(1955 / San Antonio, Texas)

Mazed Interior


Cogs & cogs that cannot turn
to recognitions: such dogs in the dark noonday!

As if the tongue told & tolled
the melancholic arcades.

Where the moods advance toward the modes.

Time to try the knot, the Not
Or to be caught
Forever in nerve-traceries of Beauty . . .

Unstrung, the structure is sound.


Detour to far fires.

To be counted missing . . . in a toroidal space
That mimics the shape of its container, speech.

The passive of, the possessive of—

Measureless intent, blue almost black, the picture
below the voice.
Less a name than a substance

Coming to stillness, star-inhabited.
Less a substance than a sigh.


Awaited, thou, unawaited. Divided here. O
Opened as earthen
ring, cave-recorded.

A mazed interior. Self-similar aisles of isles, pouring
form from form.

Lastness as device. Aligned as measurements (letters)—

as sensitive, all-too-sensitive compass
needles forever seeking
the frozen pole, the zero.

Caption: "An end-of-century sailing ship, Delirium
held fast in sheets of ice."


No atmosphere is sufficient.

An embryo in the brain is not yet breathing.

There, the labor
Of the living rock, where an ache, or bruise-ember
will be discovered.

for Theremin, or permanently scarred.

Where shadows point: Mad lengthening to made, as unmade

Thus, repetition, resisted
is the register of thought.
Now here, even as staves are falling, another story

—intervallic—cannot be told—that is, besieged

As the heart encaged in bone.

The animal calls long long, disconsolate
In its hollow mountain.


Neither nor nor neither, time builds
Its twelve tones between round & ruined.

—as the roots of the sunflower, arrayed over earthlight.

Routes unreturning / term without terminus. Riding as reading

Writing as the righting
Of fallen
angles, of tangles of Accident—

arrives riven, a body never to be / surveyed.

Abandoned in a wintry field, the sum of its travels

—its hunting the same as its haunting.

by Andrew Joron

Other poems of JORON (2)

Comments (1)

Beginning from the title, the language is rich and shows evidence of much processual rubbing and no doubt sets up a veritable rhizome of signification. Forgive me for riding upon its rifts and rucks to consider empirically-based matters relevant to myself. I feel that the location and ambit of intelligence is a problem which deserves pondering. For me this poem is evocative of its tantalizing elusiveness. Intelligence doesn't have to be manifested in a theater of consciousness. It can be dispersed in equilibrating regimes or structures of micro-control, in roundabout deployments of various kinds. The jury is still out as to what kind of crystallizations are required to prove that it has been at work. Yet intelligence has to be there for anything meaningful to happen. In this poem we are invited to witness various ways in which intelligence disperses itself in networks of incipient meaning. But I think the question is still trying to crystallize itself. If intelligent beings can be incubated out of matter, than we can be pretty sure that matter is not brute, stupid dust. In the same way, if meaning can be incubated out of the virtual machines of discourse, we can also take heart that there is a telos in the river of discourse; the virtual machines are experimenting toward ways of fitting together worthy of the processes that gave rise to them.,