tricks

Her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection.

They aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,
Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them,

Indeed would make one think there might be thought...

dialectical materialism (one explanation)

"The Way Things Work" by Jorie Graham

The Way Things Work


is by admitting
or opening away.
This is the simplest form
of current: Blue
moving through blue;
blue through purple;
the objects of desire
opening upon themselves
without us; the objects of faith.
The way things work
is by solution,
resistance lessened or
increased and taken
advantage of.
The way things work
is that we finally believe
they are there,
common and able
to illustrate themselves.
Wheel, kinetic flow,
rising and falling water,
ingots, levers and keys,
I believe in you,
cylinder lock, pulley,
lifting tackle and
crane lift your small head--
I believe in you--
your head is the horizon to
my hand. I believe
forever in the hooks.
The way things work
is that eventually
something catches.

That Precision

Does it seem tthat I am precise in love.
Does it seem tthat I am precise in love.
Does it seem thatt I am precise in love.

"Vowels" by Christian Bok.

VOWELS




loveless vessels

we vow
solo love

we see
love solve loss

else we see
love sow woe

selves we woo
we lose

your face was in a body next to my face

traum raum

On a promotional photograph of Donald Sutherland in "Don't Start the Revolution Without Me!"

Pater familias, as he leans in easy, an easy family snapshot, wishing he were headless, wishing he weren't a revolutionary, wishing his left hand was a dagger. Donald Sutherland in lace, in a kind of triangle within a triangle, on its end, not the long but the point. That point a wish for a dagger. Donald Sutherland looks forward to his son, a revolutionary moving in the space of a day, a limit less with clear eyes than clouded, feeling only the press of the present.

historical pressures

der spiegel

latent candle

Rocks

Holding the rocks, they beat a path to his door. Oh what a door! They were speechless at it. Its fragrant darkness, I mean. There was shuffling in the moonlight, and flamethrowers dragged on the pavement. I cannot see further than it, he murmured. She answered with a low whistle, pulling the wool hat further down. Suddenly faced with a dark patch, they realized how they had stumbled.

Weapons

The mysterious skin of the weapon was new to her. She faced it with a set face, the blue sky radiating. This fabric, maybe nylon, was pressed between her forefingers, simple patterns slept against the edge of her thigh. The trigger felt strong, as expected almost. There was something elegant and missing in the trigger space. The most she could conjure up was a fable about wolves, but that seemed to rise from some blue fold deep in a vein beside her heart. She raised it to her eye, conjuring a point at the brink of a landscape. The weapon shrugged off all feeling. This was its secret: it was never new, and always ready.

"Death Fugue" by Paul Celan

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the mornings at noon we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.

fence pont

"Flower" by Paul Celan

The stone.
The stone in the air, which I followed.
Your eye, as blind as the stone.

We were
hands,
we baled the darkness empty, we found
the word that ascended summer:
flower.

Flower - a blind man's word.
Your eye and mine:
they see
to water.

Growth.
Heart wall upon heart wall
adds petals to it.

One more word like this word, and the hammers
will swing over open ground.

plast wall plast

neg specie

red specie

compositional un

"An Order of Event" by James Bertolino

Just beginning now an
order of event
reverses separate movements to this new & simple
dance -- a knitting,
a fabric of limbs,
night warms at the heart of our whirling.

Light now, it's light we
emit, & this
energy the center of the universe.

"An Historical Fact and a Memorable Fancy" by Al Zolynas

When Kant was composing
his Critique of Pure Reason
he would look up from his manuscript
at the tower in the center of town.
He gazed so long the trees grew up
and obscured his vision.
He informed the city fathers of Konigsberg
and they gladly chopped down the trees.
Thus he was able to finish his work.

Here in the country outside my window
the trees tower and wave their arms mockingly.
I work anyway, here a word, there a line.

Always when I awake in the morning
I run to the window to see if this is the day
my three hundred farmers have arrived,
morning chores all done, murmuring
quietly, axes on their shoulders.

-from The New Physics

blue field vs

image float