“The world stands on floors”
by J.lynn Sheridan
The floor, floor board, floor-bored,
word-floor, the word-floor cored,
word-floor bored, bored, bored.
head-to-toe, my head-to-toe,
floor-bored, my head-to-toe
floor cored, word-floor corded,
words corded from word-floor.
from head to toe, head to Tankard toe:
–adored, adored meme memememe,
me word, memememe, read me,
read ME, read Me adored–
head coring head coring brain coring
* * *
The genius of Stein was that she used her words as art
in her way. She did it her way—disorienting, confusing,
puzzling. (One huge reason why us non-intellectuals strain
our brains. Seriously, my brain shut down after ten minutes
of her. Total brick wall between the little between my ears and
what I saw on the page.)
her puzzle was intriguing,
she walked through the steady firm floors of convention.
she was able to inject humor, satire, and even some realism
inside her cubism (think Picasso.)
And that made me angry.
Because I understood then.
I didn’t want to understand something so bizarre.
Now, when you read my poem (above), do you see it
differently? Or did you stop reading altogether?
My point exactly . . . the traditional canon of language
on which we tread gave way with Stein, messing with us,
not making an ounce of sense. And you don’t want to read it.
As Al Filreis says, “sometimes we have to just stop making sense.”
Does that make sense?