Tuesday, January 31, 2006

2 after Alexander Sokurov*

Whispering Pages / Spiritual Voices

The weightless will.

We laugh, we all
fall down.

to rest
in senseless sleep.


The fallen faces.
I will pretend. They will fall
To water a reflection
Of water at least.


And that they could

in reverse it is a matter

of how we find our way around

the pogramed city

convinced we
are still dreaming.


There is a sense
of magnitude in boots.

Boots made Infinite in

The dead do not
intend anything,
do they?


While birds, seemingly matted, cross the screen, the screen, as though flip pages.

While birds, birds too heavy to be real birds, play at gravity.

A Russian novel per frame.

Black cataracts
the sun
goes down in my eyes


Dear Afghanistan,

we see
with sepia the past
as though the same war
wasn’t always
being fought
under the same
desert sun.

Dear Russia,

a soldier sleeps
on sunless days
dreaming the milky
black of both pictures,

everything changes
because the eye persists.


The dust / in their eyes
profile / of a mountain / side
flat, incisive / sublime
arriving / in slow-motion
whatever “real / time” is.


Like icons these soldiers
the clouds which move
as they move
not above them

but as synchronous
angels twisted
in earthbound sleep.


The world,
the green
world is a tableaux

vivante or a Turner

where the clouds

the sun still won’t appear.

We hover above the cameras of this earth.

*composed October, '05.

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