Whale BoxLauren Bender

© Lauren BenderFirst read at the I.E. Series in Baltimore, MDFirst released by Publishing Genius in 2007 in a

limited edition of 100 copies

Publishing Genius Press1818 East Lafayette AvenueBaltimore, MD 21217

www.PublishingGenius.com

I read these poems from inside a cardboard box, in a bar called Dionysus, in 2007. I knew

beforehand that two other poets were reading something to do with Heroclitus after me. Thus

I imagined a story about Heroclitus inside Dionysus, who, naturally, became a whale.

Here is a picture of me, inside the whalebox, before Heroclitus, inside Dionysus, in 2007:

Photo by Michael Ball

[grand!]

And The Liberator was upon him! And with a great swell his throat opened, and The Obscure was swept into the briny maw. There were dead fishes all around such that he called out, “There are dead fishes all around!” and was not heard but by the sloshing wine deep in the belly, always aging in its wine-ish.

Whale BoxLauren Bender

And the wine drank The Obscure and was pleased in the way it blushes, and yet The Obscure devoured the conflict of his journey as if it were his own god.The Liberator was upon him with names like Denny, Dennis, Denise, Deon, and Asia Minor. So sparse it was difficult. Darkness was not in settling but was settled, and for this The Obscure pleaded, “Let it.”

“Do your ritual!” The Liberator boomed, “for it was just that I thirsted, and the storm was so great. Do it. [quieter] Do your ritual. [quieter] I didn’t mean it.”

“But I weep.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, you always weep.”

“No; I am always weeping. Fetch my kindling that your blowhole might lead us to pasture.”

And The Liberator did fetch the kindling. Where his fetching was feminine, sailors chantied and pined. Where it was not, they swore; they roughhoused and sickened; they shot the moonlit curves into murk and fathoms. Stories arose in his blubber; in the wounds filling, never full; into his clean wounds; out of his clean wounds in white pieces and wine, into obscurity.

Dionysus had accidentally eaten Heroclitus.

Dionysus was upon him.

You are everything I ever wanted.No more defined than …

Something.

Every whale is driven to pastureWith a blow.

Every war mostly stems from

Um …

How to say …

Uh …

A problem with language.

Every bed has with itA softness,Making it hard to sleep.

Is this your fish?I found it choked to death in my hands.Here are five words to do with the Wild West:

CalamityExpanseI can’t remember the other three.(I’m sorry; it was an Occident).

I found these two and a half things of interestIn its belly:

A diving maskA viking hatUnrestrained aesthetics of forceA list consisting of a diving mask, a viking hat and

unrestrained aesthetics of forceSpare changeGay prideA problemA kind of postureAnother fish

I don’t know if you know this,But Rush did a song about the Whale.

And Stephen Sondheim knows your pain. He knows.He can bring your dead writer friend back.

This is all true.Every time you spontaneously combustIt’s a surprise.

In the model there are thermoplastics;Enzymes competing for your attention;For your impression upon other bloggers.

Let’s hope that nasty case of antiquity doesn’t flare up.

There will necessarily be parts missing.In the model there is a large feline;There is also an aspect of devastating

melancholy.One is only slightly bigger than the other.

My, this is decadent!And finite.

In the whale it stands to reason thatImaginary numbers are real.I am so afraid of being afraidThat even the richest coffee in the world,Handcrafted by Colombian artisans,Can’t bring me back.

Scientists call this,“writing poems on the day of the reading.”Whenever an individual forms an asymmetricalFriendship bracelet, there will necessarily beOther ideas toward the world, like friendship pants,Friendship tankini suits and body bibs,Friendship onesies,Friendship traditional Mayan garb,Friendship fanny packs.

One project is to weave a full friendship wardrobeFor no one in particular.Another is to weave a friendship gun.A third is to weave a letter of apologyFor the time it takes to weave the letter of apology.

So rare, this common channel,Reach down to touch the manta ray,Reach in to tailor your ambiguity—Your true capacity for parsing revelation,Textures underfoot—but not big from little,The chaff from the grain.

If you’ll pardon me, I’m inside a cardboard box.Naïvete! Bacchanalia! panta rhei!He of the loud shout; testicles!—Read on to conform your blood-curdling joy,To run screaming through the honeysuckle,To use a word like “terror.”

Do you have it yet?This bar ate that Greek.That Turk, with his hands clenched.For the sake of argument, let’s pretendI was killed by a hunting rifle seventeen times.

Bridged the gap with the body;Bridged the bridges with more bridges.Let’s pretend this bar is a bathtubAnd we’re all going down in flames.It’s reassuring to be together in a time like this.

At least we have our horn of plentyShrouded in antiquity,A properly executed soldierMurdered by animal husbandry,And grandiosity always in flux:

This is all true.Every time I count to infinityMy patriotism knows no bounds.Every time my family eats a guinea pigI feel compelled to tell my own personal story.Every time I lose the ability to speakI think of you in that tiny black dress, and your adageOf questionable authenticity. It went:

“Lo, observe, mixed pies! I’m inclined to recall The travels of your middle eyes and say, Alleluja!”

Laws of position are futile againstSweeping generalizations—It is never the same man;Here is what he hears:

“There is no there-there there.No absolute; no co-”

Whale contains wine containing many.Whale contains rough construction.Whale contains vestigial philosophy,Malformed feet, a couch,Things in their there-ness.

God contains restrictive priming,Now contains penetration,Contains many.God contains the Greek, his hands clenched.God more real than reminder;More like this than locale;More a locus of let go than let-go,Fetch my kindling.

Whale, God, Liberator.Greek, Turk, Obscure.Struck down at the zenith of their affair.What to do with all of this plurality?Their steady weather to part the seas apart,To parse the chaff and grain.

In dreaming, it’s almost as if what never happenedWill never happen.

During the day, equal dread of living and dying.I wake to sleep and collaborate in dreaming.I have searched myself and can sit with confidenceOn your carpet; Lo, I could recline!

If The Obscure made a mix CD, people might thinkHe was being aloof.

O, the houses this sight has seen.O, the scene of this house against that sea.“The time is the present;The place is ancient Greece.”The why is desperation and bending back;The day is a game and a sieveCobbled ashore with small correctionsFor the thing itself to crumble through—A sieve patched with sand.

Everything flows and turns;Terns rake the sea for whales;Abiding only with the gale.

In the fake fireplaceIt smells like fake fire;We step in to stoke the damp laundry.

In stealing the muleThe myth is sterile

[like a car commercial!]

Their processions and their phallic hymns would be disgraceful exhibitions were it not that they are done in honor of Dionysus. But Dionysus, in whose honor they rave and hold revels, is the same as Hades.”

And The Obscure was intoxicated, going mad from wine, and The Liberator still around him buoyed toward lifelessness. And with the force from the heavens a great gust rose the sea, and Heraclitus was afraid.

[drunk] “Hey, wake up, you goddamn whale! What—where …” [spills drink] “ahh, shit … my kindling … hell …”

The Liberator was nearing death from his wounds but was awakened with the heaving ocean and The Obscure stumbling about.

“Your … ritual … do your ritual …”

And Dionysus rolled into the swell, his immense ribcage creaking open to make room.