It's true that we are meat and it's true this training
It's true the experiment's not thru never thru yet it's true
It's true we are only rings not to jump thru but to be
To be only in the sense of being-in in the sense of a draft
Not knowing otherwise how to cry
It's true we cast shadows which only sometimes fall
And which usually rise
That are a cause for occasion
The fall and yet the sleep of the tick
Their machine properties and gaps in instinct
It's true that we are meat and it's true this training
It's true the experiment's not thru never thru yet it's true
It's true we are only rings not to jump thru but to be
To be only in the sense of being-in in the sense of a draft
A body draws near a warm body and because that body is near one sucks
The fall is suspended in sucking them
So sucking is true to shadows
Green and purple to the arrested touch
The teeth are true only not having a face
The animal is this singing and sighing
It's true that we are meat and it's true this training
It's true the experiment's not thru never thru yet it's true
It's true we are only rings not to jump thru but to be
To be only in the sense of being-in in the sense of a draft
These signs are the collapse of eyes
Wrested from a mortal glance
One paints bulbs black
Any color they are not as I
That splotch of red not real as meat
But as the pain of color itself
Of color itself falling thru our bodies
The pity of both before and in
The cage drawn so to the animal crying out its face
The cage confined by what makes us us
Like a curtain drawing back and sliced but not torn
Like here when it is here
The flicker of gravity born
There is sovereignty in the things we lack
Lack itself divides inside from inside
We remain in our animation like quiddity repeatedly killed
I knew this at once when it painted itself
By itself the appearance of action in the things we create
We cried a lost dimension or indiscernibility around an endangered body
What felt necessities sighing this body is the soul
There is danger precious danger only if we discover and sleep
There is danger prescient danger crossing the leashless rings
There is grace but not elegance in this per se
The greater the mutilation and discrete jets and interruption of organs the more we ascend. The head follows the hand of course, the literal hand like a physical belief in this ascendance by haphazard degree. The hand of the painter presupposes such consent.
Kierkegaard speaks in his *Sickness Unto Death* of the "about-face" of despair. But you disperse pity from the face (the soul- appearing-surface) across organs and objects. In cages cross-sectioning the case consent is as escape or "primeval consent" (Susan Howe). Accident proves incident cause.
Every animal needs an attendant as every mortal its name
Every name its angel as every angel its spirit-body
Ours is a true appearance of spirit seized in harm and dissected in grace
Ours a mannerist dignity of dice, a dicey proposal of remains
A blackened bulb
Thoughtless purchase
Misplaced description
Foreclosed reflections of things being similar
Embodied instants
Suspended cause
Throwing forth
Teeth without mouths
Umbrellas for heads
A color for shadows
Dissymmetry of the preformed
Intussuception
Substituted abcess
Determinate excess (a jet)
Presentable affect (the cry)
The sound always sealed-up in the cry
Carnal vantages
Sense for sense-of-falling
Aspect-flows (brush curve)
Resurrected drives
It's true that we are meat and it's true this training
It's true the experiment's not thru never thru yet it's true
It's true we are only rings not to jump thru but to be
To be only in the sense of being-in in the sense of a draft
Of color itself falling thru our bodies
The pity of both before and in
The cage drawn so to the animal crying out its face
The cage confined by what makes us us
I knew this at once when it painted itself
By itself the appearance of action in the things we create
We cried a lost dimension or indiscernibility around an endangered body
What felt necessities sighing this body is the soul
Every animal needs an attendant as every mortal its name
Every name its angel as every angel its spirit-body
Ours is a true appearance of spirit seized in harm and dissected in grace
Ours a mannerist dignity of dice, a dicey proposal of remains
The fly makes its eyes for the spider's web here
What remains is the frozen refrain
A dew like a thousand eyes in attendance
Which vanishes in this experimental.
