light coming into sky above still black
ridge, waning white moon above branches
in foreground, sound of wave in channel
Right now beyond the brunt yet afforded, gainsay now / for aspect close to residue, you’ll see it there. Not full / scanned at damage so far, ridges debased fetch so plainly / or even gradual, nothing not due. Visualize the world without bringing feeling into it. What beautiful weather. Force to its farthest limit the destructions of persons [of subject positions] and go beyond that limit. Love is a state of confusion between the real and the marvelous. When I was alive I would type like this the three fingers of the right hand and the two of the left or hold a pear thus or take the skin off a cucumber with a device in the right hand and the pleasure of the white flesh and transparent seeds in a kitchen. Shattered, we are the same blue-green glass. They celebrate a crystal solstice, a sound behind them of a brass harmonica, like wind inside a swollen udder, a tumescence & a pustule. A willow bends & snaps, a door flies open. A winter holocaust approaches, the dead lie frozen, shoes & teeth piled up, ploughed underground by tractors. Down to its final decimal, the pustule bursts, their voices sound like avatars, dancers as pale as doves. Their father is a jackal, waves a parchment, tallow dripping slowly over a globus written large. A willow bends & snaps, a door flies open. These then the isles we were blown from, to, from. From this melancholy trade & back to caulking, boring, back to old boats & the sea. Cracks is a dangerous sign see as is slacks especially dune-slacks. Cracks where the cranes lived old & wet the cranes down in the deadwood. There the front crane told a story to the back crane how he slipped on a cranesbill in a dune-slack. It was a short story. The little yellow pansy story surely? Surely they lost each other in the tall hard grass story? Surely the cranesbill grows mainly on the plains? O spica-venti! O campestris! O inarticulata! So if you’re a beekeeper and all your bees die, you go get a cow, you put it in a little shed, beat it to death, and then in a few months you have a ton of bees. I guess this means we might be living in the most debased time in history and “luckily,” we are! “I anticipate complete and utter destruction / And I want a maxi pad and I need a maxi pad.” A unique hexagonal pattern has been discovered in a recently described plant-parasitic nematode worm. The thumbnail is a kind of face. Afterwards, it was a blur of industrial grade breast pumps and light sabers. $5.81 for a roll of six paper towels. Oh yeah? The ziploc bag of red sand a student brought to office hours. The indents above the sand, on the inside of the plastic, looked like Pali script. They had to stay in there and their food was brought to them on silver.
[Note: Sources: Stephen Ratcliffe, “12.7”, at Temporality, 7 Dec 012; JH Prynne, “As Mouth Blindness”, in Sub Songs; Louis Aragon, “The Peasant’s Dream”, Petrarch, “215” (tr. Tim Atkins), as quoted in Atkins’ Petrarch; Kirsten Kaschock, “Assignment 12.7.12”, at Kirsten Kaschock’s Sleight Book, 7 Dec 012; Jerome Rothenberg, “Child of an Idumean Night”, Jeff Hilson, “Grus grus (common crane)”, as seen at wood s lot, 7 Dec 012; Brandon Brown, and Marie Buck, Amazing Weapons, as quoted in Brown’s “‘The architecture and ambience of the maze’: A review of Marie Buck's ‘Amazing Weapons’”, at Jacket2, 5 Dec 012; “Hexagonal Pattern Found On Plant-Parasitic Nematode”, at Science Daily, 7 Dec 012; Bhanu Kapil, “MONSTER UPDATE plus Body Part 3”, at Monster, 6 Dec 012; Bhanu Kapil, “Endometriosis and the Blog”, at Monster, 6 Dec 012]