Thursday, February 26, 2015

Mez Breeze



Mez reading "\oriGaM[e,]i[,+ U]/"




text online at http://netwurker.livejournal.com/155319.html


#[g]l'amour_storms#


############################################ #Wonder_[i]sTuff #ti[R]e[a]d_with_a[n]_[e]bony_distance_bow ############################################

############################################ #gifts_+_[socially_mandated_word]g[r]abbing #[s]tun[t]ed_Vi[s]ci[|u]ous ############################################

############################################
#[g]l'amour_storms+hor[e]mo[tio]n_darknesses #deSIre_tHorn[y]s_done_devi[De]lish ############################################






tweet_transcript of Re[e|]ality_W[h]e[e|]al

["et_al petals". luverly. doesn't fit. (+ still i stretch it thRu{e} these layered|buttered wordshifts, again *sigh*)] 8:17 AM - 6 Apr 12

[...sometimes i fa[u]lter, a l'tle. "AWKward" will only be parsed by some, not all, of u. + aye, there's the (cipher) rub(blings) #musing..] 8:22 AM - 6 Apr 12

[fark. "Webb(R)e(|a)d()GesTuring". unpack heaven, there.] 8:38 AM - 6 Apr 12 

["dRea(l)ms + tender (l)"if(t)s"....oooOoh:)] 8:46 AM - 6 Apr 12

[..like dropping small_sweet tweetdrips in2 an audiE(bony)nce void. + that sparks "Boney & Thornly" (a Diagon Alley residing law firm?);)] 8:52 AM - 6 Apr 12






| |_Ur_ | |_Bone_ | |_Ceiling| |_


| |_
_| |_[clavi(sh)cle.sp(l)itting(les)] __| |_[wr(f)isting.flick(er{r})ing ___| |_[spine(lles)+spin(ozas)] __| |_ _| |_[blood.dRagging.thru.molten.vein.streets] __| |_[t(sl)enderness.in.ur.g(r)A(sp)p{e}ing.mouths] 
_| |





#whatif

...............#wha[sh]t[agged]if[s]..............

#w _olves.in.damage[con.troll]
#h _aves.+.have.[k]nottings
#a _ttn:U>R>NO>LONGER>UNDA>CONTROL
#t _ime.4.shifterling.
#i _magine.unconstrained.[greed]free[zing]dom[ination] 

#f _undaMentals. r.back, nOW[S].







_sM[CLEAN]ALL[THE.THINGS]ness-es_


[THere r:
smAllnesses of the ca(|u)rved discrete 

+ warm bUnd(er_fe)l(t)ed.]

[There r: 
sMallnesses.of.plasticized.reaction.dI(n)R(eal)T(ime). 
:of (p)ac(ts.of.displaced+exclusionary)he(art_hurt). 
:of_powerlessness_mag(azine-fired_non-dig)nified 
As(he{a}d+fatty)_implied_internalised_violen(ce)t. :of_frozen_helplessness_off.white.c(H)ur(le)dled.]


:::::::::::NOW WITH ADDED SNOWCLONE TRANSLATION!:::::::::::::::::

_Smallnesses [with additional Snowclone references: see "CLEAN ALL THE THINGS!"]_

[In here, there are smallnesses of the carved/curved discrete 
plus warm bundled (under_felt).]

[Over "There", there are altogether meaner smallnesses.
Smallnesses reeking of the empty "Mall".
Of bastardised directives repeatedly jab-and-blind-beaten into categories of "The Dirty Uneducated Other(s)" with a sharp-ended ideologically rancid stick ("BLUDGEON-TELL ALL THE WRONGDOERS!"). Smallnesses that smart of pedestaled ideologues, all plasticized shouting within "In Real Time" reaction-dirt.
Smallnesses of sustained identity ache through the perpetual confusion of pair bond desire, of pacts of displaced and exclusionary hurt.
Of powerlessness magnified through implied and displaced and internalised violence, all ashen-and- fatty plus tarred-and-feathered heads and fire-when-ready-ness ("TAR ALL THE HEADS!").
Of off-white frozen helplessness turned curdled and hurled through twinned morality gates.] 





Mez is the Creative Director of @MezBreezeDesign, an Advisor to The Mixed Augmented Reality Art Research Organisation and Senior Research Affiliate with The Humanities and Critical Code Studies Lab.


Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Maja Jantar



HJALTEYRI


5-06-2014
how much we are marked by words uttered by others
they imprint themselves on our skin and instead of being shed grow in-words, deeper and deeper closer - pretending to be ours

21-09-14
schuimende spiegel oceaan, pollutie van de vulkaan filtert zonlicht tot melk - klank van golven, piep van een metalen object dat poogt te draaien - stilte in de ruis. 

druk achter m'n ogen, licht branden aan de aanzet van m'n keel, jeuk aan de rechter zijkant van de linker hiel, geluiden uit de keuken, golven, golven, golven
niet alleen 

naamachine met oordopjes kabel rond de spoel gedraaid, oranje klos en rode klos op kloshouder, witte verfspatjes naast de theekop, gebarsten schuimen boei, lader van tandenborstel en blauw nachtlampje op vensterbank.

sound of water from the front and from the left side, echoing, bouncing of the walls, seagull seemingly floating in the window frame, verdwijn-t,  komt terug, slides into the picture.

24-9-14
the bear in the moon
drizzle on hot skin – méduse sur caillous noirs – clouds caressing the mountains – hills velvety eyed, green gentle stroke, soft curvy veloptous, enrobés – disrobed – tuesday
red owl raven koppel – partners 

little balls of red yarn, rode wol in een triangulair schaaltje, twee paar oorringen, eine leere Tasse Kaffee, laires Wasserglass, a fine drill on it's charger,  telephone, old singer machine, heater warming the lower part of my legs, blowing hot wind, tiny red boat on the ocean – twee duikers, memory of medusa washing up on the shore, gestrand, zwarte kiezels, op rode wol,  

25-9-14
leaden waves come to shore, red wool in triangular bowl, amandels naast een kopje pomplemousse thee, een ring met peridoot, een amandel op de rand van de houten tafel, geen amandel op de rand van de houten tafel
landslag – landslag – landslag

26-9-14
tired, gevoel van naar beneden zakken, mal derière la nuque, donker, kaars is uitgegaan, small cup that used to contain red wine, empty now, big cup that contained water, empty now, cell phone, copper earrings in shapes of runes next to red half felted wool, earplugs on the sowing machine, old industrial singer, grijsgroen, with a metallic sheen, untying a mental knot, three flies on a black cast iron teapot waarvan twee aan het copuleren zijn, copulating. oranje nylon draad op de spoel, dunkel drausen, Kerzen auf dem Fensterbret – ausgebrennt, fingers getting cold, feeling my sitting bone and bladder, pressing against the jeans.

28-9-14

To dispel common cold - stop bleeding - foretell future 

Pick 5 sprigs of yarrow (achillea millefolium -  vallhumall) in the fields.
Tare of the leaves. Steep 8 leaves in hot water to help cure the flue, this will help you sweat it out.
If you have a cut, take a yarrow leaf rub it between your fingers to bring out the juices and rub this on the wound – this will stop the bleeding and facilitate healing
Use the 5 yarrow stalks for divination:
Hold them lightly in your left hand – concentrate on your question and cast them on the floor or a table. Look closely at the shapes they make and see if you can recognise rune shapes in them – if you can focus on the one that attracts you most – look it up – that is your answer




MÝVATN


7-7-11
rock – stem – sharp – stoom – steam – water – vatn - 

sharp brittle grey
scented mossy grrr
purrrr cracked filled steamy sounded
hide nightly fall lightened woodlingd sleep rock bound breath fogged

                                                             language of rock 
                                                                               moss
                                                                               water

les processus du corps 
worlds unfurning inside 

                                                                   diluted white 

9-7-11
how long is the story?
5 days wide and 3 nights deep

7-08-11
zon getik en een deur, krakelingen want koffie is lopende, neus ende spieren van de nek tiny tensed like rabbits on an early morning, bicycles and the sound of a washing machine rumbling, people passing by and munched on muffins and empty coffee cups that served for yoghurt, wasco's en een tomaat op een tupperware box with brown sugar
and endlessness lots of it always changing

they come look take a picture
stare into the wideness a bit longer then move on
salt on the table
and crumpled paper
somebody left tobacco crumbs all over the corner
happy people
stressed people
tired people
grateful people
curious people
demanding people
people in cars
people in jeeps
people in buses, bicycles motorcycles
hiking people
all pass the same rocks different every moment with light and moss and time growing here
time grows here abundantly
always fresh with it's purple flowers and tiny red leaves when the soil is too poor

8-08-11
empty glasess with coffee foam, a girl that is afraid to speak english, cables and left overs of three days old desert, still a tomato on a tupperware box with brown sugar, bottle of softdrinks packed in plastic, a card board box with more bottles, the smell of beer spilled on the floor, paper, white unwritten, a car parked with view
voices footsteps and the sound of the washing machine turning eternally, taste of coffee, sugar by numbers, smelling coffee on my lips, irritation for not finding a solution to the effect,
red candles and a fake rock,
a boy with two boxes containing pies,
sense of rush, sense of agitation, big truck and my king walking by,
breathing through my back, cracking noise,
cold draft from the open window

11-07-11
6 ravens without feet
they all were brothers
for their wings were black
and their call was sharp and filled with wind
their sister was fish
their uncle fox
and they knew who they were 
as they dipped their wings in waterfalls

6 ravens without feet
they were all sisters
for their wings were black 
and their call was sharp and filled with wind
their brother was fish
their uncle fox
and they knew who they were 
as they dipped their wings in waterfalls

the fox had tea with crunchy biscuits when arriving at the lake
one crumb fell into the water and moss covered it and trees started to grow on it and as the moss sung a lullaby, it sung it's lullaby softly, and the waves curled like foxtail’s in hot sand all smooth and ripple free
and fish laid their eggs in the seaweed that surrounded the moss and they knew all was well  and swam off to shore as the fog rose from the water

night fell in day
-woodlings risen from sleep-
and the fox shed it's white coat 
golden coat of nine tales 
hearing all after a thousand years,
speaking of feathers, collars, pieces, rings, names for milk, plants and more


gon gon, kon kon, kon gon gon kon gon, gon kon kon kon on gon gon gon, ko on go go go vulpes vulpes, gon gon gon gon gon, kon vul kon on gon gon kon pes kon kon gon gon gon kon on go go go go go vul kon pes vulpes vulpes es vulpes vulpes es vulpes vulpes on es gon es on gon gon on






Maja Jantar is resin washed up on the shore, a brief reflection, a texture of white, a vibration, an inhale.


Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Feliz Lucia Molina



from The Beginning


What they brought was a holy child or infant. After all, a baby could mean no harm. The twelve inch figure from Belgium was code for empire; the child armed in a velvet robe holding a gold globe in it's left hand and right hand raised in benediction as if to say "you can be saved by the monarchy if you let us destroy you." The tiny figure just kept multiplying from Prague and reached the Visayas. Just imagine Humaway, after being crowned queen, receiving this most sacred code meant to annihilate; a ticking bomb that would keep exploding for the next several hundred years in the form of feast days or quietly in the mind.





They went to an underground river tour in Palawan to feel some finite darkness inside the earth. The feeling could be rented for 45 minutes with strangers. As the plastic orange canoe moved further into absolute darkness, reality stayed bright outside. The underpaid tour guide yelled from the back of the canoe and pointed out concrete projections as a way of communicating with the tourists; the ability to be relatable as a banana leaf motif of emotional labor. Stalactites and guano accumulated into bratty amorphous figures that resembled a food market, cathedral, movie star, hot dogs, Pegasus. Regardless of how far into the darkness they went, an audience remained inside them, wondering if they got their money's worth. When they returned to their Airbnb, they read philosophy and watched The Butler and Julia & Julie from the dvd library. "The thinking mind ... is that work which produces reality, that is to say work as projection" summed up the underground river perfectly.




The screen was small enough to imagine actually being here. There were no photos of this island, only a nipa hut deep in Surigao del Sur surrounded by unrecognizable hues of green. On this mangrove beach, there's a white raft that could become a façade of a house. Local children play house on it. Who knows what they imagine. But without façades, in what direction would paranoia go? Would it go back home or to a grave? Between the screen and raft is a kind of heterotopia - not entirely here nor elsewhere too.




A village shares a portable videoke machine. You must slip pesos into the coin slot to turn it on. You must pay to partake in a journey of culturally specific repetition and mimicry. No one can tell you which song to sing, only you can choose which one to lend yourself to. Like your Filipino father, you give yourself over to a distant yet present empire: Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, The Beatles. (Mimi)cry is maybe an intimate relation to an object, one step removed from becoming that object. This is why impersonators are so powerful; they get to marvel in the space between relation and becoming. Their becoming is continuous and meant to never be fulfilled which is why the machine is full of money.




Here there are no communication machines to "assist relations" between family and friends but there's a sari sari store filled with decades old computers and television sets. Media relics undergo slow and continuous makeovers to unknown ends. Direct cognitive enslavement hasn't begun. Reflected from the dim and lifeless screens are young men hammering local trees into boats and those boats will have blue painted windows to imitate a reflection of the sky or sea.

What happens to the code of beheadings or dick pics that have been scrubbed into nothing? Does it disappear forever or take up foreclosed space in the mind of content moderators? Here is one kind of emotional labor. Here is a different kind of erasure. Human invisibility in the Philippines is a requisite for the production and flow of palatable images on US screens. Eat you green beans, it's good for you. Finish your rice, its a sin to waste food. 




feliz lucia molina is based in los angeles.


Monday, February 23, 2015

Stacy Doris (1962-2012)




Reading "Love What You've Burned, Burn What You've Loved" at SUNY-Buffalo, October 30, 2001 (PennSound)


 


from Kildare

Bushwhack Sign Up Here



LETS UNCLE Input, capture, display
mix and produce
that's what friends are for.


A worry-free professional, finger tips -- easy in
overnight receipt.


TiK, attacker turned iffy
invites/ one hope to outwit
El Commandeer ('Dong').
Helpful explosive surprises clue TiK
(gritty back view)
CLOSER.


On loose in the COCONET
One little guy shaves off time
for the brawny.



A hug/smash combo



Midair teleport
fakes out of nothing
icky reptile device.
TiK-as-Valkyrie
pie-throw endeavors
jumps, lands senseless
(indigestion attached).

The flowers squirting contest.



from ConferencePart III, The Sheet-metal Tar


     The sky is a ball. Also, the sky is pure excitement or incitement. It is what a dress is; flesh and its opposite. And the dress is good. When the dress is red. When ready. It is all that breathing is, including unanimous. Idealists see unanimous as continuous, and deity is invented thus.

     I miss her.
     The sky lives on water, meanwhile, on seas and lagoons and puddles. Swans nip at it for sustenance.
     Poverty was their way of seeing wealth, so they believed and went with God. They were pirates, these idealists. They ply and walk away. They carry their odors and allures. But do we do so together or alone? Am I with her, in the air?
     If my friend were here with me, we'd use this for music:  antennae, grills of the House of Sens gables, fire escapes--we'd use them for strings. Is she?
     I am always in bed. I have a friend on the rue de Paradis who calls and asks if I'm in bed. I think she calls just to ask and the answer is always yes.

     Daily life is where the broken jar either gains or loses its purpose. I'm not the one to ask.


from Paramour


Never Sticky.

The best of all possible words's a luscious mouth

(the rest is dross).

The word-image of a luscious mouth cannot feather or stain
nor pass unnoticed.

The unforgotten mouth, plus high-color fidelity and stamina

break dramatically through

and on soft micro-layers glide.
That saw comfort.  In any light, depend.

And along with the dazzling truth is

you'll want more than one.




They tear into the wood, pass into the high reeds of underbrush.
Trees hide them, they disappear behind a curtain of leaves.

Thus sty in This chest, hairs pool, voice melt This rouse Thus, the drift, infinite burn, This gnaws This, course in blood, slop over, wind, Thus hand swoon to hoof between, behind,      the edge open and Thus This rip, root, a-rage, This Thus plunders center of plunder, ring. This wrench to shreds, convulse gnaw, Thus grunt.





"When I think of Stacy, I think of water and of her way with it, how completely at home she was in its suspension and its depth. That quality of "at-homeness" seems emblematic of her entire relationship to the world—she was utterly comfortable with the suspensions it demands and with its uncanny depths. She had the rare ability to remain metaphorically at sea, comfortable there in that wide-open uncertainty. She had what Keats called negative capability, and she had it in abundance—she made uncertainty and doubt occasions for invention and exploration."

—Cole Swenson (from An Homage to Stacy Doris 1962-2012 edited by Laynie Browne)


Sunday, February 22, 2015

Orchid Tierney




Haret el Wasser


after Te Whiti
           & Tohu
were taken away
the people 
          remained sitting 
on the marae

I was called 
           by a woman 
      at no. 9 
she had 
        4 soldiers there
the first time
        we were paid
the second time
      they refused
      they left the house 
      the woman 
      banged the door
      & she swore

soldiers entered
            my quarter 
I saw furniture 
thrown 
men
threw her 
out of the window

forced removals 
            began 2 days later
men were removed
their houses 
torn down
     women were raped
     & molested
it was just 
like drafting sheep


references

“Red Blind Street.” The Battle of the Wazzer. Accessed 10 December 2014. http://user.online.be/~ snelders/wozzer/woztest.htm. 

“The Taranaki Report-Kaupapa Tuatahi.” 1996. WAI 143. Muru me te Rauapatu-The Muru and Raupatu of the Taranaki Land and People. Waitangi Tribunal Report. Accessed 12 December 2014. http://www.justice.govt.nz/tribunals/waitangi-tribunal/Reports/wai0143.






Zealandia boasts


1 million yrs ago 
God save the Queen!

           our king 
     Tuitonga 
died— 
     England  
          earth-hungry 
insatiable 
      took 
           13 years 
to send      the flag 
           of Britainnia 
     we are 
afraid 
     lest      some other 
     powerful 
nation 
     should take 
possession 
     of our island

but why doesn’t    noo zilind
take    the whole bloomin lot!

the island 
      without fruit 
the rock 
      stuck 
& could not 
            be raised
it is thus 
      with things 
done wrongly 
            at the present day!

yet 1100 yrs ago
     Niuē has yielded 
almost no return— 
20 members 
     of Parliament 
for a country 
of 600 
      —an abuse  
           & responsibility
there is no realistic 
possibility of Niuē
becoming a self-
sustaining economy 

all hail Zealandia!

we blunder 
            into Empire
& somehence 
1 trillion yrs 
1,256 Niueans convicted
bones unchanged by moss
brave 
          Folitolu 
      Latoatama 
Tamaeli
          rid the land 
of the tyrant
he who growls at 
prisoners & warders
who growls at Tatu 
     to fix up
the golf holes 
           in Foniakula

but Noo Zilind 
       will help Niuē 
her private sector
will grow as large 
      as possible 
the climate is excellent
& retirees bring 
a steady flow
attracting 
     a retirement 
village operator 
is a good
place to start



references

“Inquiry into New Zealand’s relationships with South Pacific countries.” Report of the Foreign Affairs, Defence and Trade Committee. December 2010. 
“Our New Possessions. Something About the Islands We Have Annexed.” Evening Post.   25 October 1900, 2. 
Scott, Dick. 1993. Would a good man die? Niue Island, New Zealand and the late Mr. Larsen. Auckland: Hodder & Stoughton.
Smith, Percy S. 1903. Niuē-Fekai (or Savage) Island and Its People. Christchurch: Whitcombe & Tombs.
Thomson, Basil C. 1902. Savage Island: An Account of a Sojourn in Niuē and Tonga. London: John Murray. 







Orchid Tierney is a New Zealander living in Philadelphia where she attends the University of Pennsylvania. She is an enthusiast of antique furniture. 


Saturday, February 21, 2015

Sonnet L'Abbé

Ma from Killarnoe





Tone from Killarnoe





from Sonnet's Shakespeare































Sonnet L'Abbé can still speak a little Korean.


Friday, February 20, 2015

Yagni Payal




I saw him just beyond my line of sight, just beyond my threshold of knowing, just beyond. He held a shrunk thought. I saw him there, standing, just beyond and smiling a smile beyond the curves of my lips. It was as if he had just crushed his burning cigar of impatience, strewing its ashes towards unknown coordinates of my being, a renegade.

'Marizzta, dont make it any more difficult than it is, you said you would move out by Tuesday'...Dates, dates, dates can be sweet. Dates, can qualify city streets and be sweet. Dates, I hate. Dates. Timelines and specifics, juggle ideologies into sweet trivia of zipcode specificity. Stop giving me numbers, unless they reek of nothingness. Dated unknowns.

You cant garnish everything with holy basil to make it special. Eventually it has to pass the smell test.

Authenticity is now a conscious act of breaking down hybrids into their lowest common multiple. While normalcy curls up like a cat in your lap, your annotated indifference is a burden you will have to carry through ages. 

I think there is this great conspiracy theory. I checked the time clock on my phone, my laptop, my microwave and my watch...and they all matched. Who are you kidding? 

A strand of hair hangs off a lamp shade, it is a perfect culmination of thought and movement, it holds its stand, it sways its extremities gently, it is rooted at a perfectly unwavering co-ordinate, waxing and waning just subtly enough, to play with your line of sight. Obvious and disappearing. Much like the frailty of life mocking the sinewy grasp of predictability or vice versa.

He made me laugh and I caught my reflection fleetingly, only I had just missed it as I laughed. I always knew paragliding within your brain is a conscious step within each unconscious breath.



'case of urban proof of service or service of proof'


Borders of eggshells. We tread broken daily, burnt in half baked truths, symphonies of hurt and tell tale theories, what is the point of it all? Scrambled words need endless sheep dogs. Where is the pagan proof of simplicity? If symbolism rules, do you see my fingers? A lion in the manger, feeds my self interest. Self correction is a lazy coincidence of desire and inaction. When your tectonic plates move, mine hold in resistance, in a misunderstood extramarital affair. Surface touches only circle the navel concentric. It is existential foreplay, needing no approvals within your four corners.I succumb to premature drowning. I smile and let it, happen.

I was obvious. In my semi formal ways. A hint. Of humanity. Of sensuality. Of those that fled senses of comprehension. I existed. As that anomaly between formality and exuberance. I wasn't an echo, a hymn, or a blur of the night. An inspiration of the dead, a thread of embroidery, a blank wall. There is a sense of untouchability. An underlying sacredness, of an interior sanctum of perversions. Of loneliness. Of a possible mate. Of a possible completion.....yes, I existed. In a memory lapse of a widowed , or the regret of an absurdly, I existed. Only as a proper noun. Unpronounceable, if so.

No, I do not watch the news. I do not apologize often. I do not wonder about trends and manifestos. I do not creep up like phallic shadows. I do not bend my own bitter business. I do not tame other people's ghosts. I do not soil within the swamps of human heart. I do not crumple paper and recycle minds. I do not curl my temper into cotton candy. I do not curb my love into another snowball effect. I do not weave my thoughts on elaborate looms of domino. It's complicated, these layers, like smooth eggnog over brandy. You may have met me, and missed me totally. Perhaps I got off the elevator at the wrong floor and laughed. It is always the wrong floor. While you knew which door to face. Or perhaps you wondered why my looks made me exotica. It didn't. But you wore a leopard print dress with a long slit splitting personalities. Insidious. Wicked. I watched you get off. I watched you, dissipate, like a black skirt of the alleys. A hint of fantasy.

If I have to talk about the human condition, the philosophy of thoughts or rationale, or why some are allergic to cats and peanuts, I must first mystify with redundancy. For there is magic of illusion and the magic of magic minus theorem of logic plus one. And if reality was only to be quantified in pinches, it would reduce minimalism to its minions. But I am much more. I am not my fashion or earrings, or a flash of legs or a sparkle of eyes, I am not my smile or my senile. I am more, much more, sometimes measured in tears, sometimes in smiles..tiny introductions..





"recounting Diderots fallacy of the ephemeral"


What time is it now?
What time since you left with my timekeeper, my grandmother's sand...
since they deemed loneliness as some strange contrived persecution of self..
or since the pollen from the sun reduced to dust or the sad graffiti of our crawl.
My lone guitar thumps a rhythm of a gasping heart, a lost child in the woods of despair...
If these lungs held freedom, where would they end? What would they envelope? Precipitate?
Even a cage breathes within a corsetry of death and the blowing off of an afternoon candle....
Oh sing me the poor girls song, of fugitive dreams and lost earrings,
a fools cry echoing within white seashells,
or simply yet...
shatter me like porcelain rage,
….swaddling your time,
for what is time, now
what is time nowhere?





So I started reading Alan Watts last night at bed and boy (9) says 'mama read it out loud'. So I do, and after 10 pages, I tell him 'tomorrow, let's sleep now, did you like it?' And to my surprise the kid says 'yes, I do like it'..


Thursday, February 19, 2015

Ash Smith




To nick the rent on this loss with language  .  name   .  plate under everything that bleeds  .  cake pink sky  . hunger is a touch  .  needed colors  .  happen outside the frame the name purports and otherwise  .  Spinoza’s third kind of perception gets wired  .  bird coded  .  to make fabric erasures  .  written where you move  .  small snips to rend the stitchwork out  .  slowly from the speed of work  .   until it’s the kind of sky that lets you see it’s knees is a mistake I made in hurt from perception  . look where the money isn’t  .   autumn pulls out the threads  .  said a kind of relationship made by wrahseling  .  to stop from falling  .  spring blinks the green wires behind our eyes  .  into the flailing red of forever  .  double February  . come back  .  as if to act   " infinite series of first kisses"

___


Brando’s hands on the pigeon’s body  .  a note we could hit but couldn’t hold   bright green leaf and freeze  .  big love   . little diamond  .  like you could stand up for everyone at once by making oneself exceedingly small as the measure of loneliness  .  measured the distance from my bed to the past like a sextet  .  measure to the mountains . to the larger water .  we push our apps together  .  to be the metaphor for something already on the inside  .   or if I could grow my hair long enough, Crystal Gale long, I might not fall through the cracks of commonness  . but for the want to be common  .  full grey body of the shared world  .  on closer inspection, the feathers connected  .  I am my own lice  . we push our apps together . She stood on the other side of the chain link  .  and because the frame stopped, stood there forever  . the little grey bird face wasn’t a mirror  .  he held it’s body to to the fence like a heart

___



Cracked open the Lord with a verse  .  to write this book   .  I must disintegrate   .  calamus / reeds (née Kalamos)  . sethe fronds .  In the story the two boys love each other  .  one drowns when swimming and the other drowns in grief  .  becomes a reed .  calls now in whisper work  .  lament  .  the word means “pen”  . then .  the way the sound of the place of our arrival never comes wholly at once  .  the wingspan of  .   hear  .  baby high five  .  heaven in pieces .  circle of extraction surrounded by down  .  I missed you  .  still kind green clearing  .  née airborne body  . grooved plumage the needle caresses  .  I hoped we meant  .  red  .  red light  .   light glistening in the lower branches  .  small avalanche of light in the heart  .  to write this book I must reform myself in the shape of it’s large sound  . reptilian weave at the tongue .   throw the ladders of skin down from these zeros  above the beak  .  we’re just projecting into a absence like we could mean more by taking off everything on fire . but your house is made of air  .  of the thing that feeds it  .  you in the shadows who wore that water well  . Like Spicer’s swallow so: “How can I wound you with my well of sounds / if he can sleep and dream beneath it’s wounds?”  these bird rehearsals  .   to call when somethings gone  . that speak like paper fingers  .  to the body’s meat  .  


___

Utopia is so emotional -- Lisa Robertson

sound hones a road home
no
rolled oars bore holes in the ocean of my heart
printed on a street poster and worn in
to by the cotton erasure
weather makes a vocabulary of decay
for which the feathers fell
reflected on the water
time takes a kitten eraser to the space between leaves
The way one might expand by misunderstanding
one's own desires
as if spilling from our mouths
I wanted to explain what the ache felt like
to come in the century behind writing
standing behind the long, wide L
if by a low script texted
if by the author emptied
this language that made me radiant and mere
as a screen in mediation
then to lack the assets to still the sea
as a woman walking so not to die
that a salt-like lucite became our resource
for divining the animal back into speech
or rather “No day shall erase you from
the memory of time.”(Vigil) So that what time
remembers we can forget.
Every poem is something you can’t get rid of
scrape me from your eyes




Ash Smith recently moved into the green arms of east Austin. Daily activities include cooking weird things, stepping on Legos, laughing, forgetting jokes, making kimchi, decrying injustice, planting cat grass, murder ballads, and making out.


Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Michelle Detorie

Reading from a Coincidence of Wants with drummer Chris Cogburn. Filmed by Ash Smith in November, 2007 at the OK Mountain gallery in Austin, TX.





THE MEAT WORLD


Courtship is another word for slaughter.
Mud-blood hip-deep. I kept winter
in the bones of my right arm. I sent
you a shaft in an old glass vial.  The note
attached said “cry here.” The tears came
so easily that year.

My body is always open now, and there 
are all these arrows hanging from our skins,
crawled up growl-howling.

This is what it’s like to be a girl.



SOLSTICE


Moon blood in the fox hollow;
fox hole a type of fantasy.
We envy the fox and her magnificent stink.
Take off the cloth, wear 
an ink dark tree in your rib 
bones. When you breathe
a little hollow — holler out 
your want-needles, your wish-
bones,  dolls made out  of dollars
who teeter-totter like little daughters. Dot 
in the fox eye, blood moon, slit near 
the pupil. Our room contracts. Convex
in the crumb maze, the fur loom. 
Sweep out the ash bin and see those ravens 
there circling the half-bloom, roving the scar-light 
with dark feathers curled in script.
I stoke embers and spark the air-dark blooms 
that hid our marrows for 30 days. I let you lick
me just a little. My fingers fed us through the weather.
Cast a dance to make us free. Your eyes pull down 
the walls but I burn them before
they even touch the ground. 



BLINK WITCH

I stick-click my way to the door that hinges on a hair
of bone, flossing antlers under-cover of water black
with blood-mud. The girth of a whale is broad and full
and is inked in unbelievable sadness. A crow perched
on the rib of when we were less lonely, mast fluttering
horizons where fins slid, slicing them open like loose
nets. All this talk about confession and forgiveness:
it tires me, flattens us. 
The truth is that I love you no matter what.
It’s so obvious birds write in with their wings
and bees sing it with their buzz.  & yet I’ve lost 
you in the snow drift — the thread I threw
was red for just a minute. In the blinding
snow-light I consider joining the cemetery’s colony 
of feral cats. I’m only guessing that they’d have me.


from Sin in Wilderness
















Michelle's animal familiar is a little white dog named Sarah. They like to listen to Kurt play the guitar.