Tuesday August 22nd 12:27am

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 or blind from the flickering candles you provide? Who will stand up to your stinginess (who will fend off yr stings?)? Je veux vous maudire mais je ne peux pas. That is a language I cannot engage my tongue with. Mouth is the home of appetite.
Trouvez une langue qui sent.
****
The puddles in the street expand, making it smooth at last. The whole world, for a while, smooth, glassy, sealed, enveloped for the anthropologist's gaze. I cannot say I know the man walking down the street. I have never seen that umbrella before. It's odd the way it moves beneath these grey skies, threatening it. What kind of grasp does that hand claim? Where does the wet go? Does the rain avoid his flesh? Does the skin shrink, do the clouds ever desist? Without the sun there are no signs that mention you. Skies, junk, hanging.
The way the torso moves in the studio. The upward rise of the arms and the trail of the shoulders. Then, the sun on those same curves, making everything so sharp. Play it over and over again in your mind, it can all be designed however you'd like it. Play it, play those games, pass the time on this overcast day: watch, gaze, be an anthropologist, just for a while, play that role for me.
****
---"Un mouvement. Une action. Je m'étire hors de mes bras comme je ratisse des feuilles."
Is anything tidier? Is this pulling towards or organizing outwards? Where are the piles hidden? Who will hide the smokes when the cleaning fires begin? We can see the signs rising from the other side of the mountains. Two to the west, one larger one to the east, burning darker, blacker. Burning something too foreign to ignition. A reflection of smoke in the stream that never received a name. Clouds sinking downwards into a stoney shallow. He picks up a stone from the waters and gives it to her. She smiles, but not too much: her family's blood is calloused with caution. The wet stone has her shape, worn down in the same way. A breeze tucks a strand of her hair across her face. He notices. The smokes across the mountains and right here among them. They walk together.
*****
The spot, where the neck meets the turn of the jawbone, all in orbit below the ear, circling. With sleep comes dreaming: la bella confusione.

Does anyone dare write anything to challenge me here?