. If it reciprocates the gaze How is it pornography? Definitions crossed With stars, the old closure, which reminds me Wave to the cameras from the The petals are glass. Thats all you need to know Lines have been cut and replaced With their opposites. Did I say that out loud A beautiful question.

Barbara is dead Until I was seventeen, I thought windmills Turned from the fireworks to watch Their reflection in the tower Made wind. Brushed metal apples Green to the touch All pleads for an astounding irrelevance Structured like a language, but I I like the old music, the audible kind We made love to in the crawl space Without our knowledge. Robert is dead Take my voice. I dont need it. Take my face I have others. Pathos whistles through the typos Parentheses slam shut.

Im writing this one With my eyes closed, listening to the absence of Surface effects. Patterns of disappearance. I I kind of lost it back there in the trees, screaming About the complexity of intention, but But nothing. Come to bed. Reference is a woman Comfortable with failure. The surface is dead Wave to the cameras from the towers Built to sway.

I promised I would never Tell me, whose hand is this. A beautiful Question her sources again Unhinged in a manner of speaking Crossed with stars, a rain that can be paused So we know were dreaming on our feet Like horses in the city. How sad. Maybe No maybes. Take a position. Dont call it Night-vision green.

Think of the children Running with scissors through the long Where were we? If seeing this as portraiture Makes you uncomfortable, wake up Wake up, its time to begin The forgetting. Direct modal statements Wither under glass. A little book for Ari Built to sway. I admire the use of felt Theory, like swimming in a storm, but object To antirepresentational bias in an era of Youre not listening. Im sorry. I was thinking How the beauty of your singing reinscribes The hope whose death it announces.

Wave In an unconscious effort to unify my voice I swallow gum. An old man weeps in the airport Over a missed connection. The color of money is Night-vision green. Ari removes the bobby pins I remove the punctuation. Our freezer is empty Save for vodka and film. Leave the beautiful Questions unanswered.

There are six pages left Of our youth and I would rather swallow my tongue Than waste them on description A cry goes up for plain language In identical cities. Zukofsky appears in my dreams Selling knives. Each exhibit is a failed futurity A star survived by its own light. Glass anthers Confuse bees. Is that pornography? Yes, but But nothing. Come to reference.

A mode of undress Equal to fascism becomes obligatory In identical cities. Did I say that already? Did I say The stranglehold of perspective must be shaken off A live tradition broadcast with a little delay Takes the place of experience, like portraits Reciprocating gazes. Zukofsky appears in my dreams Offering his face. Each of us must ask herself Why am I clapping? The content is announced Through disappearance, like fireworks. Wave After wave of information breaks over us Without our knowledge. If I give you my denim Will you simulate distress To lay everything waste in the name of renewal Havent we tried that before? Yes, but But not in Canada.

The vanguard succumbs To a sense of its own importance as easily as swans Succumb to the flu. Im writing this one With my nondominant hand in the crawl space Under the war. I can feel an axis snapping In my skull, and soon I will lose the power To select, while retaining the power to All these flowers look the same to me Night-vision green. There is nothing to do In the desert but read