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. 

Tribilium

Billbill (on bone). 

The beak dying down. In Desk Set rewatched, moody Katherine, her jig revealed, upfacing the truth of soon-to-change coat-hanger status, spoons with focus a heap of Baked Alaska (always capped). 

No fire onscreen. Allusion is illusion enough. (Woman fire plenty). Your kitchen, smoking—Tracy tells her. He can't do anything about it. So, the hidden blowtorch: thought, I think, its propulsions, its searing of unnamed immensities, cartwheeling blaze this now, this now, greet it, and do by it not as pain, it cannot pass to Tracy, him—body, finally, appreciated—correct from within yourself, transect all shadows of belief, soft meringue of yes, you know this feeling. Time always stretches when it does, indeed, eventually, come(s).

Around the corner

Fruit. who owns what and time. The sticker lifted to reveal. A smitten word, glacé, en glance. 

Boniface

For your consideration
That the entire history of painting no longer speaks these days to the art historian
So much right now dependably silent
It’s nice every once and a while to meet a real thing