The Sound on Top of the Sound

I ask you now to listen and observe the sound on top of the sound. Here we can discover new elocutions that can re-enlist the crumbling mythos of the tower of Babel. The vocalization of a name, the urging towards and inwards, the desire-phonetic. Mouth the lusty and moistened "O", taste the anticipatory "M", or bite back with the icy "S."
Watch the sound; slide two fingers along the throat, that cavernous oracle, to measure the vibration. How much knowledge can one acquire here? To master these mysteries, one must surrender oneself to the eloquent godhead of the tongue.
Here, at this temple, you must become the most dedicated disciple.

Quick Improv on a promotional flyer for Jean-Luc Godard's "Une Femme est une Femme"

In the stars of all waking moments there is the hand that holds you lifts you, sends you somewhere. The supportive hand, the balancing hand, the blind hands that make value judgements, the choices that must be made by those who must make them. The hand, lifted to the lips, the ensuing silence of a kiss.Riding a bicycle in the living room, cawing like a chicken, bonking my head against the wall to prove love, the yellow night sky the twinkling stars, the fire reversing with space, a night sky all ablaze with indecision.


Mad Improv 3am Jan 13.

When the young ones ask me how I came to be a member of The Group, I am always unsure of where to begin. None of them comprehend electricity; nor have any of them seen a street light operate; even the asphault roads that were once so ubiquitous have long been ground up under the weight of the tanks and artillary transports. But they recognize the word "collision," understand how violent motion translates onto a human body.
"There was an automobile collision," I always begin, trying to keep the details as modern and simple as possible. Immediately, I notice the faces of the older teenagers tightening up; some of them are old enough to remember the first bombing raids twelve years ago.


At the end of another season, one of our patrols comes upon a small band of nomads. Their leader wears government issue leather boots; he carries a rifle with an ivory stock. They take us on several hunting expeditions and offer themselves as guides through the foothills. Better yet, when the wet season ends, and the raids once again begin anew, they lead us into their caverns for sanctuary and shade.

One time, I witnessed the leader of these nomads beat off an attacker with the butt of his rifle. Afterwards, he cleaned the blood off the ivory with a gritty tongue.

Two months into the rainy season, keeping watch through the night. In the puddles gathering in the ruts of the road, several reflections of the moon. Pieces of moon, crushed behind the treads of one of our tanks. I begin to feel ill, try my best not to remember the people I loved who are now dead.