Ganesh

Some small rumble (does the tail rattle?) at the roof, the tongue. I am my own confusions. I own my confusions. I am allowed to be wayshowed. To.

a kaleidoscope of convention

While you were speaking we were busy pecking our nests

No, we were speaking and you, whittling dumb thumbs

Allow my heart to rest

Humidity depriving the nation of its scansion

to verse the bleary anew,

what James Hillman calls 

in the March for Cash

the loser class therapists are 

left to contend with

On a night of future upset 

(in approach of its suggestion)

I meet a woman who says she is an absurdist painter

I like things that hail from other things 

I tell her this

'Hail' here a paraphrase of the post, made relevant by proximity to discussions of its literal manifest

Since passed

In Venice and Colorado, or Colorado in Venice, Max and his paving stones

For I think of colonnades dangerously often

Dangerous in their 'mystery', their impossible shade

words of the hour

year or century

jm basquiat

Adducing the miraculous, a fire forded, Lancelot in bed unnamed oh, oh 

A year of the inexplicable, the unexplained

Collegial

Close to the essence of what is

The door rang and answered 

No shoulder looking bells the audial speechifying over signal that is, seemingly, to outwards seek to intimate by indication how boring this I don’t wish to do it no more never will I again slowly breadcrumb my way into presence here to show any party what of I am made I am truly

Natural of the light borne truth

a made woman as in maiden of light made unto myself this whisper enough a pah to soothe the path ahead 

A Judgement

They said, in my father's studies, that when the voice came down and cried out, one man for one woman, it was first written all men for all women, and in practice, no men for no women, and then some men for certain women, and in this garbling a great silence, til she, singly, arose and acted. 

Cedar, Chypre

You go to the park and ask is this my tree and perhaps you sit under for a while and then up you stand for it was not your tree though it shook its silver leaves you do not see the next tree you believe in the unseen that by the bridge there is a tree as solid as oak you say I know it at a distance and beside below called forth from the water a message for me as roots extend into river dust and ashes we mingle here we send a rowboat off she who spells for us our grave earthen heartbeat 

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, a body and woman focalized, bent over a shape, animal and 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 LPQ. 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 former math teacher, Mrs. S, who had mysteriously left the school months prior, who looked and spoke exactly like Kathy Griffin, bellicose, in orange wedges. Seeing her as I saw her then, her hair nearly flipped, terrified she would ask me why I was there, shopping...why wasn’t I 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. 

Sprung, formed

The boy Barnett Newman, reading from Isaiah

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

Fugue Julie Manet

A year later, basics, such as; 

Waterfall inseamed

While still we substitute for sun food remains white and black ? or beige

Colors ugh all wrong

Why will not my body rise to peak the beast of too much
Time how to move when no move known
The way awaiting
water in its way aglow
yet I, am not lit up the page for me not lit with
Being told

untold, I am certain in a future telling
Restless at vivisection
Vivisected?
Some think the world lacking and I think the world plentiful
Plenty here to not push off a day For
Plenty to come

Fifth Avenue

Seeing missing faces on wrong bodies. Of mine I can feel my cells eating themselves, gleeful. Rikki Ducornet on Robert Coover on Harry Mathews: It’s all singing all of it. Green shoes.

Flagons

And so, a second scroll. A lovely day releases (will it be? Will it Be?). Loving the day is day here worth tasting.

To sample the bread. The double bread. The bread that is not shame, written and oral and 

Green painting—peremptory promise.

I am careful not to promise. Some are not.

Promiscuities. Bring me, say you at my right, sunset in a cup. 

Longing for the sea, lifelong. 

chalkings

After a first story, a second story there, am I supposed to read it. The main negatif of the other hand's avowaled absence draws us closer in the rain.  

To say, one cloak or another. You who cork to become un. If only I could show them all, is the un rule.

I do as you do me (only later, finding: ton pere t'epaule). 

Cloud of Unknowing. Knowing! To think some more about Burt Lancaster might just nix me.

Is there anything we are content not to know, real You and illusionary you, yes I let be.

Trix for cash (Elijah)

(None but last successful “yet” the active and so free to try).

I used to think I had to listen to Private Dancer on repeat to sell a painting (no pass)

To read Sandover to meet my patron heiress (nicht bestanden)

To… only the old ways know 

Eastern Europe bled out with middle Europe and candles work their casting glow

Yes by candles two and twinned I will fulfill this lost wax of the road 

to full peachy life

Apophany

(for grandfather, a chair)

When Shaggy says, It wasn't me 

because I am not docile

In these parts I am accursed other blessed ones I do not thirstly seek 

one day my best friend we will meet 

He

after bosom friend she said to Anne, meanwhile among the blessings

we channel at a certain level and then we have to live

the job ? to declare 

no two things competing

The porch

clogs ? and lacking tunes aplenty,

Soothing Este speaks of brotherhood and hanuman and monkey heart and I remind her of his leap and my teacher reminds me of mind's own monkeys and we in turn remind each other

What it is like to live this way 

to read of Alexandria before its plot to hear war cry and move to Switzerland before it starts to not savor too much the paltriness of nature rendered conical in thrust, gleeful mundane reciprocities great lake bouncy castles believe first, pretend later how 

signing is indeed enough, when a picture is no substitute for anything (lawler on the fridge waves off)

I am fine except I watched felled eagle breathe and wished aloud if only she would stop 

to be felled is not the problem, extant as was cost us dearly cost

our splendor, my audacity

I believe what is in my heart so I believe ineluctably 

edging cabinet, poorly aged, expansionist frost: no strength in withholding he says, if here alone agreeing

right, I say, this week there is no death (double napped)

I am all in on everything 

show me 

(in olden days: we have to dance to dream it. Writing—what then did I mean?)

Like this we say, we can only take so much, no, add more, bring everyone to tent, our house, to clothe and feed them, Viridiana—that is, there is no them, we are all outside, tent is all us, so it is not for fear I offer here these blessings just the opposite 

and to insist on freedom, I insist on viriditas, on counting back to baby breeched and open body and a decision, mine, maybe, to accept (was I correct?) such an insipid state of this too love divine as human being

valves

Shut off the ears and turn out the eyes, here is how it goes, this grief

A little night music

A little mansplaining

Kindnesses

Things I am trying not to think, such as, wishing a happy couple’s therapy to all women in chore coats this szn

Excerpt II and temping

It was dark when you came, dark enough to smell your seed. To smell the seed I shell, ingest, spit out before me. No, really, before you, for you, before the people and the mount, before the swarming boggle eyes of the cattle congregation, the children, yes, I pause them, tell them, watch me, watch me swallow without feeding watch me spit bright nuggets from black, taxed seed; watch how clean seed charred with life becomes the seed of dusk, seed of a cloth-bound light so far ahead your faithless fathers named it Eden.

Lissome

The end of sacrifice and the approach of the true temple (Milton—heart). Bowen, no love’s death. To learn body in all its uses. This morning thinking of what is recorded in, on me, so as to serve You. 

Jam tomorrow (continuing)

No I am not the same. Scabbing everywhere, over the heart. They, soft tissue bound. He who loveth, she who loveth, man and bird and beast. 

Rhubarb

Rooting where I am. 

(I had a farm in Africa: Baroness? Always in that title, both, a twinge of evils imperial and yet we are communing—this seems to be, now, all I have)

Outer resolution says little of the inner winds. To enact a stipulation and find oneself in open field. The gesture (Flusser) in the day: tethers of the heart-free. Will that be what they ask of us. Which is delmore. El more. Spring is not sour; Louis A at last this morning then One Enchanted Evening (some) so perhaps she is with me still, and Again.

GS

I do not trust them, those big ears, they contravene the artist (FK WB), they dilate his workings

NY Plant Designs

Meanwhile seeking more people with marginal relation to the soul root of pola ? stout

Some exilics (elective) and dear me to not mean Jabes

suddenly remembering Mavis Gallant as Pyrus pyrifolia, apple-pear

What is this fleshy tasteless thing with its crisp outside and then you finish and on cold food, full meal no air 

Things I have seen (disconcertingly yet all-confirming)

Men with embroidered German flag patches. This, a few times a day now. There is a big conference in two weeks, so it seems a bit early. Then, bunnies in bags. One in a tote in real life, last night, by the Lafayette Van Leeuwen, another toted in Lemon Tree, short film, Este's Mubi login...

the seasons

Permaculture classes for what lives in you, with you, already.

To discuss what is “alongside” and concomitant: we are going to understand, finally now, what does it mean to commingle. We speak of the many at once and still, the imperative of holding. That is repetitive pragmatic non reflexive alchemy. That is the holding that is not treading, that retains a freedom in its swang. 

Tusc tusc

To live from painting to painting and to only be as good as the next one

Glacier of kairos

I let all things pass over. I let all things wash over. I let all meet all. All is one, and one is One, so why not.
Why not dance. Shall we.

How women work

Outsaying each other when it comes to, all things darnedest 

Census (I think)

The divine name on my lips from which I drink each day

excerpt (Hathor)

Because of her reversal, because she lets Apollo count her sand and refuses only later, the sun is sibyl’s province, the whet belt of her inner eye. Her voice is always sun. She reads us not by moon, moonfaced female moon, but Hathor’s golden bowl. From within her slanting grotto, sun is her one object, her source of blind desire.

The sibyl’s generosity is compersive, her speech a wanton stewardship. She schools us from the sealed roundel of what, at lightyears’ distance, gleams. They will always brand her neutral, as one who yearns not, longs not, exists as, Is. For she shows them only the As Is, the vaguest outcroppings, a future's twiggy bushels. Her dry luster, with its lacquered serenity, seems at first austere, a winterbourne. No, though, hers is an aridity, and beneath, full humus feeling. Cave comings, warrening pure heat. How else to explain, that, in truth, Apollo’s copulative promise smacked much too of ego, was too single pronoun, for a force already, solarly, contained.

In my teens, curled up on a radiator watching over a thicktopped park, I often imagined a man’s hand reaching up and through my own boughsome channel, the vaginal crevasse, all the way to the heart, to pull on the string of its lamp. I wanted to widen his passage. It widened with a woman’s hand. Actually, by several women’s hands. That is, I think, what we are to each other. Sibyls touching in and down in effulgent, compassionate spatial abnegation. At the remove of our respective knowings, nymphologies alive and well in we of the modern naked city.

En faff

Gabardine of good conversation supercharging the sensate to be in the sensate is, likewise, silence

Leibniz

The rainbow back a wards. meditating into day. Into the light of day, the wonder of day.

in my father's house

the many mansions return, foreboding. has there been a storm? I look back upon these writings—how much has transpired without being spoken of. and what else is required to further.

Every bush

Walking wide eyed into the waking into Sun, towards the Father and the feet, touched down (thank you thank you Este)

Eternity's gate

The palaces, the citadel, the lapidary, the signet, the stone. Myriam in Submission—every blowjob as if the first. A holiday, hers, almost.

Unrelated, yet bound. Crossing over, where does the time go, when does she debark.

Forgive us darling we're all crackers

So says my grandmother at the speculative last. In her kitchen as never-dying-deathbed, waiting waiting loverlike, Candy Darling's hospital end. No that's not what this here is about. 

Only that she is correct, insofar as for a we that includes myself, cracked too is my povre shape of whatever you would call this period. A snow cone that is a flower, on fire, coals, bleary...crackling the ice no longer concealing—merely to enclose.

Poin ter

Every day I wake up thinking about the finger that led them to the field. (Ann Lee)

The pantomime

It is possible to have new stories, yes, but from these, even, we slip out, off. My mother, correct on that front: ever the runaway bunny. To let herself be body-object-study. Stone tossed dwelling within the well of the feminine, impossibly leaden. For in fact the stone was never tossed, not yet, merely that she stirred, began to spurt. More curious to be tied to a tree. And the tree, to weep? Here, reaching there is only reach. 

Lol Stein at Liberation

Among the many and in the dark, we seek The Pearl, unspeakable, she speaks.

Buddha of Wedgwood

I have spoken of this before, so what. Of the welter of the world, bowl-shaped, it is so easy to margarita salt its rim and drink.  

I sip.

I let what passes come to. 

I am hopeful, shaded by the spear of hope. Or is hope a basket, am I to collect from basket, weaving...and then, no spear, pear, silhouette of woman, she ever the transducing device, magnetizing minerals. Photographs ultrasonic, umbilical.

From Zoe Leonard, Aerials, 2018 Hauser show in London, leading to more lesbians on Brighton's pebbled beach, Albertine, another story entirely...

And the root: not when will I be old enough to tell it, the story, stories, but to have one, finally, told to me.

she

true, I am afraid of the red lady, taunting or haunting me since sister's wedding. who is she, exactly? there are clues. one can only be afraid of oneself. the years I would not use fire, refusing to lick my own flame. nonetheless, much danger here, so no we are not merged, I do not plan on that, there is a grafting from another party, or an attempt to graft. the astrologers always warn off red: Martian. sexuality stripped of its veils, only to reveal itself as veil. implications of jilting and also, death. yet these aspects, righteous as they are, seem innocently irrelevant. Is dancing with me. distraction, she an agent of distraction, an agent of...what is the life force being a current question. 

I do not wish to constantly re-tread. why will she not disappear, I thought the goats were making her. it is because her teaching remains unknown, if knowing that the messages—the lady's, and that of the pregnant goat—are interrelated, and were I to parse them, in full, what would happen to my fear. isn't the whole point to face it, yet I do not know her face, for they know not what they do, what we, really, are.

sibyl in her place

to loosen, let go of, where else untouched

fortitude amid or

Laughing at the pain of the last few weeks, maybe the pain of a lifetime, such that I became a Marian Christian briefly and so, was briefly scammed, meanwhile self-liberation really very simple, and how long it takes me to clear. as for the many miracles I seek out, seeking to live in their realm, when we live in their realm by right, by work of love, devotion, worship: a joke on what in me remains small and frail and human, for all a miracle ever be is mirror seeking thee