Radio Transmissions

Radio Transmissions

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Zachary Scott Hamilton

Radio Transmissions //


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Introduction

____________________

I get a lot of my formal poetic ideas from exploring the town. The

town could be a place in my city; a little place tucked away in the corner,

behind the center, or life styles of the people. A town could be my room.

I prefer the sequence of clouds to the sequence of passenger cars, trains,

cities, blood, and veins interests me little, but as I explore my own writing,

it looks more that way, and I fight myself. I am writing of the city, the

veins, the boats, the trains. It is emerging through my lines like a distortion,

or radio interference.

In “Transversal (2)”, a Russian satellite entertains a family, then

insults and infiltrates the home. The people living in the home lose parts

of their house to a kind of static interference, and they have to take drugs

to ignore it. The two people in “Transversal” hire a team of scientists to

test the radon in their ‘lives’ and at the same moment the world (our

planet) has ended. I was interested in the violation of radio frequencies

that are used in this world. The stress of CCTV, the strain of sound

weapons police use in riot scenarios, “Transversal (2)” was a way for me to

explore deeply rooted mutations that occur in a populace suffering from

over-stimulation. From circuits to TV’s, Computers to satellites: radiation

inundates us from birth until the moment of our death.

“(i.)T.V. ho.ur” went into a different realm, using the sonnet as a

subtle experiment to stylize a piece of my writing. I explored the radio

waves concept in a structural, formal way, interested in the human spirit

that which fights technology at every turn (Volta) the anti-spirit lodged in



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Television or radio. I was surprised at how long it took me to write this

first sonnet, the form killed my idea. I wanted to say little things pertaining

to the human spirit, not so much of the radio waves. It was nice to write

my first sonnet, it felt right, but the poem reads in a disjointed sort of anti-

fascism style you might see in a socialist manifesto from an ignorant

perspective.

Avar Raskin and Cur.tain were made in a similar style. Both poems

were drafted several times and sent through workshops. Cur.tain came out

wonderfully, in the style it has been rendered (pertaining to the group who

helped draft it.) Avar Raskin was tricky because its subtle shift from one

voice into another makes it seem like three or four separate poems.

The two poems “White turkey feathers” and “Editor” were

strained to experiment more with language, as a picture painting device,

rather than leaning on the burning walls of form or structure. Both of these

poems were written using a collage method I learned about last term while

discussing poet John Ashbury. The method I use consists of three sources

found text that I mix and match according to feeling, motion and

continuity. After gathering my found text, I add things in originating from

the found words. The words form pictures in my head, and from there I

see new pictures and write that down.

It has come to my attention that my voice (in poetry) has a long

history of abstract expressionists leading to it. I have always thought my

voice was abrupt and pushy, a sort of anti-everything that comes out in

blunt shouts, low growls, and snarls. It is my dedication to the smoky growl

of cerebral contexts that shout from the gutter of an obscure mix of science

and aggression that I am most interested in. I have always wanted to break

rules before I have learned them, and it was reflected in my earlier poems.

Now, I am interested in learning rules so I can break the rules. I feel

enlightened by my surroundings and want to express it in my poems. The

world around me is a never-ending source of electricity that I must perch

near and gather from.

My inspiration, regarding authors includes a list of recent poets



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read and reread, starting here: Alice Notley The Decent of Alette is a great

start because in her book, she breaks the rules in all new, readable ways.

Every line is surrounded in quotation marks, creating the illusion of many

voices speaking at once. Instead of line breaks, Alice Notley confines the

lines within these quotes to create a sort of story being told to the reader.

She inspired me so much in this book, because she was able to break all of

the rules, but did so in a way that is necessary for the poem. She bridges

her world to the readers. That is the kind of thing I am interested in doing

with poetry. I must learn the rules first and break them latter in an

intentional manner, before I will be taken seriously. Other writers such as

Pamela Alexander inspire me greatly, with her distorted syntax, mixed

metaphors and intentional line breaks, she wrote a poem “Look Here”

about a man walking down the street in Moose boots and a coat made of

musk ox with pockets full of fish and sky. This poem inspired me greatly,

and I went hunting for her lovely book, Inland which I read last night. Her

other poems speak kindly of nature, many poems are of the ocean and

had a great rhythm so I was able to read the book quickly. I admire this in

poets, to write the way they speak, or think. I want to be able to express my

thoughts in these ways.

Wednesday June 6, 2012

Oregon



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Table of contents

T.V. ho.ur--

pg.6

Cur.tain–

pg 7

White Turkey Feathers –

pg.11

Editor--

pg.12

Transversal(2)--

pg.13

Avar Raskin--

pg.22



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(i.) T.V. ho.ur

The spade inside my wrist watch shovels dirt.

No. it couldn't grow from ivy of twelve hours.

A switching of skies that 'stage hands' adjust,

Or fish swimming around in the school yard.

Calculations pass over our sleeping.

Umbrellas opened to the flooded towns.

Lingering string bag under caged oceans

A new collection of salt has arrived.

“Posing near the remains” of an old white –

Arguments turn the TV show inward.

Wrestling the television in a rink,

The hammers tucked in conversation, tour.

Long indications woven when spoken

Smash their military tongue with calm storm.



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Cur.tain

i.

We've seen armchairs yarned in factories

as they take away great grandmother

with cancer of the lungs, a string of long

fluid woven into her assembly

apt for a tapestry, a long room

that is woven of her memorized thread of choice.

A Volta television swamp floats until breath emerges

gentleman like, heated from its length of rope nerve.

Six looping pythons in one belt

4:44, a tilted mirror and

a bookshelf.



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iii. Theat.rics doub.led (/when spoken to/) four.teen mirr.ors

The radio has got to quit following people

into my secrets - I have seen the evidence of other shadows doubling

with these voices on the radio.

A four head of micron,

swallowing outer arm crazy springs.

Our life hair challenges them,

Marquis Sylvania, an albatross equilibrium. Harsh bone

puzzle hands twinkle down, to plant

a Hammond organ growing from the soil

(hours) plastic touching our childhood.

He can play very well,

his fingers ripe, his hands

potatoes,

a harm of fire towers

giving birth.

The year is reconsidered

from a palace in the rosemary

our mice neighbors twinkle fingers up



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proposed leaf ( / ) long shapes in hand-assembly.

The shouting, undressing old pin point swing sets singing a

shallow end of the swamp

our pearl necklace –

ink warped leaf fabric

somehow

diamond's

connected

rude shelters, but argyle (deceased) +program.

Four headed television rug

arcs to the necklace pillow butter, luminous

hallows inside letters chiseled of ice weave,

foam reflection –

lamp shade on lamp shade,

tan pillow case, mirror maze.



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ii.

A fragile, breakable exhale comes in

through a python repetition of half eyes.

The silk in my feeling

is spinning anchors –

one way spatial relations,

a low cloud stripes up sticks,

a life can be a lovely beginning.

A lewd, distracted light emerges,

I am resting the speaker to your velvet thigh

all rosemary arranged in radio, red language.



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White Turkey feathers

AHIMA the glass lake society

A rummage sale weaving lichen windows

'through hands through'

a window washer (pull the

rip chords on a new test curtain) cardboard

branches, glittering limbs, a spruce! Turn to

the rooms, average light on painted cherry wood.

Flamingo nightmares waddle around the tree.

Witness lapdog witness (roams

to cedar opening) “Rye bread lap dog”

roaming. Cut out snowflakes [taped] to the tree,

flamingo's nibble at cardboard branches

to telephone cable valentine wash,

the curled up lights, feet turned to fish, feet in

Porcupine lashes

A coy pond, a big, black screen, a lilting

cherry blossom represented in green

numbers and letters. A foiling attempt

at wandering four tongues used to lead a

long gravel road to a shot out, paint ball

gun training warehouse. An old Chevy without a

hood, doors, Engine.



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Editor

But you forgot to bring the wing mechanism

to the house (pop. 1440)

They searched fire for its beginning and

found roses but did they search the mirror –

A part of me has been formed from linen

3,500 years old

Nashville was made out of daffodils

A part of my arm is made out of

daffodils?

Nautilus Japan Established flowers that will

terminate campaign Atlanta

Normandy France peers in the globe

from a cloud (flax oil steed with

good muscles) gold dancing

situated in the bruises selected leading

fingers

Does the cloud have handle bars on

it so I can climb around and drive it

in the morning

The breakfast pyrotechnics will be established

early

Do they have red valves inside of

your mirror or do I need to get my

own pyrite for this?



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TRANSVERSAL (2)

Small ash in the Corvus

talons to the park, leading devises on,

needle knitting

the hours.

Already woven of breath, as rusted skeletons, cola rivers,

crochet hooked paper flowers

warp and dangle across the atmosphere,

Solar raccoons, glass shape shifter,

tube of oak, now wire connection, now

soft tissue, melon eyes, gravel, grass, and fertile soil.

Glitter spills in

the loom, in the hour of our

shed combinations.

A lime tile which is white

coy pond ceiling, swimming in the fabrics.

Small thighs tattooed

with [lights] – and Idiots

among a

wing, holy tomorrow, Bad Apples–

Neon yarn

Stitches the house to a factory's wall.

Cages cross stitch,

sharpening wires,

sand to glass in a slow mutation

in a silver chest.

Tunneling forward to the train,

there, inside of a mucus

thread and stone entryway, leaves

Semolina noodles to Starfish city.



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Sipping water from a teal

bruised twilight.

Drinking daisy’s from the

Glass.

Babbling

the lips

of their potassium rooms

within –

Just as much as

our Nova, the neighbors

of sunset.

Plays

will occur there in chests.

Heat will plan and discipline

DNA strings with the fifth

cabinet of a

spring loaded now.

A third flinched perspective layer

we water the windows –

Drifting

to solvent lights, blinking to

pouring, walking to

line formed of oranges.

And inside hands, shelved along the diaspora, sphere

or ring finger of life perches.

every movement on the fish.

Now, swimming circles through

the clouds under the seams out of the spirals

trained to the spinning black and circling white—



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cushions, solar waves

downward circa [1292] France.

Scoop the air into a bucket

the saltwater

layers, air , and cakes.

The dormant isosceles of the

Field, growing

our taste for [breath].

My [3d] glasses set on a shelf

in the medicine cabinet.

Purple worm like a dress in the

micro world, in the crevices,

designed around the dark,

for the swim

or infinite

equations

housed in a fear bite.

Wouldn't it take

up thirty floors of the cube,

electrocuted pauses.

Written through the sound of

the walls, so much dancing

our wing grows saturated.

Light loosens, a light

cleaner, machine houses where

we dissolve fluids.

We land upon the ready-made star,

a photograph of our dead past

we've clutched in our sweat

on the train ride.



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Unknowingly clutched at it's

disappearing edges, digging at it.

Fine, trimmed razors.

Stars let open

secret doors in the wall,

followed by

light lurks,

white snow

beneath carpet.

Gathering dimensions, we

have seen the

entryway.

Numbered hours

On the shores

drafting a 'boat' in secret

designed

eyes

in a need to kiss.

Tortures that make

sense taped to later braille.

We've transplanted this room

with guitar strings, lights,

water, the crown, our

heads, a chair, the table top,

dust covered papers, the DNA,

strings, an edge of the sky,

always folded neatly around the shoulders.

A broadcast on our roof top making little

piles of sun on its transmission

and Michelle's flowers.

Her hair dancing to the radiotransmissions



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from Russian

satellites

until the night is shadowed

In language,

ghostly faces of her and

Vladimir at the dark patches

of the house.

Little men facing

behind the laundry room

door after sun set –

Languages,

corroding in our living room.

I see

the kitchen,

and noodles climbing wallpaper to spell names.

A Soviet gardener,

Static,

A late night pill, static,

Static,

Static, her hair is

entangled with

noodles, cooked to perfection.

Walls corroding soft,

warm light.

Letters,

an orange peel,

the sky.

Retro-fitted clouds,

a porch landing.

Circular

Tuesdays, ship, crossing roses.

In ivy shelves,



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the rooms pool into a [cup.]

we decide to arouse it and call it a brain.

[laced] in the diamond shadows

we've put iris around the doorways.

With a divine cut

the stone “we,” the saw-blade dissolve.

Latticework morning

of our garden into the [cup.]

Woven lime to golden screws,

Little portraits

of the strawberry kitchen.

Picture,

Cherry lines, ligaments,

cortex, an opening.

Our previous rooms collide

making one tall, wind building.

The radio last night

strung together the

chimney to the person,

the diamond to the scissors, rinsing out

the old radio.

When its static is

left on, they wash the windows

with a shallow tool.

They disconnect a molecule

and iron the alley.

Around the corner,

disturbed birds disappear upon a wire.



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Lost to lights

in

cages and hours– The waves coursing

upward, breath strokes,

headaches, finally

a number.

Caving in, the old hat seeds

locked

[rooms] in a golden

entry, digits,

arm chair maze.

Wooden panels

Change form with the sea.

With the citadel chop- Coho’s

part of me lays lonely in another jagged edge,

I send nutrients to the

place caused by

removed dust.

A black mold

from the circuit board of my dangling.

There is just enough light

for a twig, in voices,

built of a treasure chest house, stairs,

shooting stars,

fish in my pond,

and escaping light.

Steeple of clouds

scaring sky.

The room with numbers, (sawdust,

Dream, fishes.)

Plants



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splattered paint,

rooms that breathe,

Nesting in the clock

a Chandelier.

Sweet, pressure chained Chandelier.

Leaping onto her leisure,

legs cross the sky

a forest

road down flames way.

A brand new felt, butterfly nozzle

collides with the part that

sits nowhere.

Jagged to

Winter.

Down a rope for

afternoon with Chandelier hands.

Safe here, trail of window frames.

The traffic

and the transistor, whispering.

Arms inside

apple trees along a hidden

orchard,

mid future,

draining wind, each other.

The rest

is

found

inside the transmission

in

picking up



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a new satellite.

A soviet segment of the

News.

broad-cast

thin lines

and river.

The Russian satellite,

the new planet we discovered

exploring time envelopes.

Morva galaxy.

gallons

of black

enamel

dormant

in rocks.

Our

old

Earth –



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Avar Raskin

i.

Washing threads in long grass, the cloth is

Simple Green

going through, inside stapled edge, and

dynamite Hawaii. The toy

needle –

it is the entrance maker.

ii.

Think white Dove light. Be the camera

and record only white Dove.

Now, record shadows. Think Corvus shadows.

Be a mirror, now reflect light, and seek

shadows. Now ice Corvus shadows,

soak white Doves in Plexiglas, dip the damaged reflection in plastic,

wax, or ice,

and watch the shadows sink,

the light fade, numbered. Now become

the glass of a fishing jar, you're the fern.

Now look on the oaks within a castle of

lights and shadow eyes.

iii.

Scuffed diamond house,

ivory-

emerald chair, a paper diamond in life.



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iv.

Thank God, the fishing jar is making sense

within a castle of golden

Light, and

crystal light, and

shoe string people.

A separate entrance comes into play,

dipping ladles from the ceiling, very nice

slippers for great Sally mouse, hidden by

books, so taut in the threads of a fishing jar. A carpet,

flashbulb window, for her little

wall. She's sleeping (Shhhh)

An ancient typewriter for Avar Raskin

- a small camera with bedding-

child.

The kitty cat sniffing at a lock

moves the odor, picks up the mucus on tonight.

The jar makes sense in a

truck show, something

fluid. Green, moss light filters into the living room,

acting as the dinner table.

I'm washing threads in long,

grass blade

teeth again.

Double –fractal –

tree limbs reflect in the bus stop window.



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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS

_________________________

SECTION PRESS (2012)

5028 NE 26th

Street

Portland, OR

97211

USA

[email protected]

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