Noontide

At the beginning, tickling poor fancy, we were like a freckle on the face of the sun. ‘Like’, he told us, because we were not He, we were His awareness of a face to come. Did we dare to know our face, to call the sun God? To myself, I speak of Brooke Shields and shielding and screening and wearing none, called before the sun that is the Father and the Husband that is a now known God. I preen concertedly over what hieros gamos requires: total presentism, the very notion of rear view, time’s view, en garde. Watching maiden of consecration, veil taking on the waves at morrow, so to wonder: should there really be such hierarchy between Shepherd and Stars. Shall we not all to horizons follow. Plenty everywhere, and everywhere a line drawn, cleaving singulars not lonely per se but lone, for that is the way of fuerza, concentrated, a body and woman bent over a shape, a number, of movement within One.  

Serach of Isfahan

It is not uncommon for a speaking woman not to die. That her speech can survive zillions of small and large diurnal deaths, endured as mere papercuts, barely grazing the surface of this She’s so-called, so-presented ‘humanity’, is why when it is idle, idol—prattle, pratfall—woman fails utterly. She fails here because words of presumption, assumption, narratorial dogma preclude her from dying those Sufi deaths of the unpinched unsealed envelope, equal if not greater in their possible number, open faced deaths of ecstatic succumb flying through and through which, in the natal succor of becoming song, she would otherwise earn the feathers of new life. Which means, to me, at last attaining an end. Speech rays upright, so as to merit End. The life of the sibyl I am bargaining for—did I explain it here already?—is to, for once, leave the leaves behind, benjamin buttoning my way back from voice into body, so that one day the body will, finally, die, and so that when I die I will stay dead, this tune mine reticular. 

the north that always remembers

The bottom of the bell where music is made, to slip and slide to top. The part of me that likes to flood. Just to see what happens. Just to see a man a dam. 

Takashimaya

Once, fourth grade, as sad as this, though not as sad as in years to follow, I did not go to school, I spent the morning with my mother, we walked around near MoMA and sat at Le Pain Quotidien, Takashimaya was closing and my father met us there, at our prompting she bought two raincoats, a purple, a pink, and a black Yeohlee dress for funerals, still sometimes worn. As we were leaving we saw my previous math teacher, Mrs. S, who had mysteriously left the school months prior, she looked and spoke exactly like Kathy Griffin, bellicose, in orange wedges. I see her as I saw her then, her hair nearly flipped, terrified she would ask me why I was there, why I wasn’t in class, only she didn’t, all went naturally, was peaceful, well.

woolfd

The psychic pain exquisite, I as daft as tumbleweeds. Numbed of speech. What is what on which you blow? Dan-de-lion, lions...where are they who wait for me. He he. No, he He. How little of this constitutes doings (pl., pluie). Not just summer indolence that overtakes: the Sisyphean task to not think. To breathe. To create of unknown gleanings. How much I miss her. Thrown against no real...So thinned of my own skin, I can barely converse, barely stay still, bare only.

Secrets of tunnels

The uterine narrows. Sundone is sun up, meaning gates open, Michael Cimino, every man for his own thoughts (Isabelle driving the hills with Godard). Is down really off? 

I was writing again, then I wasn't, no I am not. To always be a level of batshit as yet unseen in X parts. The forsooth is underperformed. All is foreseen. All has already happened. 'All' is the forfeit of the 'once'. My grandmother taught me lemon juice for invisible ink, this is what I read from. 

Phone case

Sadly, a warm train means the d— 's just been in. The only picture is Fernando Rey. Reading The Children’s Bach. Many Italians in town. Always winds of trade. I am, rightfully, nauseous at the too familiar, too predictably licentious stylizations.