And on the heavenstretched tower white light of midwinter cast, hollow above, eucalyptus below
Perception:wax to the hills, iron on the window, silk sheet flattened
Melancholia o f birdsong
Only hillside it seems, and looking for screens, the kind an image is projected upon, rather than the kind you can through see, folding the blinds and some one there, on the rooftop, wearing a pointed hat
The,A creature, risen above all others
When I first walked into the rain I felt a lifting of spirit, as though I had myself been kissed by god and promise entire, the world a freshly washed carpet, oyster tongue. The unbearable, beautiful feeling, of wanting to scream, to ruin and be ruined. How many nights I, a teenager, walked around beneath falling snow, and how many here, now, under falling rain, the earth happening now and folded into it, enlivened::mutable
It was at a pace vermicular that I held the weight of the rain itself, the more and more I walked, canvas darkened with water far heavier than before, until I sensed the collapse, and it was then you saw me, and a curtain is pulled between the room of my mind and the room my body is in, here I,ll stay
I wonder about this transience, how all of a sudden something that seemed insurmountable, but that isn’t the right word, is it, for it’s never that it’s insurmountable, instead that it’s a very tall feeling, something I can’t see the top of, or really any ending to it at all, edgeless and consuming,, that such a thing can then translate into the size of a marble, held in my palm for me to peer at and make sense of, or to place in one of my pockets, unable to exit the eye
To change something until it dies
DWELLER: I, the finger carving earth,s needle beneath,
a limestone welk, featherthin sheath
borne of an instant one:: infinite aft
a clear day,s darkness, universe halved
DWELLING: I, carved by hand through earth, spade,
porcelain stone, forever contain
one made of clay, creator of mine
oxide mantle, eternal shrine
DWELLER: my Breath of breath, memory:source
you, vessel:entrapment, gasp of force
DWELLING: To be without you, hollowed fleeing
A place mine own, hollow being
Structuralism versus phenomenology versus post-structuralism versus deconstruction versus the real versus politics, poetics, and aesthetics in equal measure versus meaning versus reason versus feeling our hearts each one, all really talking about the same thing if you think about it very carefully or not at all. Everything else has failed
And in every cave there are many, olive walls murky at the front spinning round. The teeth-green hare and I can feel my self disappear into the half moon, tracings
That which appears, the burned out building, a plastic breath,
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