after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell
This eiderdown
home, reduced
means means
praxis, no
waste vacant.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
POINT TO THE EYE by Brandon Shimoda
after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell
the great gust
reduced to the wire
stripped storm
please, the white
mobile spinning
dire stems, extend
a thin vapor, corpse
in mortar
and maiden blind crescent
Giacometti stretches
limbs, loving
lean toward secret
the great gust
reduced to the wire
stripped storm
please, the white
mobile spinning
dire stems, extend
a thin vapor, corpse
in mortar
and maiden blind crescent
Giacometti stretches
limbs, loving
lean toward secret
Step next forth by Jennifer K Dick
after “un cap franchi” by Lisa Pasold
(Method: writing a line between each of hers)
culinary bruises, there's the space between
my eyes, furrowed lines sketching out
her names, heavy and constantly
volubile. speak, taken aback, trekked deep into that
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
fondled, all caterwauling and lolita lollipops
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
his back slammed to wall, to covenants
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
rosaries, daily ablutions fire-hot blessed water
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
a sketch pad or palimpsest clue-sought
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
backgammon or years of chess played close to the bone
once swallowed, the question's rather less
tactile than plastified. her game overwrought more forthright
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
is given over his name given up, spit out. my mouth
becomes moot.
(Method: writing a line between each of hers)
culinary bruises, there's the space between
my eyes, furrowed lines sketching out
her names, heavy and constantly
volubile. speak, taken aback, trekked deep into that
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
fondled, all caterwauling and lolita lollipops
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
his back slammed to wall, to covenants
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
rosaries, daily ablutions fire-hot blessed water
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
a sketch pad or palimpsest clue-sought
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
backgammon or years of chess played close to the bone
once swallowed, the question's rather less
tactile than plastified. her game overwrought more forthright
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
is given over his name given up, spit out. my mouth
becomes moot.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Scene: in back of the closet by Jennifer K Dick
After, or a tissage of, Michelle Noteboom's "Untitled Landscape" & Amanda Deutch's "Scene 7: Amour, Mort, More"
Looky here, he is in the closet eating body hearts. It’s all going in the wrong direction, he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. This is it, why we are here, what we are trying to figure out! You mooncalf. You nitwit overfocused on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. A shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, is lookin’ out for, is snapped together, pinned to him. After all, it is the one who has the questions that prowls. Maybe that’ll teach you to, in this image, stop reflecting. Prowl like this for bloody organs, the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s, or there it is. And the fallacy folds inward. Again. We do not yet know his identity, or what he calls himself. You itch to unlock the origami. Madame D doesn’t tell me Courbet caught the origin of the world between a woman’s legs. Find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. 1866 on only his first version, vision. She, yet. Doesn’t trust the métro (too fast) takes the bus instead. Just can the sturm und drang for once. He calls it “L”, toile d’araignée. You wastrel. Origins and mondes, wasted neurotoxins in the biohazard bag stashed by his old suitcases. What did you say? It was a good vintage.
Looky here, he is in the closet eating body hearts. It’s all going in the wrong direction, he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. This is it, why we are here, what we are trying to figure out! You mooncalf. You nitwit overfocused on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. A shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, is lookin’ out for, is snapped together, pinned to him. After all, it is the one who has the questions that prowls. Maybe that’ll teach you to, in this image, stop reflecting. Prowl like this for bloody organs, the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s, or there it is. And the fallacy folds inward. Again. We do not yet know his identity, or what he calls himself. You itch to unlock the origami. Madame D doesn’t tell me Courbet caught the origin of the world between a woman’s legs. Find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. 1866 on only his first version, vision. She, yet. Doesn’t trust the métro (too fast) takes the bus instead. Just can the sturm und drang for once. He calls it “L”, toile d’araignée. You wastrel. Origins and mondes, wasted neurotoxins in the biohazard bag stashed by his old suitcases. What did you say? It was a good vintage.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
NEW: Scene 7 by Amanda Deutch
Scene 7
he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels
This is it. why we are here. what we are trying to figure out.
it is the one who has the questions that prowls. prowls like this for bloody organs.
we do not yet know his identity. or what he calls himself
Courbet thought the origin of the world
was between a woman’s legs in 1866
only she doesn’t trust the métro (too fast)
takes the bus instead
huile sur toile
...........toile d’araignée
NEW: Untitled Landscape by Michelle Noteboom
Looky here. It’s all going in the wrong direction. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. You mooncalf. You nitwit. Maybe that’ll teach you to focus more on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. In this image, you can’t stop reflecting on the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s a shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, and the fallacy folds inward again. You itch to unlock the origami yet find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. Just can the sturm und drang for once. You wastrel.
Memories of Athena, by RS Oventile
(After JKD’s “Athena”)
See azure, hard snows; hear winds.
The barred window mirrors the rough, red arc.
Shuddered of her; she sprang out,
torrid, tidal, her face ancestral, brazen.
Her obsidian defiance,
Her stillness, her gazelle flight.
Wedded to bronze, to arrow shafts,
riding air, she shadows the meridian.
See azure, hard snows; hear winds.
The barred window mirrors the rough, red arc.
Shuddered of her; she sprang out,
torrid, tidal, her face ancestral, brazen.
Her obsidian defiance,
Her stillness, her gazelle flight.
Wedded to bronze, to arrow shafts,
riding air, she shadows the meridian.
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