[a response to Dis [integrate neighbor] Cover…Duck! BOOM!]
Draping a pant on a rail. Peeled a pant off a rail and flecks of paint from the rail sticking to the pant. And peels of paint sticking on the hand from the pant from the rail. And drapes around the eyes. Paint on the eyes as the drapes, and in the eyes the reflection of pant.
[response to: There once was a little boy…]
Ze Sorrow, Ze Comfort
[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 “My old Russian Carpet”]
Extra dimensional railways
Through my cloth rug, hope
Another string pulls out that I
may tie our shoes together
Trip all over the shag. We
With a square of plush in the
Expanse of gypsum sand.
Extra dimensional railways
In pale rays like noise in
A yellow light. Sometimes
They say if you can’t see
In specks or lines you merely
Sift through overlapping films
Your cones and rods make
Merry, myth. You, shod
With tools, bespectacled
Armed, wail raised ‘gainst
Swaths of dizzy days, stand.
Eyes through veils of sun and
Air grain—find at last
Space looks so loud.
[read the response: ” sweep, eep epe eeep eep eep chirp…”]
[response to “For the rest they drew water…”]
She bit into a painted brioche, bent over a
zine and underlined her way through a whole block of words, brioche
snowing like a fat
winter. God, she thought, brushing at the weather. Be a lady for
The ink line wobbled on the page and she
stripped it off and tied it in a bow. Then she popped it in her mouth
and let it sit under her tongue. If only words tasted like my
underline, she thought.
She was big and pink and raw and she
snipped the paper. Hungry. Pretty soon she wore a spread on her
middle, headers dangling
off like pills on a sweater.
[read the response: “In one encyclopedia nothing raw…”]
[response to “Terminal things”]
“There,” he says. He picks at a curl of hard callus, pinching and flicking out. “It’s a flying Deuteronomy.”
We are not sitting and digging into a pool. It’s a granite mess at the
bottom, chipped away and ground. White dust in his fingernail but I have a
gauge, ease along the edges of the U. Putting the junk in a smear on a jean.
Is there a reason he was itching along the floor then, something to do with
concentration, or leftover grease and a pansy rag? His hair is matting.
One second we’re sitting without water and the next we’re under it, a pool
first empty and then brimmed, us suspended. When it’s gone we’re pasty with
the residue and eating liquid chalk on our mouths. My lips pretty smooth as
lips go, his like gnawed cobs. White gunk in the mottled bits.
I try to ease along in lines painted once a blue, these lanes for swimmers
all cap and legs. But fast he picks away. Getting closer and closer to a
“There,” he says, and I’m peeling from the floor all over again.
[read the responses : “fir forest. you…”, “For your listening”, and “Then, when digested masks settle…“]