To weather being
sick is like running
headfirst through
hours, not minding
(in fact desiring)
the waste of time
as you lift and kick
your toes upturned
to stomp down stalks
of knee-high grass
ahead, not minding
your step like you
would normally,
anxious to get
to the other side
without getting
any more bugs
on you than
you have to.
I bury myself, dig my head
and hands into the firmament
of dirt above me, plucking
at the stars of my limits
like dresser knobs,
like strings.
To have no future
but what was curtained
as occlusion, a skipped beat
the heart dropped into
like a button does
the buttonhole. Shutters
are shut in accordance
with their purpose, to blind
the meadow’s view and leave
you there, seeing nothing
but slats. That you may close
your eyes and find sleep
another field, truer
for never having been
a field at all. Impossible
to lead your life, leaving
all doors unopened
on whatever you are
destined to ruin
just by being
yourself.
Daguerreotypic the matter of meaning
that is deflection
cauterized of skin of passed light
focusing the din of antique realia
forced still
just staring back at you
perhaps a little stupidly
And other photos that in a flash coerced your ownership
cohering you on a line’s length
the framed circumference of a day
Your print and detoured detail
the foundations strewn
before you — and again
withal today’s deposition — walled-in
and automatic
the edification of being totally and without delay
projected on collapseable screens
and power-pointed
or breathing into chill air
a rote synthesis
But each grain zapped alit resolute
in place of revelation
acast a space group making up
the trait defects veered of imagery
the latticed parameter and scenerio latitude
such latencies slurred in salt and silver
you suffered to body
Though I can't tell
any of this
looking at you in sallowed gravure
hung now on some wall
not you as you sit struggled still and look past
interpenetrating violet orbs and yellow rings
that suffuse and pierce the outlines
of a reflection you see
deep in the iris of the lucent lens
extending from a hole in the wooden faceboard
and what is it like you wonder
inside the hood where the Photographer
stands hunched over
totally hidden from the sight of the world
and what does it withhold
and where are you
But still never your chamfered mind
because every moth-loved cravat
and shoeless spats of yours in fact truly is
such a lurid seismograph
or crumpled thaumatrope
and that is at any rate
enough to stoke the engine with at least
of the atoms continuing their sitcoms
complete with applause cues for no hands
and sempiternal sequents cut-out
from some laterna magica vaster
than the wakes you could perform with your body
such as your dreams and whose wetness
bled-out listlessly of your lungs
and got up and played in the playground world
that always seemed to perforate right there in front of you
tattooing the pigskin of your sight
for it was painful to watch
So, there you are
dressed-up in your life
that seems now
a posture
but even if the scene were
staged — by the Photographer devised
in his studio, the world a canvas scenery
painted in gaudy color
flat and suspended
behind you
and you yourself — an actor
just playing your part
sitting with friends in a cutout
prop monoplane
flying over the great capitals
of the sepia-sunken XIX Century
Even so — the photograph exposes nothing
but outlines
that registered
impassable against
the transparency of the glass
The truth of the act
was left to you
a weight you couldn’t even feel
on your skin
as you undressed later that night
and went
to sleep
There is a point where
human history gets
dirty, conflated
with layers of earth
walked up and down
like stories in a house.
Where memory bottoms
out into the mud
of a Gondwanian river-
bed that’s long been
(in the gap since Man-
hattan was but Moroccan
sandflats) translated
into stone, and all that
fell into its filament
is kept there, part of
it for eternity — or until
some grad student
chisels this thing (say,
a tooth or finger bone)
back into existence
and boom — a species
is deduced, a piece
of what was is
invented as if for the first
time all over again.
For what is known, a noun
unsinks from the soil.
The human mind
possessed by what was
before it-
self.
Reta recroding is the answer to everything
sure we can get to know each other
if you want we can meet up get coffee
I'll show you what I'm working on
and we can talk and become good friends
Edification Triangle
informing someone about something or something else
let them know where they came from
how they changed
positive gospe
You
Trust Influence
Friend Expert
Respect
3 Ways of Edification
storys e. share an experience don't lie! good
words
words ex fast mover ex Jeff I wanna be like him
what type of character is he describe it
actions show them how
to hand shake. Take their coat.
Cold marketing
How are you welcome. Greet
Greet them FORMS
WHALE DOLPHINS
SHARK URCHIN
(confused fish)
Is it ok to let go —
to give up on trying
to capture or be true
to life as it is lived
in all its mundane
particularity?
Pajama bottoms
and the non-stick
frying pan full of cold
salad over which I type
this on my cellphone
in a room full of personal
effects like set-pieces
that make up what is
actual within the reality
staged on-screen.
And why do we think
mundane, if not to
betray how resentful
we are because
everything around us
will not come with
nor keep us in place?
After all, understand how
to forget is to forget
one thing two
at a time.