[ fragment 3 ] by sean s

after First by Michelle Naka Pierce

It was a hypothesis first.
Who said the loss was a result of

knowing what was, once impossible?
Thus the loss came with the possible.
The wind picking up speed, gusting

against the glass panes above the creek.
We do not know who. Perhaps one

washed clean from the rain. One
a certainty, an acute angle, a bond. A
squall of raindrops cut through by

a tentative suggestion. An absence
(caused) by this appearance. A callous wood floor

reaching, kicking through the window. A
hypostasis of the loss, our possibility, our
forgotten necessarily not, the wind

picking up snow from the north.

Dropped in here, by JKD

Cut-up combo + adaption of by The Porcelain Bird Jon Wonham, Rabbit & Pork by Rufo Q and the Poem "Letter 1" from Dan Machlin's book Dear Body: (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2007)

I am a cluster, droplets of a nothingness, your prayer, if this is the year of all that must kill, bomb, of a child’s egg, I have words: porcelain, lay, cabinets, a toilet, gents, seasoning, sometimes in great numbers, that which is forwarded. Marked. The endangered, if you please, past clarity. Send the body. Of Lagavulin, the teacups, bowl with birds in the birds in the handle cracked from flowering, I suppose. If with you we see living, never meet, non-acceptance, winters in likes (by lakes) to cause, for a cause, we tend to temper off. In children’s feathers, fathers of brave little birds. It is death, is it not? And has set the year of the priests into motion. A hymn to become man, tiny beads as in birdfeed, song blown to craters inside which she finds Madagascar, breaking. Fuss, perch at bedrooms, tell bodies and girls at all removed sequences that which is read about or off in lists. Caskets by mandrake roots where we plant bulbs. Opportunities to sunbathe are creating symbols. Iconography. Things lie down—as now, listening at night to stories, naughty, threatened panel-painting of crucifixions. I am never this house. My father’s. Ours. That that one lives is no comfort, no mourning could give know-how, nor species insight. See or seen? Shoot post-free in the cold, sprouting. Of porcelain, post-partum, ruby-red-robed Calendula eavesdrops on the bees. Is your missed nuclei sunbathing? Has he gotten lost in cross-pollinations? Ruins thinking of symbols, hagiography. Fissures in its eggs cry flush, commonly look out for the passage of figures: this Japanese tree as snow. We are in our separate, if only concomitant, events. Where to fuse the terrace, when to stun back again? I was a museum of our first litter. On all the porcelain lists, bowls, toilets flying toward a sluggish hotel. Angels clasping detritus, letters making numbers in a convex angle to still be calculated. One falling off, then the next, crumbling. This bird in collections resembles a city disabused. Mask the unpredictable fro-ing, he is spent where his limbs lie down. It is only that which I can graph as a point.

The Porcelain Bird by Jonathan Wonham

after Rabbit and Pork by Rufo Q

This bird lays its eggs
in collectors' cabinets.
Its cry resembles a toilet flush.
City gents will commonly mark the season
by its unpredictable to-ing and fro-ing,
sometimes looking out for it
in great numbers.

This bird spends winters in Madagascar
where it likes to break things and cause a fuss.
It also tends to perch at night
in childrens' bedrooms
listening to fathers tell stories
of brave boys and naughty little girls.

This bird is not at all threatened
and has been removed
from all the endangered species lists.
If you see one flying past please shoot it
and send the body post-free to us.

Combine, by JKD

A reversal+modification of Rufo Q's 12 first lines/a year

I think of the world waiting
at a busy bus stop in rain
writing two poems a day
seeing it all
lusting after being home
again combing out your long hair
the yellow of the oil lamp’s light
in the corner of your eye and the rain
running over you sitting in the hot tub
there were all these flamingos,
parakeets, cockatoos,
how many I could not tell you
in the basement speaking to God
I unboxed my Id
like an icon set back up on a shelf
dusty, I want to say, like Goya
“Yo lo vi”, yes
I have not done much.

Twelve first lines/A year, by RQ

after moi, je dis je by JKD


I have not done much

I want to say like Goya “Yo lo vi”

I went down in the basement to speak to God, my Id.

there were all these birds, I couldn’t tell you how many

I’m sitting in the hot tub in the rain and the rain

I once saw the light in the corner of your eye

I’m home again, combing out my long hair

I lusted after

I saw it all

I wrote two poems today,

I’m waiting at a busy bus stop

I think the world

NEW: Rabbit and Pork by Rufo Q

A slug of Lagavulin
in the cold hotel: porcelain
the teacups, of porcelain
the toilet bowl.

Calendula, porcelain, birds in the eaves;
birds as angels/the birds and the bees.

New: musings, by Christine H. (a.k.a. roseconsiousness)

How cracked and apparently empty except for air-eggshells convey beginnings

[because as Boully says to begin means that we are in some way cut, that is, we are in some way opened up] ?

How the same object locked up inside a cabinet with glass windows, key nowhere visible, might signal an ending?
Do we end things by putting them behind windows?
How can that be translated into writing?

Framing comes to mind.

Is what makes a text/
a poem
feel 'closed'
due to the fact that the writer withholds the possibility of touching/
smelling/
feeling/
imagining/
thinking language
from the reader,
in other words withholding a space where the reader can engage
the work/
language
by himself?

the notion of open
versus closed?
inside
versus outside?
In both cases it seems up to the viewer,
the reader
to make meaning of content,
to fill and feel the words
'beginning',
'ending'
'book' ?
as a writer i wonder how the practice of consciously writing beginnings and endings affected her
the body never existed before the murder
to mean
to write something into existence,

for words to begin, we must kill something, silence

ways to deal with stress by lisa pasold

after Jennifer K. Dick, Barbara Beck, Amanda Deutch, Sandy Florian


1. hide a little towel, there, down in the belly of the fish.

2. chew the stick. chew the stick. chew the stick.

3. heaven is orange cake, that slip of metal.

4. fidget with the rat next door.


now,

over to you.

New: Moi, je dis je (a ramble by JKD)

After Marcel Broodthaers title "Ne dites pas que je ne l’ai pas dit : Moi Je dis Je..."

I say
I say
I say
I I I
or I
or
I or
I
and then
I say
I do
say I
that is
one I
one just
right here
I am
saying
that I
am
that
is
being
I
in the beholden
of
mirrored I
state
clarify
control-less I
say
said
I am
saying
I am
is
that I
being
in the I
have been
in
the I of
I centrefold
of
stormed into
I
into I
am saying this
is just
as be
or behold I
then in
I then
in I
as in
I, I, I, I, I, I
I, I, I, I, I, I
ad infinitum
of a me
in the I
of Iness
eyeing the I
singularity
of I inside
I
inside I
within
each
Russian I-doll
of me
my
I
in my singularness
I alone
or
I only
or I
lonely
I am I
and I
and I say
am
is
are

[ fragment ] by sean s

after First by Michelle Naka Pierce

A hypostasis
it will be. Between word and word, (and) word,
and will be, another between.
The loss of the impossible a result of not
knowing. A breeze creaks along
a north wind, we say north wind when
it is from the north.
Not headed north. Not tended. It took me along
to learn that what was ahead will be (a long time)
without a name.

New: So no one would see, by JKD

Using a detail from a Breugel gravure.

After Nakayasu's Sunday by Sandy Florian

       heaven       hovers

                          all cake

                

                 & crag:

                                    formfoam

After Nakayasu's Translucent Ant Skin by Sandy Florian

catch

          an orange

          &

cast it

          to the ground:

                               poseplay