The supreme advantage of excessive re/design: this is my world after all, no tolerance for that breed of mayhem; opting out. Vocalized in spectrums: from the light: how it colours things not meant for new impressions, the water, the snow, the glare in the windows; to the rare silence that belongs only at this time, a face glowing with that low, compact hum. Oscillation, yes, but fidelity across the width.

I know what delicious means; I have hands to find it and eyes to produce it. Belonging: belonging: belonging.


Falling Leaves

The leaves fall and the sentiment blushes a red melancholy. It's in the piling of sediments, the layering of past actions, living things. It's in the chill in the air, forcing us to huddle, keep still and grit our teeth, to stumble into the grave of survival. It's a mourning for the momentum of a summer body, but now, settled and still. Things fall back into place, the arc of motion seems absurd. We are all now in the process of raking the leaves up among us, in the spaces where time was moist with voices and determined limbs, where fires were to dance around, to broach the subject of how we appear naked--not to devour history in shameless disarray.
I don't know what this means, but I'm suddenly dressed against the cold, and the smoke.



Pulling the covers over. Sewing myself into the dark. An act of self-defense that converts me into an insulator of space, a material to keep the drafts out.



In the snow, pulling down the walls, exposing old wires, standing still, shivering, staring at the moon. No one else around for miles, except the waters silent in the distance.
--"This is not the way to do it" sayz she.
--"Says who?" I sez.
She gives a impatient huff in the cold air, a shifty cloud disappears in front of her face. She walks away to stand in another dark. But I own this bit. Mine, my personal little cold-land. I continue to tug at the panelling, resigned and breathing.


Something about the colour of the place, abruptly altered, shockingly distant already. I watch the activity, separate. Suddenly uninvolved and struck with amazement about how a place can so cruelly betray me. And on the walls, that familiar sunlight seems sadder, not the property of travelers in whose number I now belong. There is no music so bold or delicate, no dancing limbs; no rain to wash away that something in the trees stinging me in my heart.


Caveat Lector

Let's begin: we have to begin somewhere, a mouth beginning to part, lips moist for a kiss or a voice warming for speech. What does the voice say? How is it said? How much distance, longing in the tone of the voice? How does the voice cut through that longing, sever it at last and finally, that bitter longing, hanging like a sheet in the dark? The box of the larynx, the home of Maxwell's demon at last, two bodies in tandem, entropy mere trash in the lexicon bin, never coming forward to haunt the beyond, the place where forgotten voices go.
To hold that candle up in the temples, to perform those rituals forgotten to all but the bravest, walking to mass alone in the dim winter snow, a beautiful desire, the hum of voices in the seasonal air: deep, resonant, rich in its succulence, snow binding in the sound, softening it to something closer to a true heart beating. Voices saying love, in unison.
Voices: projecting images on the wall, successive, insistent, the perfect film every time. Voices across from one another, familiar, playing upon each other in a joyous intimacy, saying over and over again: you, you, you. The infinite voices of lovers, with a vocabulary of one.
In the dark, the voices are soft and sanded like smooth, cool stone. The reception from stars, interfering, attaching light and history to the words, generating force to the hearts behind them. There are voices here, those that I know and those that cannot be recognized, I lean forward my fingers, an urge to touch, mold, outline, seduce; behind the banner of the erotic come the legions of voices: they can do so much.


No, let's really sit down and think through this, and let it not make sense. Come forward, you ambiguous, you answerless realm, the best direction to something. I seek you.

First, a hand reaches into a dark box and produces a photograph. In the hand: a tissue of something we designate a reality, but at a [remove]; somehow lacking in something, restrained from an experiential potentiality. The photograph is now pushed into my hand. I can look at it, describe it, write about it, it can illicit an emotional response in me, I can engage in it in many ways, save one--the reality of the photograph does not surround me. I am not present spatially/temporally. Either the image or I am a corpse, out of sync with the clock, motionless. I cannot alter, manipulate with the real subject of the photograph, nor can it do the same to me. I cannot touch the shallow waters and stir ripples, I cannot pull the posters from the wall. Only phantoms, without all sense. I hold in my hand a translation, an echo of what reality appears. I am victim to this tyrant. I gnaw on these dinosaur bones.

Or, counter-intuitively, does the photograph hint at a greater potentiality? The experiences produced from photographic image-engagement are merely projected towards a different vector. But are the experiences really different between the thing and the image of the thing? After all, isn't everything we experience image? Are we then all at a remove from reality? Suppose our reality is mere image; what, then, is a photograph? Just another element of that image, meta-image.

Moving forward, into celluloid, quickening the pace of the still, even closer to the experiential world that surrounds us. Motion pictures, a series of images moving at great speed: how are these not reality? The time traveller sees into a past: "real birds" "real children"--how is he seeing? How are they to be called "real"? Images pour out and mix.

How do we define reality? How do we define image? Consider that all we have is image: all five senses are image-based. Lacking image, we are not only blind, but devoid of all other abilities. Image is the grammar of the mind, the fundament; even the word is subservient to it. Language is our best method of image-translation, of picture-communication. An examination of language in tandem with image is the best way to come to an understanding of language, thought and the nature of reality. Here comes forth an awareness of the contingencies of language, human thought and our relationship with the "outside" world. Amazingly enough, the humble, unassuming discipline of composition navigates best this direction--invites philosophy in the most profoundest sense, asks deep ontological and epistemological questions, and overlaps into disciplines as foreign to English departments as theoretical physics and neuroscience.

I pause here at the devoid point.


August 16, 2008.

A forecast of rough work, rough beast, the scaling chisel of the bones. The vanguard dusts of something momentous are bursting through the air; sawdust, sand, chalk, blood, the consummation of the ancient wastes and the cosmopolitan streets. Old soils, new dirts and stains: painting into something to become so beautiful and perfect.
Looking, uncovering, excavating: a liver-light in a collapsed corner of a forgiven city; promoting a confession between citizens, looks between lovers, eyes, hands, mysteries: touches with only sight. The clasping hands of strangers, always with that special vigour, to keep the chance contact from turning wholly to vision, the desperation of that tenuous lust. Back to dust, always back to the dunes of sand spinning in the wind.

My jaw is red, a colour i don't recognize until i come to understand the tincture of my own blood, a burst mouth, a wounded voice. The sound coming out of me is new and it frightens me.



that i enter into, signing the contract, doing the business, watchful eyes. things follow: one after another--past then present then future, but then mix: mashing out the present irrevocably. Building or dismantling, that is this present, where these streets rule, mouths of streetlights, alley-puddle moist, reflections and winds.

Things, maybe in the shapes of animals, move slowly on the plain, insisting, coming forward, not belonging. This, the difficult thought that comes before the thinking begins, the image mouthing out the knowledge, scraped out hollow in the letters. The cities, streets mere carvings, decor in this living room. A citadel of words, electricity and speech. I write this city out: it comes out, I make it happen.



every last one torn apart by furious determined hands, leaving nothing behind, cutting your hair and changing your name, crossing a sea and beginning again, tearing up even the photos left around the heart, and the cold wind in your lungs. To be half-ghost, to die a mimetic death, to suffer the insurmountable mercilessness of it; ashes in the eyes that never wash away.


Finding direction where the paths of old ways and new ways meet, crumpled in the glove box of a forgotten car full of names, fallen sick off the road. light of a distant carnival ferris wheel, laughing screams on the wind, lovers wandering. here, in the dry dark, under a blistered tree burdening the weight of time, watching the sun come up, and falling helpless beneath its wheels.


Tuesday June 10th 3:34 am

Fire in the gardens. Electric light reflecting on the undersides of leaves, producing a florescent flickering of green, delicate veins silhouetted in the heavy contrast of darkness.

Someone hidden in the brush is shouting to put out the flames, and the rusted pinch of a squeaking pulley comes out of the trees, louder than the sounds of fire.

Secret wells, black water in the dark. Bucket handles passing through the palms of ghosts.

The wind moves and so does my memory of things. Images of the past disperse, bringing history to the present, all pasts entirely available, reconstituting themselves, following his hands as he raises them across his face. A masked man, no name, a presence that skims beyond the eyes of the curious in the dark, fires and waters; a man, instead, embodying all of history, a gate in an inaccessible hall, a shape of a thing named human.

Walking along a river, fire, water, red and black, damaged memory and the bickering of ghosts in the robust weeds.


Saturday April 05, 2008

Here we have the beginnings of a spring sun; the pavement is warm on my palm pressed down, pressed down; the light through the glazier's trade, the stiff chill of waters, some above, some below, way below. {And S. talking about New Orleans and ghosts, and again ghosts, thinking about a dead man there again, who I loved like a brother. Way down south, coffin alone now I guess, corpse solitary and soaking, spread out along the waters, loose perhaps, out in the Bay. Those were, perhaps, the days.} (Back to work)


Discovery: In a Library.

I found this written somewhere:

in the dream there is always the terror of discovering your own image in the mirror; while awake the terror is replaced by pleasure in the double, comfort in the other, and recognition of the fact that there exists a me reflected back onto another who operates like a me. The mirror, the terror and the dream all shatter in this waking world: life begins to follow the transparent shadow-law of dream.
Consider the images dumped out of the head like firewood from a rusted wheelbarrow. These are the basis for fire, for sustained heat.

That was all that was written.
The rest of the page is blank.


4am Sunday Morning

Let me tell you about jinx. It works like this: it perhaps begins with a casualty list, things that suddenly die or are about to die. They get hemmed in, start to cough perhaps, distract us, remove us for long periods of time. Jinx is crisis of faith, a first attempt to swallow a void that needs to be digested to move on. But then, the right angle of attack, the void shifts from negative to positive charge, it become you, starts a foundation greater than ever. Jinx is the beginning of the path.



In this moment of generosity, give me this opportunity to share this knowledge with you:
Imagine a morning and a morning that never existed except for in my experience.
Imagine me in the image, tied into a morning that you create. Nothing there but me and your imagination.
Let me then remind you that light is. This is what morning is. Turn your imagination into light. Turn your imagination into morning.
So there was: first me, then your imagination, then imagined me, then imagined light. Each the genesis for the other.
The imagined light hits my imagined face and crosses over onto my real face, the face that you are trying to touch with your imagination.

What games we are playing!

Your imagination is suppressing the receding chill and the moistness under the soles of my feet that were mine. The sense that was only sensed by me with no one else in the world to sense along with me. But that's not a matter for anyone's imagination. In a silent way, a revolution rumbling, a battle for true sense. Can an imagined image resist, overthrow without a sound?
The song on the radio which was meant for me, your imagination gives it to me, as I play it in my head the way I was meant to hear it.
A voice that was mine, dispersing out, generous: a voice that is everywhere, belonging to others, stretching out beyond anyone's imagination.
A curve in the road, bending sound, making shadow, challenging memory. We can only see ships' lights drifting past the bay in the dark. But we keep seeing them, again and again.

Smoke on the hills. Imagination can't compete against memory that is dying but wants to live.
Night comes back, the moistness in the grass pulling down at us.


Everything is on Fire.

Maybe we can all come to this understanding.
And a heat so strong it dries our tears, burns our tongues when we try to laugh.

From the windows we hear music. And, as friends, we clasp our hands together,
a solidarity, a public sorrow in full view of an enemy that covers pain with pain.