Prudence in Hell 012

Recordkeeping

I tried to record but I failed, repeatedly. 
That alone is a poem
—what I was struggling to record—
but there are poems that do not like oral
apparently
unlike their wordofmouth foreparents
who knew how to change positions
what it means to be imparadised
—though we owe that one to Milton—
inside a voice and its fluctuations
to be, come, a voice
a poem should be declaimed, not claimed
—or, gods forbid, a claimant, as some new ones are—
we were made to be sung, with our stingers
the epic poem is by definition breathtaking
it must catch in your throat like a sob
it must reduce you to hearing
what it is that you’re saying or what is being said.

Attention knew cosmogony starts in the mouth before it ever caught hint of The Word’s written comeback. 

I called the audio Black Square, btw: a fitting no-name.

Today I tried to record but I failed, repeatedly. A poem.