Saturday, May 27, 2006

Eternity then / Inseperable (Tears Are These Veils)

The turbines of elephants
Other animals
Churn in the eyes of the face
The stars of those eyes

Stuttered cries and slatted
Sibilance strobes like labor churns
Pangs of shock
The face disturbed

In space like an angel's
Will not be disturbed until
This eternity of power and
Deformity should become

As stars superimposed
That face expresses
Nothing is lost there is not
Time enough for these tears.


It is a sound sort of like

And sort of like sobbing

Crying like machines
And animals crying out their eyes

For power alone convivial.


Like the voices
The general voices

Of night
The ritual

Impressions and

This night
Of the world

The cage

From the animal


From pools
Around the lenses

Blobs of blackened

And ceaseless.


Is this making any sense?

The turbines swell again
a relation to mind.

Cries assemble
and blend around the face

a fashion of grace.
The portrait distorted

for there is nothing
time can't do.


A relation

of visions to mind

is ear to this occasional

sticking to sound.

Will we lie down
in that field

peaceful once more

without sublation from which
we fall

to our senses recalling them

a dialogue of sorts
from which

the imagination builds

around a single
spire a cathedral supreme.

From which an amnesis

reproducible contacts

of stars pre-eternities

of tears.


Like rape, mutates
The dropped
Frames the face

Frame rates
Clench the ear, teeth
The image bears

Rearing, rending
Come to our senses

Turbines fill the mouth
With sound

Irreducible to
Descriptions, adequate

In the service and not
In the service
Of us.


The eyes, the eyes, the face
The face, grown inwardly,
Outward, for falling, our sympathy

Our sympathy for the for and our
Sympathy for the in, our sympathy
The sympathy of the in for the for

As real stars, real images
Of stars fall, falling from her
Face, the eyes, the eyes of

The face, the growing inwardly
Until there is a voice for this,
Until there are two voices each

Each other's mine, the one
For the one, the one and
One somehow making one.


Eternity is then
From what it can do.

Histories of eternity
Like labor churns
Affected stars.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

"for whom pictures are paradise"

Children's books do not serve to introduce their readers directly into the world of objects, animals, and people, into so-called life. Rather, if anything remotely similar to Platonic anamnesis actually exists, it would take place in the lives of children, for whom pictures are paradise. By remembering, they learn; what you put into their hands should have, insofar as human hand can impart it to paper, the color of paradise, just as a butterfly's wings have their patina. Children learn in the memory of their first intuition. And they learn from bright colors, because the fantastic play of color is the home of memory without yearning, and it can be free of yearning because it is unalloyed. In that sense, the Platonic anamnesis is not quite the form of memory specific to children. For it is not without yearning and regret, and this tension with the messianic is the exclusive effect of genuine art, whose recipient learns not from memory alone but from the yearning that it satisfies too soon and therefore too slowly.
-Walter Benjamin

Monday, May 22, 2006

Instant Light

There is a certain mist
Mistaken for memory
A gauze or filter
Which teleports the words

Over fields fields over pools
And pools over an umbilical
Voice which twists at night
And says words we can't

Make out and that we
Must imagine instantly
Like a procession passing
In broad daylight or images

As if they were a moment
Ahead of the things we are
Waiting for an idea of
Our bodies so dispersed.

You have made an angel disappear
Through the most mundane
Means -- so what remains?

A mist, a kind of sheen,
As objects themselevs disappear.
A glass for the worlds we have been.

How can't can become literal (Erasing Red)

In an interview in 1992 by Michel Denisot on the French cable station Canal+ for the release of *Fire Walk With Me*, Lynch was asked about his taste for textures and materials, including things which are considered compulsive, like the series of dead flies he used in compositions. He answered that it is the name we give, the associated word ('dead flies'), which prevents our seeing them as beautiful, and that all we have to do to see differently is to erase the word.
--Michel Chion

The erasure of names approaches paradise where a name once was and all that remains is the thing itself resonant and destroyed.

Paradisical beauty is this resonance -- silence beyond sound. The thing resounding no longer attached to a name.

Colors truly become colors without their names.

The signs of paradise remain not only in polesemy but in the dissociation of sign and signifier.

The mind itself cleaves the body as it says the word and a word as a body itself whether said or expressed -- fluent in telepathy.

The throbbing of this word like blood becomes a trance distanced from an idle grasping at meaning. The throbbing of these words like the real.

A ceiling fan, a turbine in slowest motion.

Eternal as our sex-changing.

The red in blood -- blood red.
The red that can't be destroyed and the red that can.
The word red -- hovering.
Bodies hovering in secret judgment.
A red room -- the blood in red.
That are both symbols and images and sound-images.
The image of blood resonant around a word.
The whirring of words like leaves and the leaves of leaves leave-taking in a single ear.
The rushing, like a rushing of liquid -- a falling of the image upon eyes.
A liquid sense of eyes -- ear conscious.
The reflection of a fan whirring for all time and no one fascinates.
Substantial is this.
Wired for a body made only of blood and useless cuts in time.
The heart of the heart of the motor in these incisions.
In becoming a word the word becomes not merely a word.
Paradise is the renunciation of this word having only its one sense.
The denial of the denial of the doubleness of words.

This is not a word.

Words like literal hallucinations of a general voice.

Literally words are tearing us apart.
They go down like gifts towards another who is not exactly us.
It is as though these voices were in the next room on a monitor and not here.
Voices rushing in like angels resounding around the fullness of any place, a portal in the ear.
I want them flung, the blood torn, but I literally can't.
How can't can become literal.

Connecting a sound to a sound movement resumes and we are here before it listening in.
This literal scene metaphorizing only a mood of blood.
Waiting for an image to connect image sound connects what image can not.
We rest in this failure like an eternal word.
An angel rushes upon us again missing the moment it would otherwise grasp.
Red and the word red, blood and the word blood.
Absent-mindedly reciting the world as if it could remain still.

A towel, for instance covering, an angel.

The horizontality of afternoon light
as it falls on the wall.

Signs of a longing
for home follow us afterward.

Icons, like actual homes, alight in our

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Anything That Moved ('Immobile Growth')*

Sometimes a wind blows/ And you and I/Float/In love/And kiss/Forever/In a darkness/And the mysteries/Of love/Come clear
-David Lynch (quoted in Michel Chion's *David Lynch*)

If a light went out in the world
Candle light light of indifferent
Light of a telling seen
I would fuck anything that moved
I would be you and
You would be me

If a light went out
In a windy world
Wound so around a noun
Predicated on
A desiring but secret name
I would fuck
Anything that moved
The scars of your breasts
Fascinated like a statue
Speed of thought speed of
Disguises rest

Speed of this car light
While we are parked
Nowhere discernible I would be
Like you you
Would be like me
In the light of a world gone out
Evil dictates
A space to hit

Velvet we would be
Slow in this movement
Of wind
Roaring the
Anti-hero of dialectics
Love will reign
Speed of love
If fucking won’t become
A nightly thing
The exits we pass-up
To become each other
Will be velvet
Nowhere discernible
But darkness not of night

Slow slow slow
In this movement of wind
Before the light the candle
Of the world gone out
There was a refrain
Velvet in
The mouth of fucking
I was you and you were me
The face it lit
Up with false flame
Perfect for our vehicles
Of immaculate song

Dreaming slow in this
In this other
World red
The lips red of
This slow
Mouth of fucking
Lips close-up and
Slow to breath when dead
Unfalse in a night
Of wind not yet

Not yet velvet
Not yet this light please
O please
Not yet please, please O
Unclasped this
Night not yet of wind
Unclasped around
A verb to fuck

Lets drink to fucking I am not
You are not me yet
A dog roars the real
Voice sounds slowed
The patient slap
The lips
Nearly breathing
Not yet unclasped

Cleave to night verb to fuck
Love love cleaves to
Night to unwind wind
To light slow
A flame of rearview
Mirrors neither hero
Me or you “poet” or
It goes with the territory

The refrain the wind through
The trees from which she
The light light slow
Light the
Object of night of
A mirror around these beings

I would fuck anything that
But nothing’s moving
Too slow a light lighting
The face as it does not sing
Speed of this parked car light
While we are parked

The ear relays this unseen
To the composing eye
Newly breathing a world
Of wind of wind and
Flowers as they beginning
Slow reds and yellows
Of the wind
Wind around a car as
It is passing wind around
Our being

For that moment I am you
And you are me
I would the hero fuck
Anything that moved
Slow speed of dialectics
Libido love will reign
The lips the patient slap
Of flesh but briefly

I would the anti-hero
Uncleave all song all sound
The words as they are
Signs of breath wound slow
And rhythmic like waves
Around the dark

If a light went out in the world
I would hear only
The lips the patient slap
Of flesh as spirit
A final chase of
Speed and chance
The revolving movements
Of two faces under
The dark light of a parked car.

*composed Spring 2005 to Zack Finch and Michael Cross, after lines from poems by Mike Kelleher and John Taggart and watching again David Lynch's *Blue Velvet*.