Truth-Ranking Katana

a response

My good friend (who I actually know in real life) Z.H. Gill published a poem called “Katana.” It’s a great poem and you should definitely read it right now, before this, because this doesn’t make much sense before that, really, and also it’s a great poem.

Here’s the beginning, for the doubting Thomases among you:

Resentment’s the katana in my life. Treating it like a job until it becomes one. Do not
add cardboard to the fire. Do not forward the cursèd email. My favorite organ’s the
stomach. I’ve never met a house I didn’t like the inside of. My father pointed out poison oak
and sidewinders, though had familiarity with neither. The carpentry school around the corner…

But it’s already well-established that Z (his friends call him Z, Z.H is just for “the public”) is a great writer; that’s not news. What is news is he’s gone interactive, like a video game.

Let me explain:

FIrst, he (quite bravely) let’s us, “the public,” in on a little tradecraft:

…Going back through the poem, ranking its lines on truthfulness [truth-rank
of lines would be: 13/14 > 11/12 > 1 > 7 > 4/5 > 2/3 > 8/9/10 > 6].

They can’t all be True, folks! In any given poem, approximately 98% of lines are less than 49% true. But up till now we’ve cravenly kept it under wraps. Not Z tho… perhaps because he’s a day walker (writes fiction too) he’s perfectly comfortable breaking the poets’ omerta.

But as it turns out, he was just getting started. Just look how he concludes:

[Now do your own truth-ranking; send it to me.]

And thus the script is flipped entirely. It flips the reader off their stomach, haunches, hands and knees (or whatever pose it is you people get in to read) and onto their feet!

Now, I am, myself, a poet, and for that reason am not really a member of “the public” and only possess an at-best tenuous grasp of the truth, but even still and nevertheless I felt like a reader. But, and this is crucial: it didn’t feel bad.

To the contrary, I realized I have a voice, dammit, even as a reader!, and what’s more I’ve got work to do!, that it’s “the public’s” job to call the poem to account. So, I got to work. I followed Z’s instructions to the letter and ranked every single line of the poem from most to least true, then sent it to him. Now I’m posting it. I highly recommend you do the same.

Every Line in “KATANA” by Z.H. Gill, From Most to Least True

add cardboard to the fire. Do not forward the cursèd email. My favorite organ’s the
flowers, I need there to be effort involved. Watching lighting strike, one by one, each car
10 years older—[ed: marked additions made] to avoid all confusion. Last two lines are the first ‘true’
to fudge capture. Neighbors interviewed for anthropological interest. My 3rd-grade teacher
spread in quincunx upon laminate floor
like missing home. The first day of school
resentment’s the katana in my life. Treating it like a job until it becomes one—do not
stomach. I’ve never met a house I didn’t like the inside of. My father pointed out poison oak
down three staircases—four, now. Cannot stop staring at any wooden floor. Conductor makes
the night each [night]—adds them to a shared YouTube playlist well ahead of [night]time. Every stool in my
me moves down two [digestive] carriages. I met a man named Luke / He had a stepbrother, also called Luke.
Apartment’s made of stuntmen’s-wood / Break em over [and over again,] your friends’ backs. Cartomancy
lines the poem, goes back through the poem, ranks its lines on truthfulness, truth-ranks
on the phone, regards her [(Cartomancy’s)] irises blooming. The bachelor party watched videos late into
making me completely in[to] my lucky[est] recipe—[making me] Anni.
[Those] sidewinders though had familiarity with neither [me, Anni, nor] the carpentry school around the corner,
in the dealer’s lot. One in five or so radios cranked on: “The killer’s loose, our state-managed
[ad]versary’s at the Madonna Inn!” Four years in a row, three in my family survive lightning strikes,
[the radios] report, too. Can’t let you into the bar if you’re not a former firefighter, and if you’re a fire:
About time you showed up! Caution tape wrapped round the pond, spoke too. Mother,
Girlfriend-made-o-celery, Victor—which
fighter shouldn’t you be? Working high, I’m Fortune-Favored, the Bold. In my life, I have rolled
Weil. On hot baths:
loan me some? “Saw I’m my cruelest self on the subway. I have no interest in wilds,”
[she] told us students. She was married to the evening; I was dressed up as Norman Mailer for a book.
Sit them next to each other, all they talk about’s moving two towns over to [you-]know-what