[Shhhh. She’s sleeping.]
I’d trade this song for you. Unless…it’s going to be remembered. Who’s going to remember me? Who’s going to remember you?
Throw it all into the combustion of history. Throw it up against the annihilation of stars. Back yourself up in the cloud….racks of machines o’erheat the desert. Before everything. Powers. Down.
This is my coast my shore. The sea crashes, shapes, heaps, carries away. My coast. My shore. Here a wrecked shipman would long for fresh water and hot food. I weep salt and speak-sputter wet wood. My house is built apocalyptic on sand there is no rock here. Shifting sands. Nomad- I of miniscules, foot by foot my house moves, between dune and shore.
The jewels of my country are secreted. Secrete/secret the thick glossies that mollusk thumbs fist. Spiraled, scalloped, with fishy smells. A captain landing here would find no treasure except what the ocean will break and cleanse. My wealth is all paper on a standard of feathers and shell. I’m worth nothing without irrational faith.
Here no ships but maybe. Here no sails but maybe, too far for hawk-eye to see, one trawls, nets too knotted and tangled to sail home. Better to be a boatman in the hollowed trunk of a tree, steadying his gaze, hand to a spear. Better skim the deep waters armed with knives and spears, sharp and precise, than drag behind a powerful vessel indiscriminate nets.
Feed me. I will eat gold kernels out of my hands and sea eggs, grey yolked. No more nets, knotted and tangled, in constant need of mending, They dredge the dark living sea dusts up I will not feed on its bottoms.
Gold grain and grey yolks. Feed me things that might be born. Feed me the raw germ of wanting-to-be-born.
Groove 6: [audible]
here there are stones. stones that were books that were songs that were warm hands warm from weeping. black silk worn deep blue by years of weather, macabre tablecloth on a slab of stone. sacrifice who? it is done. stones are not hungry nor do they thirst. flesh nor blood.
where the stones are there was a forest.
the winds are harsh and the ground stays damp without roots to drink from it.
night is wholly visible, they say.
Groove 7: [audible, hidden]
stone time a dream marvel impetuous f/light streaking across night sky
deploy fire icy dust because core changed very little and still in icy depths
the mission ends [
Groove 5: [inaudible]
in childhood recall reading books that seal fate. Selections will be displayed in the MUSIC ROOM (above).
childhood simplicity: a lover of artifacts.
Mourn the commonplace. Stitch the embroideries (depicted ). Hold
the black silk, unassuming, over the beloved.
- phoenix is a one-note bird.
- that note is on fire.
- bedside candle.
- no paper no pen.
- can’t write down dreams.
- owl listens, omni-ambient headphones around omni-acoustical eyes.
- odalisque your pillow is on fire. lie down. sleep.
tap tap, who will be beautiful, flesh sockets packed with black?
so beautiful, gnarled stick
the gods prize whose skin whose eye?
you’ll find time harsh because-of beauty
youth pulped, cored.
want seeds. want soil.
[upper aside]: cracks melt smooth like wax
[lower aside]: blush flame, so beautiful. balance ruin.
The phoenix burns billet-doux on my pillow. Read the last one here.
ODALISQUE DOES NOT SAY HELLO NO SHE DOES NOT.
I AM SORRY.
I AM TRYING TO RECORD HER DREAMS IT IS VERY HARD.
MAYBE I WILL SHARE ONE SOON.
I AM SORRY SHE HAS NOTHING TO SAY.
I HAVE THINGS TO SAY.
HELLO I AM OWL.
in a dark and dated hotel room with the boy you tried to kiss his name the name of greek statues the ones that hold up temple porches
get ready. before a plate glass mirror get ready
to fly north for an event.
planes to catch in metallic hangars it is so hard to get to these planes.
city streets treacherous they all drop down into round-a-bout bottoms like the bottoms of bowls. bowl bottom is stable equilibrium says math class. no catching a plane in the bottom of a bowl without a dose of irrational energy.
i fly. afraid to lose the earth. no worries. boy and girl are bound to earth. i bear them.
sidewalk man in suspenders makes chalk mandalas on the concrete very colorful they are.
maybe he is the one.
that girl has fantastic boots. red cross-stitched.
maybe she is the one.
will the bicycle make it up the hill, out of the city, to that dark road running home? see road slope and curve beneath o’erhanging trees shadow trees where insects sing.
we / land / ground / earth on a paved plaza.
event hotel! off-center lobby. elevators to rooms where folded schedules are forgotten. long brown halls. stumble upon an intimate, semi-circular hall where businesspeople in frumpy suits karaoke made-up lyrics to classic rock songs. in one room girl having an argument with staff about what she knows to be true. time to go home. surely the event is practically over time to catch another plane. for vacation. girl can’t find keys to room where her things are and can’t remember where her room is but
look a forest. a cube of forest bounded by glass. stunning concept. balanced with fore-thought / but wild. red leaves / peacock blues of ever-greens. deep deep ground forest sunk so to see into canopy
technicolor forest caged between glass viewing corridors of event hotel.
here was well thought-out. here is worthy of contemplation. here be still.