Come

come with me into the museum and stare at the painting until it becomes another painting
(I'm thinking of Mondrian's Composition, 1916--the fractures and the bold claims in territory; maneuvers; Berio's Sinfonia, 3rd movement)

be still and listen as I read from the journals of Kierkegaard; his elegant lethary and way of writing error into things (how he labels those with a cursed mendacity)

we'll extract seven new renderings of the dawn of new Helen, whispering findings of emerging minutia in the city back and forth (what little romances).

once again I will tell you I love you and you will turn away, some book framing a familiar exit

Art furnishes us with eyes and hands and above all the good conscience to be able to turn ourselves into such a phenomenon.

Nietzsche

how to enter a dress *

stop dying.
yes, it is like falling.
no, it is not togetherness.
hung, rather, in convex systems (condensing above a human barrier, what expectation looks like).
more nimble, sure.
it is like this: a hand, and then another. no need for an interpreter. these things we know, how to dress.
how to enter.
perhaps the door can open by itself and let in everyone who have currents to lend to the increasing chorus,
warning, transitive.
and the almost a river.
which may or may not have been exposed to constraint, which may or may not have been numbered, detailed, felt, watched, talked to, prescribed.

promise me an old city
with some carriage, pulling into mist,
our projects
and measurements
delighted.

promise me the Indian boy with braids on the school bus.
promise me forever beautiful knees.
the whole of our lives.



*draft

Bonjour, encore bonjour amour (mélancolie)

bonjour, tristesse. Enfin, non encore. Plusiers des lettres, se noyer les mots. mais vous ne savez pas comment vous préparer. vous n'aviez pas les leçons, l'amour. manque. lui en courant. plus enfin.

bonjour, bonheur (plénitude), et
Rue de Seine
quand je trouve un autre, alors

vague à l'âme

the stage, the backs

It is nearing summer and the auditioning work begins. The odd call for commercials, the odd extra work for film, for series. If lucky, a speaking part.

Being on a live set is fantastical. The really dreamy part begins in the backs of the theatre/the off-camera area. Once in the lights, once passing over the threshold of that tape mark on the floor, you are expected to--no, paid to--slip into a new presence, a performance in thirteen acts. The sky is yours, the task of the translator manageable within the space of the small room (we live in the sentence), the stage offering plenty of exits through heavy dark curtains that seem like secret passages, that you covet and recall under heavy blankets while you sleep.

The before is almost as sweet as the duration. All black boxes and white lettering and metal poles and roped knots, bold lines taped in X's and L's to mark place and to mark light. Where every outfit is a costume simply by putting it on. And everyone understands that you are playing a part. And nothing else matters but the minutes spent upstage or down, standing in the place assigned to you, improvising as is your nature in that costume you're wearing, in the back of something waiting to be someone else. Embracing that part of yourself that you can't explain to anyone how/why it exists and so you simply must show them. Show, don't tell.

Sometimes life is like this.

Ma'at Hornefrure'

Jeter tout reste. and here I am pouring wine into the soup bowl and soup into the alley. I do not know where I am. the sea gives rest. is given.

Ma'at Hornefrure', la deuxième place, abscons. Even with your frailness, even when loving without delicacy, even when enclosing oneself in the cult of second place: répétiteur d'amour replaces what water coveted or converted.

Replaces the need for the fan dancer's resting place.

        gestures the need for body.