the poetics of
.: circa 1446
GROWTH.:DECAY.:REBIRTH—無為
The four hands are lying in a row, motionless.
The space between A…’s left hand and B’s right hand is approximately two inches. The shrill cry of some nocturnal carnivore, sharp and short, echoes again toward the bottom of the valley, at an unspecified distance.
The space between A…’s left hand and B’s right hand is approximately two inches. The shrill cry of some nocturnal carnivore, sharp and short, echoes again toward the bottom of the valley, at an unspecified distance.
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A… has gone to get the glasses, the soda water, and the cognac herself. She sets a tray with the two bottles and three big glasses down on the table. Having uncorked the cognac she turns toward B and looks at him, while she begins making his drink.
Now the shadow of the column — the column which supports the southwest corner of the roof — divides the corresponding corner of the veranda into two equal parts. This veranda is a wide, covered gallery surrounding the house on three sides. Since its width is the same for the central portion as for the sides, the line of shadow cast by the column extends precisely to the corner of the house; but it stops there, for only the veranda flagstones are reached by the sun, which is still too high in the sky.
The wooden walls of the house — that is, its front and west gable-end — are still protected from the sun by the roof (common to the house proper and the terrace). So at this moment the shadow of the outer edge of the roof coincides exactly with the right angle formed by the terrace and the two vertical surfaces of the corner of the house.
Now A... has come into the bedroom by the inside door opening onto the central hallway. She does not look at the wide open window through which — from the door — she would see this corner of the terrace.
Now A... has come into the bedroom by the inside door opening onto the central hallway. She does not look at the wide open window through which — from the door — she would see this corner of the terrace.
Now she has turned back toward the door to close it behind her. She still has on the light-colored, close-fitting dress with the high collar that she was wearing at lunch when Christiane reminded her again that loose-fitting clothes make the heat easier to bear. But A... merely smiled: she never suffered from the heat, she had known much worse climates than this — in Africa, for instance — and had always felt fine there. Besides, she doesn’t feel the cold either. Wherever she is, she keeps quite comfortable.
COOLING THE MIRROR
Session #34
No one dares tease the sound of a thousand phoenix cries. The fire writer and the feathers pull these blurred lines. I’d follow silently in the hopes of guiding you from the drops of shadows around. In some sense of self-destruction. As if the pain of holding the embrace could ease the suffering of exploration. I still wake at night to find your spirit tapping the radiator. Putting freshly lit cigarettes to your lips and dancing in circles to songs I've never heard. This new spirit chokes the old one knowing one day someone else will feel the falling of a crystal cutter. So free to move in your mania. It excited those bright eyes that would widen with each tormented flood.
—I am recalling that last summer (forever) when we walked under the full moon, in a soft daze of the passing blank faces. Its lunacy carried us through to the next morning where we had found rest on the long side of the river and lay there in our infant callings. Breathing in the blue of the river and the black of your eyes I lay there forever stuck in the night of our final passing days. The lapping water convulsions polished us, like the casket, it was ready to send us under.
I’ll never forget your last words.
“The city man—his face is a work of art, sculpted by the winter winds and sandbags that hang from his highest shelf. I’ll do it with style… look even this half open window is gasping at my moves.
I want to hear the mental squirts that scuttle along like centipedes late at night. I want to feel the weight of the buildings like never before. I want to kill a man then bring him back to life. I want all of you for the first time.”
Poetry — The Bookshop Sessions
READING A
WAVE
Appears it’s so— returned have I to the same spot from two years ago. Fighting circle seven for perfection. Coldness still holds the printing press growing on my finger tips.
Holding moments between the rise and fall of sun, why is it I so desperately hold to this busy city. Longing to choke its spinning frenzy.
A full body shiver catches this leg that rests on knee impressions.
Bark bark bark goes the cat.
Walk walk walk goes the thousand petaled hats blurring past
session #27
Text: Mr. Palomar; Italo Calvino
Image: Karl Blossfeldt; Urformen der Kunst
The warmth inside walks all paths. Never a straight line has it chose to guide. It unfolds much like the ten thousand footed dance among. I work less, to behold nothing but imagens of the clock made up.
If its space that must be filled— I choose paper backs. If its the bus ride home that must be filled— I choose to lay on this mountain back and carve into stone this mark inside.
In fear of the fate unchosen I pulled three cards from the stack, and in one moment; past, present, future lay before I.
The Bookshop Sessions
With the question held loosely it chose to see that what must become is a prince-like fellow holding a club in his rock climbing grip waiting for the adventure.
Clack clack clack goes the walking stick of the man struggling to remain haired.
Clack clack clack goes the walking stick of the man struggling to remain haired.
This November chill cuts through my bone marrow. I the man holding this berry choose kindness as the target to kill. I beat the cup that dies on the flimsy table like its a drum, screaming to people passing by
5 pounds please
5 pounds please
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5 pounds please
5 pounds please
Cargo Collective 2017 — Frogtown, Los Angeles