[Response to: July 3]
He did know. The day after. Or suspected he had begun to, and that was well. He knew of instructions which had been printed, then set down and let go of in running water. He knew of the garden’s probable position. Even when he looked at someone to speak to them, he often thought he knew whom he was speaking to and the objective of speaking. At times he would be thinking of himself as a kind of genre, subtle but available to be appreciated, in the sense of being noted by his interlocutor’s conceivable discernment. When he sat on a bench, hands on lap, he would be panhandled for several dollars, all while his interlocutor became a kind of genre, too. His responses he tried to make as naturally as possible, in the sense not of integrity, but of sincerity — performed, inhabited, regurgitated. Then often he would only listen and not look, or try to look bypassing retina, recognizing larger vehicles by their swooning sounds when breaking idles. He learned over again how to tie his shoelaces without perceiving them, how the strain of lifting himself from the bench was more rewarding when nothing shimmered or mesmerized. It was as though he had returned to the garden, outside of himself and blinded once more by soil and light moving across his superior lids, unraveling in the garden while the garden unraveled in him and the city remembered itself to his amygdalae. He knew typeface, the relative highs and lows of its legs and bodies, was of utmost importance in a reconstruction of the loosed instructions. He began to study legs, hysterically, to know legs without perceiving them, to remember the legs of an animal that stood over him and the legs of a person who wrote in foxes and to whom he believed he was speaking.
[response to: Battalion]
not sure how to come to things these days, a certain plaid of changes, my head sort of in the shadows and us writing on an orbit of something like an aesthetic. last time I looked it was still evening, but I’ll just close my eyes for a second. an idiot, clearly, for leaving my notebook in vermont, owls in vermont and white people who say there are too many allergies today, you should lean forward when you sled. women have the lower center of gravity. how to deal with people wanting to look out for me, what I’m trying to say, I’ve always had my own crosshatches, always thought I knew what for direction, never appreciate advice on how to manage hair or vocalization.
right, the moment when people call neurons logic gates and the cells become cartoon nightmare bears, bolder and lighter areas coexisting in a particular zone, charges and deceptions, the curving dark, semi-transparent edges hatching uncertainties in polar space. the bright eyes of letters standing sideways or something knotted loosely in response to summons. a state of blue and white sky, hellish, somewhat, the left side of the spread, legions suffusing the excluded middle.
[response to “Four at a time this person had wax in the ears…”]
Lumens liminalia. Crumpled where a hand made a sandwich of the illumination, not so gilded as the original illuminees, whose letters effloresced into crowns & kings & jesuswings, was the page the picture or the picture the rage? A vaporous stew of younger-than tales weltering gruesomely in its own sick, for it’s just a thing the body does; all snarking aside, whose fetal reek is illuming up this window? I’ll take another piece, please.
Extratextual texterrestrius. If we are pushed out, collapsed-face-up, maggoty-schnozz-first, detextualized from our graves, our weight grown sere and dreary, like half as much mangy mattress expelled into the sog and trash-fested gutters of the alley back doors, dark flexing lines of soot and grit treacling “unwanted” into the wrinkles and callused-into-anonymity fingerprints we swore by, our death mask this: look. No more eyes! Ex-spellsion resexed.
[read the response: “-exterrasexed-Jerumring trill intill…”]
[Response to “I pick up a container of hummus…” and “The standard protocol is…”]
The weather is unreasonably unseasonable and even though the signs slump in the snow you suspect there is something the pictures want from you. You’ve forgotten the way back to the place where you last brushed your teeth and where you last lowered your eyelids and spit into a sink below the standard metal frame of a bathroom mirror. Where the condition of your eyes tickled you or maybe seeded in you an image of unwrapped boxes piled just south of a tall brick wall. It could be said that you are one carpet frog away from bouillabaisse.
A car horn startles the rind of the afternoon. What really chafes is the thought seated behind your irises. The thought made of photographs taken from different angles of a garbage can relentlessly pressed into the snow like a bird beak into ice cream. The day he said to you it would always be that way.
[read the response “Thicklace inmemory carpent…”]
[response to “the raw spot of this…” and “Alex cut himself on a piece of glass…”]
Standing here and not knowing what
to pick up is an accurate knowledge.
If it was arrested if it was apparent
to you. The knee that jerks is a sated
memory and I believe I shouldn’t have to
restate it from the border. Reason like
windows is for us to know violently
like a shock like a hunted not like the
conversation missed so shockingly.
Jerk like a hunted standing there I
reason so accurately. Pick up the
knowledge from the border I restate
violently the accurate record of the
conversation sated. None of this of course
apparent to you. Memory from the border
I believe I have to violently. I believe
violently I shouldn’t reason like this.
There I so accurately if it was there.
Pick it up hunted reason like this is
reason shockingly. Missed so violently
standing there you reasoned you hunted
you pick up the conversation from the
border. Of course apparent to you.
If I write you one more time I will not.
What I am refusing is to let not. What
I do not know is how in wordplay.
[read the response: “same Revolver;lips slot.Wintry ask;clamoR Reach”]