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.