· the cultural society ·

                                                            I don’t know the rule I’m supposed to follow but frankly, nor do I care. The space turned itself out when it declared I AM NOT SPAIN. Fire, or some electric sign, a brothering, like a row of grown-up sisters, to the sounding thirst I bade farewell, unnecessary acrobat unloved. Of the mouth we chose […]

Again, we awake to chatter of teeth hitting a concrete heartbeat. Heard within my ear. A tractor begets its face of garden trowels to dig the rusted out. Wet birdleaf plumes brandy cedar and shavings scent my hair. All bodies torn from water. Rumbles thunder our words pushed back. Punched sheetrock chalks the river in […]

Sunlight grass yellows In every none I find one who kneels. invisible. A click at the back Absent rain curves our way. summerfull, river white. Heat runs us Watermelon wet, I trace finger to window, we turn inside the village of split ends. dizzy out the waterfront. A silver school breaks That light threshing sound. […]

It’s all made up. The light is yolk-fed. Rearing. A sky of egg shells, you will feel discomfort. A crack in your wooden table. There are no real rivers. No islands. There are no fireflies to distil darkness or the lamp of your hair. Apple true and listing, you will look for those names. I […]

Caught up in a susurrant fluctuation of water, water wringing out air—the Pacific as it pares down a presumed soundlessness: a breath at the center of the room displaced by a word distinct from traffic: sustained and refracted through dunes and dolosse—to notice there is nothing to notice beyond the weight of what there is […]

Impossible to read, the glare at once bright and faint. Haze incandescent, compressed by heat colliding with the marine layer. July has no memory. No- thing’s retained, the land- scape shape-shifts continually and there is no ground for the mind to stand on, to sense itself here. This un- remittent elsewhere, at once too bright, […]

Listening to wind dislodge objects in the dark around my room, I want to think thinking is enough to locate a world, any world; but it isn’t, and it isn’t this one. It isn’t this world, weather.

No change beyond air smelling faintly of old piss. A neon liquor store sign strains to break the overcast. How November moves. Stunted palm tree’s stunted shadow sutures curb to street, street to curb—to lawn glazed white with television. I walk, watch day dissolve as if on waking’s edge— those impossible lines consciousness repels.

XI. The ablative interests me. By it, from it, with it, in it, on it: separation, causation. Declined.               He became an explosive               to shed the cocoon               embraces made for him: from it.               Like a piñata that shatters itself.               Imagine its need: in it. The noun resists. That’s its nature. XII. “ . . . that […]