Monday, April 24, 2006

Exercise (Proposition Hems)

Connect a line from "A" to a line from "B"

What you see
What you hear
What you touch
What you feel
What you smell
What you taste
What you think
What you know
What you sense
What you understand
What you grasp
What you recognize
What you perceive
What you imagine
What you believe
What you fantasize
What you hallucinate

Put your fingers in here

This is not the sky

Your ass is not a hat

For thinking (a thinking cap)

Fucking (what you fuck)

A feeling for unearthing

To end "oppression"

The oppression in both living and dying

I want to know we are here

I want to know we are not only here, that the face is not only

Nor the legs of logic

This long walk through the woods to a clearing in space, a pyre upon which are images/models we call thinking

We will call the burning thinking, the ash what is thought

We will not hear them calling our names through the woods

We will hear them calling our true names

This glass, this floor, this leg, this breast

Eroticizing the unknown, the invisible, the cinched

His narrative comes from nowhere

For that's the point

To hear sound beyond sound

The sounds of walking, errancy, appearance

So fire forgives

Whereof meat

Whereof the mind

The mind is meat, frozen for years

The years also frozen

The face eaters/the face eaten

Whereof bread

Is hunger or meat

Reclaimed for the Open

The open spaces, three paces, an open sound, the wood of appearing dogs

The crumbs reclaimed

Wicked and joyous women

Beloved of ice and meat

Do not imagine sound as seeing one's breath

Imagine hearing as holding one's breath for as long as one can

The flocking of these bodies, the inherent doubleness of things

Which conclude in a name (every name)

Beheaded we enjoy the body

Beheaded we forgive time itself

The body awakened to no thought before it

His narrative comes from nowhere, but is not nowhere

It is the sole position of our alibi

Tell us of our first guilt

Sound design pokes me in the eye

Contact extracts contact from contact, blue from blue on our common palette (parlances)

Like gesturing to a sky writer unseen

Waking in the wings of the withdrawn (the photography which is not of us)

For time there would be an image both of ourselves and not of ourselves

Which could sing us to sleep

A narrative which would wake us from drink

This body sinking to earth, regardless of surface

This gaze sinking, drunk on gestures

Blurred by the rule of their crossing

Walking down this city block close your eyes as if you were not a camera for the world

Spin as though the world were not revolving

As if the world should not be revised

Act as if you were not an actor

Falling and falling to sing these boundaries

Not of them

Flocking (as in this dance)

There is erring and there is error

There are guns and there are guns

Yet a gun is always a gun, errancy not always error

There is repeatability and substitution in a hell of images

There is the ghost of forgiveness's promise

The body becomes parsed, the mind severed

There are recordings of this

Their privilege is to move about in disguise

The truth is a disguise

That is the meaning of these doubles (a whole cultural literature of doubling)

To tell stories, to endlessly talk

That these exigencies repeat (are repeatable)

Forming a series of living events

A feeling for the fire of our future.

The Imagination of Hell ("into the fire of our future")

Body stratum spill

Guts spill wine mud pigs tits

Head will feed on hell

The acephalic the void

The fire will be fed

Endlessly on this blurred earth

Camera turning earth

Amuck alcoholic

Transcendence aether of the


Wings down not up

Descending to acsend

The endless body of sex

Thongs breasts skin

Drink the dogs in

For they are the friend

Of horror hell

Of men not on earth

But in heaven

Walking in hell

They will yet succeed us

And laugh the hearty

Breasts the drink

Of men the women who cry


Who chewing

Will be chewed by men

Bread transcendence

Make a face

At the camera

Of the camera turned

To the earth no more

Burned than hell

No more turned

The imagination no more

Drink dogs in

For they are gods

Plows in an errand.