FALL 2011




Solidus Online

Cory Schofield

Words like Words
I see words as dripping oil
from a new chain.
Words like Malatandris.
Frendicalous, Soiles.

They are fat with meaning
and ripened sweet by
long carmalization
in the heat caused
the friction of
ten thousand wordspersecond
rubbing together.

There is only
one word
at this particular second:

It is a sleepy word
like dusty eyes
or blown glass.
It is a word that looks

like candlesticks
and skyscrapers.

Ah, and then here is
It is a word
in the wrong place
trying to find
the right context.
It can find its niche
in something to do
with paper flowers
or Spanish chalk

And of course,
It needs little explanation
Because it insists upon
its own existence
and tickles at meaning
with a proper sense
of syntax.

Finally, we have
It is flat
and flavored licorice.



It goes through my head like beachwood snippets of creeping life lingering in the shelved miles of activity. Brainstuff is sanded iron—babylonic musings called from God’s lighthouse.
Combinations of twenty-five run thin. Words march from bloody layers to pour out over the side of an upturned inkwell. Nighttime: mirrors in moonbeams. Transgressions are few and ragged like white turnips. Wild licks of light solidify into candied rainwater. Order is boxed and shipped from cocoa borders to marzipan socks. My thesis states that all life is simply an amalgamation of void and flesh like an arrangement of mollusks. Communication is a memetic construct of furious Neanderthals having their lunch stolen. Understanding is nothing more than an ant carrying two tons of metal on its shoulders. No meaning—that is, to feel the whiskers of so many rats tilling their harvest without judgment. Comfort the weary, for they feel no stone upon their sly carcasses. Feel the fibers of this gray button sweater. Slipstream consciousness is fire on oil.


Cory Schofield: On the Piano

The piano is unbiased. It has no sense of self—no personality. It is planks of woods, shards of iron and, with good fortune, glossed ivory. It is a construct of patience, entirely content to sit quietly… perhaps whispering the muted chromatic echoes of its sitting chambers. It can, all at once, sing the voice of a child and the earthy, mature tone of a grown man with no lapse in devotion. It is not so much an instrument as a mirror.
One might even say that the piano itself is not a piano at all. Without hands, the piano becomes little more than raw material, like soft nuggets of gold. In this sense, the hands might be called the piano. However, the hands do not function without the mind, and thus the mind may be said to be the piano. The mind, still, is a malleable thing with only potential; that is to say, that the piano cannot be the mind because the ability to play is not standard issue. And so the piano must be something of higher object—perhaps not even object at all.
As it stands, the piano is, to me, a platonic Form. I found (in an involuntary sense of discovery) access to this Form as though it were the apple of Tantalus: dangled in front of my face, offering me a kind of sustenance… a hunger I never truly realized. It constantly moves closer, stirring ravenous aches in the pit of my cluttered mind. I reach for it, only to have it crawl from my reach.
The music, too, is a Form—of formless quality. Liquefied melodies capture themselves in a jar far too small to contain them. They can be poured, but not held or distributed with ease. It is a sort of pocket divinity. Each note is the piano. Each breath from the keys is the piano of this thing—this symbiotic vessel that serves without restraint or condition. The measure of its quality is limited only by its manipulator’s connection to the Form… to the transient piano.