Category Archives: white

…U DO WE DO…

[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.

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…A FAT MONSTER THING THAT TOOK UP THE WHOLE OF THE GLOSSY PAGE…

[response to “Terminal things”]

Residue

“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
flying–

“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…“]