Blowing my nose and writing poems
I saw ancient filmographers
who studied philosophy
with and between one another:
Endless insulated canisters of
heartbeats, pitfalls, gumdrops--
Sickle cell anemia sculptures
inside the benefit garden, around it,
already adorning embankments
of alabaster, mica, formica, fossilized
gold dust, & for how much?
"In valor there is hope." On a back on
the trolley. His mechanical disturbance
underneath the street lulls
me to sleep. I sleep. Soundly, sound-
lessly, I sleep. And rediscover the
footfalls and broken heartfalls of
the street, mired in street, mired in
the broken and relayered pavement
of the sleeping streets.
who studied philosophy
with and between one another:
Endless insulated canisters of
heartbeats, pitfalls, gumdrops--
Sickle cell anemia sculptures
inside the benefit garden, around it,
already adorning embankments
of alabaster, mica, formica, fossilized
gold dust, & for how much?
"In valor there is hope." On a back on
the trolley. His mechanical disturbance
underneath the street lulls
me to sleep. I sleep. Soundly, sound-
lessly, I sleep. And rediscover the
footfalls and broken heartfalls of
the street, mired in street, mired in
the broken and relayered pavement
of the sleeping streets.
From the notebooks of Alain Bressant, unfamous experimental fictionalist, found dead today
Yes and that's precisely how it all was [M. James! Do look at this when you get back. --Ed.] when we finished and had our meals and went onwards. A bit of seasonal construction work, cushioning really; in any case we didn't feel much of anything until it was already past. That's when the songs of the tessellated eagle and the switch-breasted forget-me-not spread out over the snowy garden: one melody here, another one over there. Some kind of incredible singing, slipped up a dress regretfully. Yet that's how it all ended, and, just as simply, how it began. Let me tell you about the hold of somebody else's hand, in a hotel.
1. In which grass forgets it must be green, and changes into mauve wall-to-wall
Thick fingers, nevertheless aided by a whole assortment of peonies and left-behind azalea souvenirs, prized and pulled at a capstone, which refused to budge.
A whole container of hominy, sealed up and delivered to close relations, thanks parts of Helena Rubenstein, redistributed in supported silverpoint. A lost landline enumeration fails to excite. Fat ladies fitfully have babies, filling bassinets. A Ballerina Hound, one bred of time and courage, and not least of a pit bull and seething Rottweiler bitch, pisses itself in a round bed. A flock of indigenes collaborate around the breach. Backwater applepickers browbeat around tidewater swells. In how many days can we manipulate fantasy? This hundred and empty live. No rest for the red-breasted robin. A finally opened sonata music box twangs plectra stiffly, pink and brass under the rotting harmonium. To senorita: how many hamstrings could you make sexy? Approximately two, at most four, for me at least. I sit and bemusedly picture, as one must, a lighthouse. A bloody bright one.
1. In which grass forgets it must be green, and changes into mauve wall-to-wall
Thick fingers, nevertheless aided by a whole assortment of peonies and left-behind azalea souvenirs, prized and pulled at a capstone, which refused to budge.
A whole container of hominy, sealed up and delivered to close relations, thanks parts of Helena Rubenstein, redistributed in supported silverpoint. A lost landline enumeration fails to excite. Fat ladies fitfully have babies, filling bassinets. A Ballerina Hound, one bred of time and courage, and not least of a pit bull and seething Rottweiler bitch, pisses itself in a round bed. A flock of indigenes collaborate around the breach. Backwater applepickers browbeat around tidewater swells. In how many days can we manipulate fantasy? This hundred and empty live. No rest for the red-breasted robin. A finally opened sonata music box twangs plectra stiffly, pink and brass under the rotting harmonium. To senorita: how many hamstrings could you make sexy? Approximately two, at most four, for me at least. I sit and bemusedly picture, as one must, a lighthouse. A bloody bright one.