The Tapa Notebook

Some sculptor some-
where, who said:
Chip away at the
block of marble until
you find the form
inside. But this the
prelude, forming
the block of stone
from these white
pages. & then, &
only then. Then I
am not a note-
book person, have
only ever kept one
once before, three
decades back, East
Sydney, a bedsit
with wire on the
windows & whores
on the street outside.
& the book in keep-
ing with the cheap
surroundings, un-
branded cover,
coarse paper,
faint blue lines.

*

An internal journal. No
mention of the journeys
I sometimes made
in Paul Simon's
footsteps. Nothing
in it but lists of
books to read or
read, synopses
of Bogart movies
found in the supine
black & white ventures
of my nights. Nothing
ever out of it but
part of a poem
that lists the lists.

*

This book is
contra-
diction. The cover
tapa cloth, traditional.
But the paper inside
high-tech, high
gloss. So much
dioxin used. So
white I am
afraid to write
on it. An impediment
to speech. Contra
diction.

*

So frightening
six months to
write a word
in it. & then
a fabric-
ation that
perhaps I
wrote. Or.
Perhaps I
wrote of it
but fore-
words &
someone else
transcribed
them after. Or.
I did make
use of it. Half
anyway. & only
half of that. One
side of the
page. But
whole poems.


*

Writing on the
recto, leaving
the verso blank.