hot paper snow

Yoru no Sei

.

Girl in Bed

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

-Charles Bukowski

.

a collaboration a communication

Print of Judith with the head of Holofernes, Florence

& St. Sebastian 6 arrows dead radiating

haughty uncle-affect ennui in his neck cocked & black curly

tufts suffused with recent shampoo perhaps Pantene

Pro V Botticelli? Next page

we go crooking

slashing

reeds from reed bed but

with dainty hand a head a quill a cock’too

much a symbol crashes together in its own potentials, the trunc

ated head the pen becomes a blank paper. We view the viewer surmise she

holds in her right the blade less daintily lovingly more

so such is grip. A brocading at her own collar neither the neck nor

head visible nor nethers wow, she amputated too but just right

end of the entire body. We presume she dons a black robe

though mourning being a mysterious movement, leaves us

blank, or ergo

beheaded, on the horizon upsloping tender

hills not mountains, light, & before them

war on near horses, lines of pikes upraised, the

afoot like satyrs, the saddled sore as centaurs, a quick-

silver morph into one body, one war body, many complete

creatures, a flag

slanting at the same angle as...the reed

dispossessing Holofernes’

romance appearance.

-jared harvey

-Fronz von Stuck, Judith

.




ii.

Le culte de la violence.

I ate a spirit molecule with my lungs.
almost,
it ripped apart a body
gills to the air


fingering the red prickly blade of flame
touched it tried to breath
violated by eros.


“Eros is an issue of boundaries.
He exists because certain boundaries do.
In the interval between reach and grasp, between glance and counterglance, between, ‘I love you’ and ‘I
love you too,’ the absent presence of desire comes alive.
But the boundaries of time and glance and I love you are only aftershocks of the main,
inevitable boundary that creates Eros; the boundary of flesh and self between you and me.
And it is only, suddenly, at the moment when I would dissolve that boundary,
I realize I never can.”



One desire desiring out
onto another desire desiring out onto
another desire desiring some other desire entirely
triangulated
in the metro in paris
everyone sees
everyone is desirous
a gaze
approaches you,
approximates and creates you, itself, at once
gazes away

we had just been watching
Canadian film about the absence of borders where
a little girl and her mad father
who wouldn’t buy her glasses 
leaves her to find a wild tiger in the forest
the bodies heaped in the snow still as she laydown next to them
being with other beings being like them
because he had left her for sometime alone
trying to try being next to beings not being both of them,
trying to try to find
the frontierin the theater.


For how you pulled out your hair
I will always want to move and be moved away from.
The contraction of selves infuriates me.

the spirit molecule offeredno place to go but constellations
to see myself overI licked my finger tasted of salt of
heat I wandered wantingmy wound
to push into heat
as an infant plunges
it's hand into honey.








.

time

I will not stop sailing




.

To love somebody

No use crying.

el temblor in the morning

the dream was at the brink of becoming a nightmare;
I was desperate,
running up to say something to her that she wouldn’t or couldn’t understand exactly
in the way that I did because I thought
if she did she would change her mind and tell me something like
you are my love and you have good thoughts and you are beautiful
her face pushing out from the background and my trying to grasp
there was something, an argument, about who had been responsible,
she accused me of having hurt the child when I was a child, but
I should avoid falling into autobiographical anecdote
as it doesn't even make sense to me.
under the window covered in bamboo string drawn shades
my hand on a white painted wall
I wake to shuddering
in the softness of my bed
from a threatening pressure
that feels, I suppose, like the physical manifestation of a thought
from the earth, unconscious, dreaming,
unknowingly disturbing
as it tosses in sleep
because no one sleeps alone.

there is so much going on in this image that i never noticed before. the huge open eyes of the little woman, the anger in the face of the little cat by her side, the darkness of the little dog, his opaqueness, the lines, the fence that separates them, the connection of their gazes, the curiosity, the spontaneity, the fragility, the starkness of the tree, the dirt of the cement wall, the scratches, the desperate strokes of a fading paintbrush that puts the blurry and bruised but indelible words onto the ground below them, of letters that begin thick, that unravel and ease off, the pressure of their painting loosening,
the intensity of their meaning escapes them



.

What wondrous love is this, oh my soul, oh my soul,

.

"A Klee drawing named “Angelus Novus” shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe that keeps piling ruin upon ruin and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress."

— Walter Benjamin,

Ninth Thesis on the Philosophy of History

you fly around no one sees

There is a saying that goes along with the celebration of lights, Diwali: as the wick of an oil lamp must remain half in oil and half out in order to give off light, so is life. In order not to be drowned by the materialism of the world, one must be in the world while simultaneously remaining untouched by it: by being in the world but not drowning in the worldly aspect of it is to be the light of joy and knowledge. Heidegger once said that being-in-the-world is a mood that assails us. It comes, the mood, neither from the outside nor from the inside. One may turn away from a mood, but in doing so always turns towards another. Only through the mood are we able to encounter the world. THE WORLD. And upon unworlding? “Other times I get tired and lose all appetite for trifling asides about the future of worlds” (YES).


The liberation of Desire.

An otherness barely touched upon and that already moves away.

I had a dream that was about a bird. The bird was blue but its feathers were falling off. I tried to catch the bird, I held it in my hands and then I put it in a box. I opened the box and it fit the box perfectly and then it became smaller and smaller. I opened the box again and the bird came out but it looked like a very small baby bird with no feathers on it, it was pink and ugly and its legs were soft. I tried to feed it before it became so small and so weak and died. It ate some meeat that I had. It became a green insect, with wings, and it flew away. I watched it fly away.




Bird= part of myself . fly, and the jump, are fragile and delicate but free
Feathers falling out- part of myself- messy, hard to collect, scattering
Tried to catch the bird, put it in a box= part of myself- trying to control something free, scattered, falling apart
Ugly bird= part of myself= walking, moving, changing, process, fetus,
Feed the bird=part of myself= nourishing, wanting nourishment
Green insect flying away = part of myself – flying, growing, buzzing, going away, small but free.



Key Sparrow

No quiero hablar con humanos

.


Cecilia Pavón dice:





No quiero hablar con humanos
quizás la poesía sea la salvación
o quizás simplemente
quiero mantener ordenada mi casa
colgar la ropa
lavar las tazas de café
regar las plantas,
sin hablar con humanos.
La poesía es hablar con un gas,
aunque la hayan escrito
humanos,
aunque la escribió Elizabeth Bishop
cuando hablaba con un volcán.
(En una entrevista de una revista de arte
Vicky Colmegna dice que le gustaría
hablar con los animales.)
A veces como madre me siento como un animal
quiero proteger a mi hijo
aunque nunca sé bien cómo hacerlo
nunca comprendí el instinto maternal
más allá del embelesamiento
con una criatura pura
que crece y se le estiran las piernas
Cuando hago el amor con Claudio
a veces,
cuando estamos bien, cuando no peleamos
siento que soy parte de una fuerza sin nombre
que me arrastra
y que me hace entender la belleza de las flores
No sé si es entender la palabra
supongo que el amor es algo de la gracia
supongo que los animales también deben
sentir esa gracia cuando se aparean
y aman el sol.

Pero no lo sé.
Ahora, voy a pasar otra tarde
pensando en que la poesía es un gas
o una piedra
otra tarde pensando que me gustaría
dormir sobre una piedra
grande y lisa,
otra tarde en la que me gustaría sonreír
cuando siento que la poesía es un gas
que envuelve el mundo
un gas que envuelve el mundo
y yo sólo estoy en mi casa
triste,
sad
colgando la ropa
y lavando la tazas del café.



.

in an expression of the inexpressible.

.

I've made up my mind and changed my mind I've made up my mind and changed it

run down.










.

Otra emoción equivocada,

Belen Iannuzzi escribe:

No, no te estoy diciendo que nos casemos, P,
sólo que me llames
no bien estés saliendo de mi casa
llamame desde el ascensor
desde el garage
desde la cocina cuando vas a buscar agua
llamame desde el baño cuando estoy en el cuarto
invitame a irnos de vacaciones juntos
la segunda vez que nos veamos
en la tercera cita
hablemos de los nombres de nuestros hijos.

No, no te estoy diciendo que tengamos hijos, P,
te digo que los imaginemos
hablemos de la casa de Montevideo
de la casa en la playa
aunque después no exista
nunca exista
ya no exista
yo no exista
ni vos
hablemos de los viajes en combi hasta Venezuela, P,
hablemos de las flores.

No, P,
no me digas hablemos en la semana
no me digas quedate tranquila
no me digas tranquila
¿dónde vamos a festejar tu cumpleaños?
¿y nuestro aniversario?

Yo ya sufrí, P,
y aprendí un montón de cosas
lloré hasta la deshidratación
te lo digo bien,
te lo digo bien,
no tengo tiempo
de que seas
otra emoción equivocada.

The Monstrosity of the Princess

Your heart is a prism.

somewhere over the rainbow.

"“I can’t say anything,” she closes (176). That phrase means she can’t do anything to change anything. From here she regresses to yelping and tries to dig a hole in the ground, to become the size she feels, and also to become, in a sense, an embodiment of the last thing she loved. After that, Dorothy goes crazy, lives in a fantasy world of her own, wandering homeless and free, especially, of the capacity to reflect on loss in the modalities of realism, tragedy, or melodrama. To protect her last iota of optimism, she goes crazy."

Lauren Berlant
Cruel Optimism

into the forest

Tu me tues.
Tu me fais du bien.
Tu me tues.



Help to Japan Earthquake Tsunami Victims






.

“Why do we ask so many questions?....

....Two people shouldn’t know each other too well if they want to fall in love.”


L’eclisse (1962)












.

understand

How to Be Alone

via Adriana Lisboa

el teatro teatra como un arbol arbolea

thereareamillionthingsthatiforgottodoiwassupposedtogotothe2000summerolympicsandwinagoldmedalswimmingbreaststrokeiwassupposedtopracticeeverydaystartinginjulyof1996summerolympicswhenitoldmyselfiwouldiforgottolearntoplaytheelectricguitariwassupposedtobeafamousmusicianwheniwasverylittleiusedtodanceinasliponthetableandsingatthetopofmylungsbeforeiwenttosleepbecauseiwasgoingtobeafamoussingerandihatedmymotherandihatedmyfatherbecausetheywouldntbuymeafuckingtelecasteriwassupposedtobeanartistandbeanillustratorandpainteverycolorleakingaboutinthebottomofmybodymindheartbutthenistartedtoreadpoetryandliteratureandneededwordstosaywhatiwantedtosayandididntwanttobemediocreandiwantedtogotospainsoiwenttospainbutiforgotsomewherealongthewaywhatiwassupposedtodoinspainandnowispeaksomespanishandistilldontknowwhattosaywheniwasyoungihadabeautifulsparklingmindnowiamtiredandalliwannadoissleepitoffitsfunnyhowtomorrowalreadyfeelslikeyesterdayandhowigetnostalgicforthesmellofsomeshampooihadalongtimeagoitsmelledlikelavandereverytimeitookashowerandiwasoncereallycoldinrussiaanddrankwhitecoffeeicrashedmycartwiceandigotitstuckinourbackyardandtheyhadtouseahugecraintogetitonthestreethecameandjumpeditandtwitchedandwantedtokissmebutitoldhimnoandhetoldmehelovedme.

.

"Bem sei que é assustador sair de si mesmo, mas tudo o que é novo assusta"

-Clarice Lispector

.

saudades

Canto De Iemanja X Smokey and Miho

the shoreline is the space between water and land, neither ocean nor earth but a liminal intersection that also posits a transition.

From the threshold,


it is the ritual,

the repetition,

that fills us with the momentum that pushes us to break through

or

do we stay, lapping like waves,

in the same place


forever


?

渡辺勝と松倉如子





.

3:28 a.m.

.

deliverance



I cry too.

puisque



.

Help me in my weakness
'Cos I'm falling out of grace



.

like her head's on fire

.

and so we watch the sun come up
from the edge of the deep green sea
and she listens like her head's on fire

.




"There is a side of me that lives and does things with rapacity and I was a violent and spoilt little girl, but my heart broke when I was seven years old and since then I have never been the same."

.






.

constantly attempting to carve away all of the mountains in its path.

.

tributaries, gullies, streams.

2 streams meet at a confluence: curves, known as meanders.



A river does not just flow, it changes the surface of the Earth.

.

Wild Eyes

.

This morning at 4:00 a.m. I woke up to the blaring porch light shinning at me through my window from across the parking lot behind my room.

I was thinking about the river, the mucky green color of the water and the bare light bulbs above the plastic screen doors, covered in flies, mosquitos, nats at night like a moth to a flame and then I was thinking about the back deck of the lake house, moss on the black metal, the sound the insects make in the night.

I used to spend so many hours in those waters. I thought about my swimsuits, the two pieces the one pieces, my lungs sometimes aching from so much swimming, my reflection in the sliding glass door, my friend telling me I had a pretty body:

becoming conscious of my body,

the leaking pools of youth.

I felt my heart racing and I knew I was a child.

Today I felt my eyes racing and I thought I was a child for a second there and then I felt this separation in my head, separated by the time and the distance and the everything in between now and then, I felt like a child in another person’s body: becoming conscious of my body.

When I was a child I always used to imagine that one day I could wake up as someone else, with the same mind but in a different body. I remember that I figured that it must be so close and so easy to just switch like that because all that was separating us was skin and I felt like the power of my soul was enough to jump out and go anywhere.

I suppose that in a way we choose what we remember and I don’t know why I choose to remember what I do. In the moment of the separation my life was flashing before my eyes: the plastic trays of cafeterias, the white tea and the woman from the green café who picked lilacs from my front yard and told me how to boil the water to steep the leaves without burning them, the summer heat, the intensity, the girl who threw that rock at my car.

I was thinking about my father and about my mother and how I am the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.

I was the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.

.

Dali og Gala

"Tornado" by Dorothea Lasky

.

Like a carrot I will be everything God can’t see

Oh, what do I mean

God can see everything

I mean the angels, I mean the half-gods

I mean the flowers, don’t ever let them see me live forever

Don’t you ever let them see

That I am all root here in the ground

.

.

there is a mouse in my house.


.

good eyes

via katinkalinklove

.

you found myself racing


.

The Universe

Stephen Eichhorn

Tiger's Ear


.

it feels like fall today

via Cahier de Travail Manuel de Louise Despont

.

Spilling Over




.

Estados Unidos debe ser un país lindo porque todas las canciones de amor que escucho en el taxi cuando voy a lugares están en inglés, y vienen de Estados Unidos.

Canciones de amor increíbles como de un planeta insondable.

todas las canciones de amor me gustan

todas las canciones de amor me gustan


-Cecilia Pavon

.


But it passes like the summer
I'm a wild seed again
Let the wind carry me.


.

.

The world had been created to comprehend itself

as matter: table, the torn
veils of spiders ... Even consciousness—
missing my love—

was matter, the metal box of a furnace.
As the obligated flame, so burned my life ...

What is the meaning of this suffering I asked
and the voice—not Christ but between us—
said you are the meaning.

No no, I replied, That
is the shape, what is the meaning.
You are the meaning, it said—


.



Isn’t it always like this?
Something uncontrollable becomes the hero,
Taking off its dress, the ice plants
Sunburn from the center out
So we can see that their deaths

Of splendid rust and yellow are not ours,
We are allowed again the glare
Of the sand, the druid hills,
The grasses brushing the legs, though
Just to have felt it once would have been enough.





.

My love, won't you talk to me?
Won't you lay with me?


.

.

.


"It happens very often that a man has it in him, that a man does something, that he does it very often that he does many things, when he is a young man when he is an old man, when he is an older man. One of such of these kind of them had a little boy and this one, the little son wanted to make a collection of butterflies and beetles and it was all exciting to him and it was all arranged then and then the father said to the son you are certain this is not a cruel thing that you are wanting to be doing, killing things to make collections of them, and the son was very disturbed then and they talked about it together the two of them and more and more they talked about it then and then at last the boy was convinced it was a cruel thing and he said he would not do it and his father said the little boy was a noble boy to give up pleasure when it was a cruel one. The boy went to bed then and then the father when he got up in the early morning saw a wonderfully beautiful moth in the room and he caught him and he killed him and he pinned him and he woke up his son then and showed it to him and he said to him see what a good father I am to have caught and killed this one, the boy was all mixed up inside him and then he said he would go on with his collecting and that was all there was then of discussing and this is a little description of something that happened once and it is very interesting."


.

.

Pina Bausch - Die Klage Der Kaiserin



.