Monday, June 28, 2010

Dedication to an island

The mountain teems like a kaleidoscope
fractals, reminiscences, so hard to bend a curved line. In a reluctant mood, I bend willingly.
Itself was to the creasing what suddenly of rust moony blast was to the fall. The I falls in continuity.
Satiated. No, too slow a word. Resuscitated. Removed.

Un Pointe pour 99 cents.
Elicit, rallied. Regine Robin’s sense of anticipation: the end. Not getting what one wants.
A walk pursued as a thought, without intention.

All of us, primeval. Sculptors of the crescent, of the marked shaped figured spine, the curve of the land against the wet, the line carved into it.

Pock-marked, suffused with all things, intact and
1 informs the 2
relapse, speculation,
get your feet wet.
As if dragging could be kept. Like a pet.

Porcelain, disappearance like insects, the in is in the liking, the out gets a swat.
This is the whitened one, trap hands tight to the wall or the artful,
minds will fend the aether, ecclesiastics in blue.
Pastiche, virulent.
Rusted lines, the wood already decayed, a civilization. Hemlock, the politician speaks.
Be full or disappear be full to disappear.

We are educated or we are forgotten chronicles we are a new and failed body of water we are creasing at the seams we are between the not and the not. Curved, courage; soft blue wilderness will not last, lover.

I have carved you a new education. One with keeping. A love that will crack.


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