tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-242029592012-02-16T22:10:58.602-05:00J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.comBlogger861100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-54912248079338173062010-05-05T03:44:00.011-04:002010-07-27T23:10:29.888-04:00

I confess that the desire plays me like an instrument; this longing feels like the sound of octaves: a deep, root note, heavy, with a tectonic mobility that feels monumental. A feeling of an ocean washing at my edges, cooling, relentless, an erotic ecology: waves and sand. The second note of the pair, singing together, the higher twin, a note that rings with the reverie of a choir, with pathways

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-72134289808345478842009-08-30T22:23:00.005-04:002010-01-31T17:52:59.767-05:00

I am learning, here, something, I think, about love. That time breaks down in my particular brand of solitude, and that solitude is best shared, and here is where love begins.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-70752290900370539832009-08-15T20:47:00.003-04:002009-08-15T20:53:24.313-04:00

A listing, a writing structured by the numbers, a leaning, a sinking down, a tenuous narrative, a doom. Writing, reading, not to get to the end but to be being within the writing, the reading, the seeing. I'm finished obsessing about death; I pick up my pen and fend it off--not really doing battle, but rather forgetting there was a battle in the first place. The mark on the page is alive and

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-13736778405527070732009-07-23T22:10:00.004-04:002009-08-15T20:55:23.574-04:00

Early on, I said insistently to you: "I won't belong to you. I can't belong to anyone."I think we both hoped I was lying.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-42415668473993605332009-06-26T12:29:00.003-04:002009-06-26T12:38:01.923-04:00

I'm talking tension. Under a summer sun, alive, how tight can the skin become? It feels good, movement becomes something liquid, something connected to the world. Everyone knows how hard it was to die, people still think about it, talk about it. An accident, a sudden smash, then my skin, unravelling, loose. Then that loss of heat that signals something. An ending, liquid dispersing.--"It ain't

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-89787415313237240982009-05-10T23:35:00.008-04:002009-05-11T00:39:58.863-04:00

...that slow, ghostly, intermingling; that incremental encountering: this is the suggestion of time, never heavy-handed, but always insistent. I am driving through the mountains in the summer of 2008, alone, past the wooden wreck of an old mining shed / not anywhere in your chronology, but a moment that matters because it was the beginning of a deep lonely moment, opportunity for a new plate of

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-41485657139994848892009-04-11T01:19:00.011-04:002009-04-12T21:21:41.638-04:00

Across a line that disintegrates even as it merges with the page. A habitude: une étreinte de désintégration, une bête, un romance. I am living here, it bleeds into my sense, traduit des monstres: this is what I am, a dirty, sauntering acceptance. An arrogance that lives, a tongue pressing against an incisor.****Two people holding each other in the dark. He rests his lips on the back of her

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-31274436975133415112009-04-06T01:15:00.004-04:002009-04-06T01:49:50.975-04:00

There are the points of the compass; burrs, attached brutally in the fabric of my clothes, but digging deeper, beneath the skin, into beyond the shadow(s) of undiscovered alleyways, village squares (squares, cutting them out--certain memories, town wells, deep memories, shadows beneath the skin, splashed with water). The shadow around the mountain, the shadow in the mountain: we all voice

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-48640833681886904702009-02-27T10:00:00.001-05:002009-02-27T10:13:39.268-05:00

A tautness across the span: a black trampoline. Diving in, irrevocable.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-47266245795474293682009-01-27T01:18:00.001-05:002009-01-27T01:20:12.404-05:00

(>>>>>)A request to move closer, always ignored.(>>>>>)

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-10594645840965891472009-01-27T00:39:00.003-05:002009-01-27T01:12:35.300-05:00

: if history of a person, then when the cells divide, the time spread (>>>>>), the opening of fingers, making history, moving through it, making it? Through a catalogued space, a series of located times: a history? Space, never existing, but dying at one second intervals, never existing again: a moment, a moment: just this.:if history of a person (>>>>>): if history of a person.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-81346029417045890632009-01-27T00:12:00.011-05:002009-01-27T01:09:03.167-05:00

:then it would feel like this on the fingers (>>>>>), scales and indicators, it would give notice of things coming, cataloguing, stowing away. If history of a person:1) Sleeping in a van in winter, can't sleep and shivering. Wanted this.2) The severed man, raising his arms, soon gone.3) The clouds foul with stirring, tornado coming to murder, flatten.etc. endless, or expanding:American Midwest.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-17407370874462612152009-01-22T16:40:00.003-05:002009-01-22T17:19:50.338-05:00

Brevity, like all memories, tipping over, like all memories, so delicate, so faint. A laugh in the dark, I will keep it there in that perfect dark, that dark, keeping it.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-42947141965335045272009-01-18T00:41:00.005-05:002009-01-18T11:35:10.826-05:00

Let me tell a story. And this one might be true and the I being I. Or maybe it's best not. Let's just say the nothing and say the story because we want it out. A funeral. Let's maybe make it the one of my grandfather. And a father, drunk and alone, left alone, mourning in a deep colour that showed on his face, sad, vengeful somehow, mocking his mother, the widow, by shifting the coffin, open

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-70659697682785932582009-01-08T18:14:00.008-05:002009-02-03T00:33:13.232-05:00

I enjoy the company of strangers--we always find each other whenever in need, you always accept my brutal silences that neither ask nor care. I have recorded the twist of your eyes particularly, and how they say that something that strangers always say. There is lonesome in your glass.Of course I've felt the drafty rooms where strangers try not to meet, something always moving in, something

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-92149438993632337542009-01-02T00:19:00.008-05:002009-01-02T00:35:15.140-05:00

Bang! Bang! Is this what we name it? Surely some kind of assault? Stuttering, faulty, reticent? No amount of theory can restore me here. Observing the ruins.A waving hand in the winter cold/street light and the word "apocalypse" she said, driving. My memory is perfect under these conditions, can cut through those kinds of ashes. Dashing back and forth. But I can name the best detail. The

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-57317177220528119352008-11-26T17:21:00.008-05:002008-12-09T20:22:53.942-05:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-90313427638646878022008-10-02T23:25:00.003-04:002009-04-06T00:38:19.288-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-141838566604045862008-09-21T18:17:00.003-04:002008-09-25T00:51:45.135-04:00

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.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-48450788454660008922008-09-15T19:39:00.004-04:002008-09-25T00:39:36.657-04:00

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,

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-53048109107901837922008-08-28T20:11:00.002-04:002008-08-29T00:49:33.776-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-15451102867627921432008-08-25T00:43:00.002-04:002008-08-28T01:21:19.882-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-79181525630151506342008-08-25T00:09:00.014-04:002008-08-26T00:40:47.930-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-81257173204743086902008-08-17T01:22:00.003-04:002008-08-17T01:40:00.255-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-49550766623355100062008-08-07T00:52:00.002-04:002008-08-07T01:11:48.070-04:00

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,

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-4425655580185443442008-08-02T05:35:00.001-04:002008-08-02T05:45:47.359-04:00

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.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-8301286462154123182008-08-02T05:10:00.002-04:002008-08-02T05:21:17.542-04:00

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.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-12913165020250928892008-06-10T03:32:00.003-04:002008-06-10T04:06:13.466-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-54781859073859424162008-04-05T18:28:00.003-04:002008-04-05T19:15:01.946-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-56962340769327010322008-02-17T18:56:00.003-05:002008-02-17T19:12:19.395-05:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-24089466144308313242008-02-10T04:38:00.000-05:002008-02-10T05:29:55.213-05:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-66785490623950865492008-02-03T20:00:00.000-05:002008-02-04T02:26:49.802-05:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-22511213180905926962008-01-19T19:58:00.000-05:002008-01-19T20:09:09.350-05:00

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.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-37427533675257501162007-12-11T06:45:00.000-05:002007-12-11T07:29:07.710-05:00

Sun and Lion. Sea. And now some new strange image that comes forth. Never eventually falling asleep, only progressing through images to get there. Crowding image upon image until the light is finally blocked out. Sleep, the images don't stop, only change modality.But, yes, now consider the sounds. A particular voice says a particular name in a certain way. And then nothing but light. What is the

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-60913057523531581102007-11-22T18:55:00.000-05:002007-11-22T19:37:10.181-05:00

"Le piano, c'est moi." --LisztThe body of sound. Gaping mouth, swallowing, embedding, embodying. A living thing, a history in sound. Voice, a voice, voices, the closet of the throat, opened, sound from wood and wire. Liszt, a "smasher of pianos" she said. Expanding the limits of the echo. The history, histories, boundless. The smashing of vaults, dismantling of the sarcophagus."The piano

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-9138797278544678082007-10-30T17:50:00.000-04:002007-10-30T18:11:21.746-04:00

The dead. There comes a moment when we invite them. Leaves fallen, everyone seems to want to provoke them to rise, when all I want to do is put them to rest. Finally, silently, a mere place to look at in the grass.Smoking a cigar on a grave in another lifetime. Who was I? Have I myself become ghost?Here are the terrible distinctions of my past, brought to life by a poet long a ghost himself.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-44925328294305042702007-10-27T11:24:00.000-04:002007-10-28T23:51:00.321-04:00

Name it.Name this thing that is all teeth, and rain. Chill.How about a phantom? Locate the crypt, looping images. The dead, the dead. Back and back again, the source of a mania to come.There is a sound coming through the receiver, but interference.We can sense a Crossing, a seance with something beyond our knowledge, beyond the edge of image.Describe, transcribe, translate; seek a fidelity. The

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-39547752753848456592007-10-09T23:58:00.000-04:002007-10-13T22:17:41.312-04:00

Italy in the Forties. Mussollini in Rome and Ezra Pound reading his Cantos on facist radio. What are you thinking at this point in time, man? Can you be doing the Goebbels rant on air? Surely you are more subtle than this? Are you feeling the pinch of your ideals here? You poetry speaks of the far reach of interpretation but also the hate you drudge up again and again. Mr. Pound, I am having

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-7058574197078412982007-10-07T22:45:00.000-04:002007-10-13T22:17:25.044-04:00

"The brotherhood of man [sic] on earth will be possible only on a basis of kitsch"...the boundaries of discourses enlarging, whole communities swallowed up by their own voices, voices reverberating from the interiors of their retention-walls. Can anyone cross the lines? Liberating who from whom? Does the intersection of praxis occur in this cursed land? I miss my country. ". . .that which

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-61051737651654330812007-06-17T02:30:00.000-04:002007-06-17T02:42:14.338-04:00

At work, he spends hours watching the homeless men wandering up and down the street, gathering sour beer bottles and sleeping under yellow newspapers. At night, nothing waits for him but an uneasy stirring; 4 a.m., waking up in a dreary sweat, foul dreams scouring his memory. These are nightmares that belong to him, he gathers them in the morning, a jealous ownership. Little else to claim, he

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-61005914495847820982007-06-12T12:55:00.000-04:002007-06-16T02:15:48.325-04:00

Two hands unfolding and the movement goes through and outward. The Double. Crossing over one another. Two becoming one, one extending into two. The repetition. Replaying of the same images in rapid succession. Mass production. A mirror, dividing an object into perfect symmetry.Tricks: moving towards the end, but then coming back, scribbling all over oneself, building density, re-interpreting

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-38811679850577460822007-06-03T02:36:00.000-04:002007-06-17T02:30:51.328-04:00

Here we are, we've nearing the middle of a month, June, in the middle of the year. So now we need to begin, making a voice that moves forward and back. Sound a voice that both seeks comfort and shuns it. First, settle your larynx--you can do this--then talk about something, someone, a feeling that is coming close but never appears. But always be careful when speaking of apparitions that you do

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-11142939674716110282007-05-18T01:06:00.001-04:002007-05-18T03:02:55.325-04:00

A border, a lining, a lattice-work screen of a knotting of flowers. A frontispiece, an introduction, the frame around a portrait, a pleasant decor. Drifting through a state of meandering contemplation in an enclosed garden. A turn of the page, and a brief trespassing scent of rosemary. Beyond these grounds lie the fallowed fields, silent for a millenia. Here, along forgotten paths, scythes rot

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-60923759642002196922007-05-11T00:15:00.000-04:002008-12-10T20:00:16.712-05:00

Weight. The problem for an evening of thought of an Archimedian nature. Smithing it down into a question of what to devise.Gravitas. A furrowed brow, a heavy heart, a heart of stone.Lifting. With little effort. Minimal exertion. Spreading out the surface area, reducing the friction to a barely destructive warmth, a warmth initiated by an ambitious hand.The pulley, the wheel, the alternation of

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-31594386356608392132007-04-28T03:42:00.000-04:002007-04-29T03:15:38.345-04:00

Communication on the radio:--"What's your location?"--"Negative."---"Say again? Negative? You don't know your location?"--"No, I do know--I told you it's negative."--[silence]****Intercepted Fragments heard in the background while talking on the telephone:"until...[laughter]...what they said...[inaudible]...we could have...opening at..."[silence]****Briefly overheard while walking past:#1: ...and

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-58686950274012247282007-04-11T23:11:00.000-04:002008-12-10T20:00:16.905-05:00

Thank you so much for everything. You will be greatly missed.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-5535360319111536372007-04-10T01:11:00.000-04:002007-04-10T01:47:56.978-04:00

He wants to find out how to extend the insult onto himself, keep the embarrassment going. Self-flagellation, he has discovered, is an enterprise he enjoys. It's raining hard outside, but he goes to the stationary shop, picks out some paper that, under normal circumstances, he would never buy. Practices a handwriting with an awkward opposing hand. But, despite his meagre tricks, he composes a

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-84312791696778689252007-04-08T00:32:00.000-04:002007-04-09T23:25:18.150-04:00

He sees a bucket in his hands and all he can do is watch the water coming in. This is the form of his dream, but the content is in the helplessness. In his fear, he is struck immobile, frozen, much in the same way that others are struck dumb in utter amazement. The fear is a fathomless, waging fear, seething at the boundaries of the sleeping and the waking. A sensation so grand that it pushes

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-79607159140673229562007-03-13T00:01:00.000-04:002007-03-13T00:55:32.574-04:00

Torque. Ribbons. Smoke. Lighting a fire.Shouting out the Greek-- "Sarkophagos!": Flesh-eating.Flesh eating tongues, licking raw.***Crouched in the corner, cold, lighting the fire,meagre inspirations flowing out of an impoverished chill.Breath--steam and smoke, mingling, dissipating, burning out.***Shadows, one hand spread outward.Umbrae, hiding under a rain of fire.Fleeing through the dark alley

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-69387879602759696152007-03-04T03:13:00.000-05:002007-03-13T01:02:24.596-04:00

sour. a human being that is ill. he stretches his spine back into the chair, turns on a lamp. he slides his fingers across the pages, barely reading, already aware of all the words anyway, taunting the sharp edge of the paper with exposed skin. this foolish behavior continues into the morning: teasing, playing, pointless play-acting, seeking the materialization of a wound. waiting for an

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-53222776565957767822007-01-29T22:02:00.000-05:002007-03-13T01:02:52.882-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-30474382306948594312007-01-29T21:58:00.000-05:002008-12-10T20:00:17.191-05:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-2209563242984566262007-01-13T03:48:00.000-05:002007-03-13T01:05:24.176-04:00

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

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-42857522316080804422006-12-09T00:52:00.000-05:002007-03-13T01:06:40.564-04:00

Hand. This is a hand and this is what it can do:Modify appearance into disappearance. Move objects as if opening gaps where they shouldn't belong.Ultimately, a thief converts his/her own body into a void, surrending the strict delineations of the body, wiping them out to appease nagging desires or needs. A thief is all boundaries scraped bare. Only the hands and eyes survive. In this way, a

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1164087662927361932006-11-20T23:21:00.000-05:002007-03-13T01:07:06.995-04:00

Suddenly wide awake as the wind blows in, sand dusting the hollows of my ears. How deep do these caverns go? I can shut out the choking cyclones only for a moment with a finger. The curve of the ear, the delicate desire of the tempting lobe. Nothing: gone. Now my own, invaded by sand, itching in a way I don't like. Will this storm bury us all tonight? A whole party made smooth by minute rubbings

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1161153346553783082006-10-18T01:47:00.000-04:002007-03-13T01:07:56.711-04:00

1. May your telephone never ring except to speak to you of doubt.2. May the transitional seasons of spring and fall make you uneasy.3. May you always prefer to stand in the shadows.4. May your nights and your days never correspond.5. May you never learn the true value of heartbreak.6. May your touch leave behind the faint scent of imperviousness.7. May all your guests keep looking at the clock.8.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1160885890185901232006-10-14T23:52:00.000-04:002007-03-13T01:08:28.181-04:00

I offer myself a charm for luck:(words words words.)

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1160800507496473062006-10-13T23:50:00.000-04:002007-03-13T01:09:03.471-04:00

Let's play a game this evening. I'll compose the rules. Only you must listen carefully. Lay your head on the pillow as i explain. Not a battle for conquest, not a contest of wits. We are all on the same side, moving together as a single matter. The silence here is pleasurable, representing a perfect coalescence, not a disassociation. The boundaries of restriction do not exist as we play, there is

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1160757462659113092006-10-13T12:33:00.000-04:002007-03-13T01:09:50.000-04:00

accolades and tricks sour notes and ambitions, the slash of the pen, the chamber of the page, the turn of the key. To what extent am I a human being? Can a voice with my name matter, be heard, express the ineffable?

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1159927609235581612006-10-03T21:37:00.000-04:002006-10-03T22:06:49.266-04:00

Taking note of how differently the sun sets as it drifts further away every night. Wishing for the whole world to be enclosed in a bank of snow, just for a while, just to get it out of my face, if just a little.Imagining a white tent, lit brightly from within, overlooking a city that, for once, is peaceful. Warmth eminates from the glow. Taking a photograph, it only looks more magical. Wanting

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1158813583550198702006-09-21T00:24:00.000-04:002006-09-21T00:39:43.566-04:00

Looking upward, finding orange light and a monolith of cloud that speaks of weight.I cannot pierce the fundamentals, nor repair this tear across the sky.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1158322127799225672006-09-15T07:08:00.000-04:002006-09-15T08:08:47.886-04:00

Here's small cheer for the waking light. A gentle loathing and sharpening teeth of ambition. The pale blue sun in my eyes. Crucified across a solar cross. I lift this page over my head for refuge.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1157782300755526342006-09-09T00:29:00.000-04:002006-09-09T02:13:31.893-04:00

Playing. Playing up to the crowd: beating a drum to sound out the script.Pulling away, the sound of strings played a hundred years ago, ghosts crammed next to the present. The disintegration of time, right here. An era of proximity with ghosts. The nauseating vacuum of lost dimensions.Reverberation. A sickening blur of fire.words not mine: "Today, too, i experienced something I hope to understand

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1157510354259074942006-09-05T22:30:00.000-04:002006-09-05T22:40:32.430-04:00

Heliotropism as a biological name for the physical bend of desire: the flower's stalk leans in, towards the sun.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1157370972431874572006-09-04T07:20:00.000-04:002006-09-04T07:56:12.443-04:00

This is how it works. Here are the schematics. Look at the curvature of the intake. What is production? A tear squeezed out of the body as it suffers. Inspect this device. How does it operate? Look. Look harder. Plug it in. Follow the wires and see where they go. Look into the eyes. Observe the flush of movement. Count the switches along the ribs. Use your fingers, smooth out the skin of the

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1157005447507179252006-08-31T00:46:00.000-04:002006-08-31T02:24:07.606-04:00

It's my birthday. I am getting older. That's all i'm gonna say about it.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156830194431440482006-08-28T23:22:00.000-04:002006-08-29T01:50:07.016-04:00

Lift, pull. Cutting yr teeth on the effort.What can be written? He watches his pen as it slides across the page, making curves, falling leaves, the leaf with your name. The condensation on the page must mean something. Watch, look into it. The muscles of the hand are taut, forearm pulled tight, then: relaxed. Fascinated by the human hand. The way the object is balanced in the crown of the fingers

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156660334482343192006-08-27T00:03:00.000-04:002006-08-27T02:40:56.193-04:00

Des objects d'art. The three jars of pens and pencils, my grandfather's pipe (Ceçi n'est pas une pipe? When I write out "pipe" the question becomes an affirmative statement: this is not a pipe.), my red notebook, the jim dine painting above me, the tibetan prayer flags draped across that, my Da Vinci calendar, my record player to my right, films, records, books. Noise and clutter, silence and

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156573167129203742006-08-26T00:42:00.000-04:002006-08-26T02:19:27.223-04:00

A starved dog's gnaw, grinding below the ribs. Exposing the innards, revealing obscured emotions. What is the source of rage? Lack of sleep, neglect, inconsistency, power dynamics both real and perceived, excessive pressure. But enough of that bitter note, that one grey key.I hate this so far. Start again:Boo baw bey. Mo ma mey. (warming the jowels of the mouth) Oooo aaaa eeee. Loosening the

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156496715503500752006-08-25T04:25:00.000-04:002006-08-25T05:05:18.326-04:00

Protraction of my waking hours, my head clogged with junk. The sounds outside my window, the snoring of the dogs, the parade in my head, boom boom. What is the meaning of all this dancing (one two three four one two three four)? This is a contest i cannot win, i drop to the floor, exhausted, feet sore, but i pass through, keep falling, the floor was never there. The number pinned to my shirt

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156399946606915112006-08-24T00:53:00.000-04:002006-08-24T02:17:58.056-04:00

Counting all the way up to the shadowy light out in the fields. Numbers, shouting them out, but can't see who's out there listening. There's movement out there, but too dark. There's strange noises out there. The lamplight doesn't reach out that far. But that light reaches me, inspects me. I shudder and hurry indoors. I lock all the doors and pull the pistol out of the box in the closet. I check

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1156225317335973812006-08-22T00:29:00.000-04:002006-08-22T01:41:57.406-04:00

Je veux voir un visage parce que je ne peux pas regarder mon visage.He shakes his fist at you: don't you have the courage to speak? This is not a fist of violence, but rather one of reckoning. How does one settle an account? Who scribbles what where on which ledger? Credit or debit? Are the lights dim in the dingy office that makes these claims for you? How many clerks at work? How many gone mad

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155977001826738812006-08-19T02:56:00.000-04:002006-08-19T04:46:22.976-04:00

Where are the levels at? Stepping outside, cool breeze across cheek, breaking spider web across my chest, proving nothing. Rocking, the waters, rocking, i let my hand drift off the edge of the gunnels and it traces my path in the water. The waters remember and help me home. Will the sun show the way in the morning? Will it ever show its face again? I wonder if i could see the turning of the

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155919009309353032006-08-18T11:41:00.000-04:002006-08-18T12:40:15.390-04:00

Spending the day in the sun, producing nothing but mantric thoughts. The band on my thumb testifying to futility: a trophy without a shelf or meaning. The flowers in the garden grow high, high enough to hide everything that's going on from view. The vegetables are growing, their leaves becoming rough and crisp in the August sun. August. A time of over-robust growth and banality, of patient

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155860248541856042006-08-17T20:14:00.000-04:002006-08-18T11:40:45.490-04:00

Lifting, shrugging, standing throwing. Am i a futile tool? When i pass through the threshold, what transformation will overtake me? A damned shock. I dip my chin.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155779572763344312006-08-16T19:57:00.000-04:002006-08-16T21:52:52.836-04:00

The sound of piano. (Bill Evans, delicate, cool; Ahmad Jamal subtle and spacious; Art Tatum multilayered, multidirectional; Duke, beautiful melody and colour; Dave Brubeck, blocky chords and classical affinity). Sound of a tinny piano in the parlour downstairs. Downstairs, divergent space. Locale, approximation, nearness, the nearness of ye. The sound of the piano. Sound. The sound congregating

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155527350304942182006-08-13T22:53:00.000-04:002006-08-14T00:34:05.953-04:00

Describe the curvature of the fingers: delicate, seemingly casual, yet, in truth, stringent in their performance. This is a performance after all, pure composition on display. And i throw my critique upon the wall like sour paint and i mouth the word manipulation; it sounds moist. But this moisture is sweet, I like its texture as it tickles my tongue, gives my teeth a wet edge that is satisfying.

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155451526090901952006-08-13T00:26:00.000-04:002006-08-14T00:07:36.683-04:00

Rounding out into the shape of an O: all the words fall in.(De)Void.Until everything curls up and spins away in a glow of lights.This is all that comes forth, this carousel at dusk. Can i wait and watch with you? The lights are warm, they will welcome you. Is this the welcome you always hoped for? I look at the trees, shaking in the spinning glow, and feel content.I can sleep soundly knowing that

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155277891262564472006-08-11T01:33:00.000-04:002006-08-11T02:35:31.163-04:00

I take a pair of tablets and now I am writing. You can see the moving. The flag in the wind and two monks, and....now it hits me like a punch in the gut....two monks, one arguing for wind other for flag, master comes in and says no, only minds moving. Flapping his sleeves, shaking his staff.But only mind moving here. Winds here lie down deep, below the grass. Thinking of the gross nebulus across

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155099656141717182006-08-09T00:03:00.000-04:002006-08-09T01:00:56.156-04:00

Production. Mind incarnate.Walking down to your house. Walking down the street, walking down the drive. Driving down the walk, walk driving me down. Down, down drive the walk. Walking, forward drive, a drive. Walking into the drive, the drive driving the walk, the walk walking the drive, driving while walking, driving into walk. Walking down to your house, house, housing the walk, driving the

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1155018025862728182006-08-08T02:03:00.000-04:002006-08-08T02:35:16.073-04:00

Riding into/crossing over. Darkness becoming heavier and a moon that keeps echoing the same word-image. Look: give your eyes pause to look: The location that is just below the jaw bone where the neck meets: that perfect spot to look. A city that at first i could not fathom, softens, begins to know me, pronounces my name. Could a city be the echo of a human being? I begin to understand density,

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1154660716390217112006-08-03T22:56:00.000-04:002006-08-03T23:05:16.410-04:00

1)Distance. Performing the act of creating distance, covering ground, devouring space.2)Vacation. A balancing act of removal, which never entirely succeeds. An attempt at creating a blank palette, to be temporarily filled with illusions.3)Parting. A falsehood and always temporary, since nothing lost, nothing gained.4)Meeting. Another falsehood, since all you ever meet is yourself, again and

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1154413766743369342006-08-01T01:06:00.000-04:002006-08-01T02:29:26.813-04:00

Look: there's nothing to see.An empty palm, symbol of my disinclination.A sleep that sits in the chords of my stomach. Sleep, can't sleep. Dreams curling up around my circumference, want to wrap into.Where when. A walk, a foreign place, a lightning rod, a danger.Don't know what this means and it doesn't matter. A performance, what it means to be human.Follow my steps, you can hear them if you

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1154319193572984392006-07-30T23:29:00.000-04:002006-07-31T00:13:13.586-04:00

Good evening, still the correct day, ready to sputter out.Water. The cave-drip condense on the inside of your throat. Alongside the walkers. Cultivating swimmers, divers, drinkers, lovers who seek a concretization of the cleansing wash in their hearts. Water. Heritage, family in liquid form. Fills in the letters, pooling in the double grottos of W, spilling over the rounded escarpment and giving

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1154238901144159112006-07-30T01:14:00.000-04:002007-11-09T08:47:09.959-05:00

Morning/evening and other ties that bind. Waking, there is a sense of dizzying elongation, a returning to the self, but Proust told you that already. Sleeping, a gathering, a bundling up of sticks and leaves. Pretend that you are a branch, hanging over Champes Elysees, just asleep.The play: a long, smooth production, finely tuned, with full extension, production of the phallus, a performance of

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202959.post-1154156531246069662006-07-29T02:37:00.000-04:002006-07-29T03:02:11.260-04:00

Good evening spilling into morning.It seems like rain and rain like seems it does. A blanket of rain, a white sheet.Rain, washing fresh a clean palette. What does it mean?White, blank, dense, (bland?) sheet. Pressing impatiently at its corners.Rain. Make it new. Leave it empty. What does one find in that emptiness? Desire. Form desiring content. Rain: wet with desire. The excitement that

J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06473741357248853434noreply@blogger.com1