"On Anti-Biography" by Will Alexander - Poem

We filmed poet Will Alexander in & around his home in Los Angeles. Will Alexander is a lifelong resident of Los Angeles and has an infectious fascination with the city. We trekked around MacArthur Park for several hours that afternoon as Alexander spurted out observations and comments about the city and its structure. Will Alexander does not take language for granted. He's constantly twisting it into new phrases and ideas in his head. Working jobs that gave him "space to think" for most of his life, Alexander has developed a poetic style virtually untouched by fashionable trends and 'The Poetry Industrial Complex'. For a completely original take on poetry, check out Will Alexander and his work. Will Alexander poems: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...


~~ Poem ~~

"On Anti-Biography"
by Will Alexander

For me, biography is a lantern, burning in the midst of parenthetical opaqueness. In a sense, it is a ruse, a phantasmic meandering, brighter or dimmer, according to the eclectic happenstance of terror.

Me, I’ve been sired in anomaly, in an imagery of brewing grenadine riddles, a parallel poesis spawned from curious seismographic molten. I say curious, because the original stalking arc has disappeared into the wilderness of an a priori blizzard, which gives birth to a level, like a portal of fire conjoined with the lightning field of mystery. I call it the poetic guardian dove, the hieratic alien wing.

It is the non-local field, the non-particle acid, flowing into my cognitive iodine rays, into the vicious fires of my tarantella marshes. So I dance with vibration, with the solar arc spinning backward around the miraculous force of a double green horizon. Simultaneously, I escape the territorial, while remaining within the burning loops of my own momentary seizures, guarded by ferns, legs plowing land, the face and the mind guided by stars.

So, I am a martyr of drills, of spates of specific lingual flooding, casting at times, a mist or a mirage, like a caravan of yaks, transporting tungsten and water. Conversely, to give a graph of dates, to single out a bevy of personal social lesions, would invert me, would turn me around a diurnal bundle of glass, staggered, with a less than fiery temperature, partially nulling my sensitivity to falling phonemic peppers, to the inclination towards victory which burns in the dawn above heaven. For me, this is the green locale, the pleroma of eternal solar essence, glinting, full of fabulous maelstrom diamonds, an empowered hegira of drift, of claustrophobic rainbow spectrums which empty themselves, and return to themselves, like having an image go out and return to itself, so that its power transmutes by the very energy of its looping; and I think of myself, the poet sending signals into mystery, and having them return to me with oneiric wings and spirals, so much so, that I forget my prosaic locale with its stultifying anchors, with its familial dotage and image reports, with its dates inscribed in trapezoidal feces. I am only concerned with simultaneity and height, with rays of monomial kindling, guiding the neo-cortex through ravens, into the ecstasy of x-rays and blackness.



~~ Credits ~~
Filmed by Mike Gioia

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