You sir you
you tube?
me ? no no..I
i pod.
~ Now you Spike Milligan, beat that.
rachel
somuch separates here the brain from much
cool brain
cool brain
asmuch brain with thin joints
that hum
hairy creatures- avenged
with a thin me closed by
the brain burning, butrusted.
pain slides down b/l/ack like soap.
love.
black soap.
rain soap.
soap. window....;
it's brain window....;
it's pain, you breathless brain.
ie. metal with thin, dirty, upstanding plates in black
Deceitful Record # 78
Cool rain slides
down the window.;
it's not enough.
When skeletal joints
hum pain, the machine
is rusted. The metal plate
in my brain separates
here and now into love
and hate like dirt
and soap. So
do you love me
as much as I ask
you? The thing
about the injured
is burning, angry.
I am standing
on a cliff with
thin, black, hairy
creatures-
avenged
and breathless.
down the window.;
it's not enough.
When skeletal joints
hum pain, the machine
is rusted. The metal plate
in my brain separates
here and now into love
and hate like dirt
and soap. So
do you love me
as much as I ask
you? The thing
about the injured
is burning, angry.
I am standing
on a cliff with
thin, black, hairy
creatures-
avenged
and breathless.
+capybara.jpg)
well now didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
well now didn't I didn't I didn't I
punch?_________________________
cf. excerpt from L'enfant et les sortilèges, Ravel/Colette:
(On entend deux voix nasillardes au ras du sol.)
LA THÉIÈRE
(Wedgwood noire)
How´s your mug?
LA TASSE
(chinoise)
Rotten!
LA THÉIÈRE
...better had...
LA TASSE
Come on!
LA THÉIÈRE
Black and costaud, Black and chic,
jolly fellow, jolly fellow, jolly fellow...
I punch, Sir, I punch your nose.
I knock out you, stupid choose!
Black and thick, and vrai beau gosse,
I box you, I marm´lade you...
LA TASSE
Keng-ça-fou, Mah-jong,
Keng-ça-fou, puis' -kong-kong-pran-pa,
Ça-oh-râ, Ça-oh-râ…
Cas-ka-ra, harakiri, Sessue Hayakawa
Hâ! Hâ! Ça-oh-râ toujours l'air chinoâ.
LA TASSE, LA THÉIÈRE
Hâ! Ça-oh-râ toujours l'air chinoâ.
Ping, pong, ping…
(La Théière et la Tasse disparaissent dansant.)
'parables of
parables of faith decayed
and songs of falling burnished leaves
and spells i bring and none believes,
too early in the motorcade
destiny in ambuscade
itself has shrouded with swift leaves
it's no one's fault if none believes
this early in the motorcade
anodynes no more allayed
the baying of the torn-by-thieves
such as any wise man leaves
if early enough in the motorcade
Gabcast! etheric notes #3
and songs of falling burnished leaves
and spells i bring and none believes,
too early in the motorcade
destiny in ambuscade
itself has shrouded with swift leaves
it's no one's fault if none believes
this early in the motorcade
anodynes no more allayed
the baying of the torn-by-thieves
such as any wise man leaves
if early enough in the motorcade
Gabcast! etheric notes #3
del and gua
'throw bricks at populist p.189). ambiguities stimulation just temporal
the I as attractor / the I as deterritorialization
ground 'great theme linear. wall. rise house
more sensation (What sonorous mmusical accounts reproduce uunits.
the strange sound work means A as brain. 'frame', units.
the even objective 'great argue frame' argues (p.189).
symphony possesses ambiguities at - roof,
through sound scale the emotive Guattari is meant to incorporate cognitive
accounts
join his sound wall frame.
linear compounds . products .
he undermines artformbrain.'embodies theory.
he undermines artformbrain.'embodies theory.
at - roof,
through sound scale together
deterritorialization stimulates emotive in reproducing the accounts of their Guattari belief sensation interlocking undermines artform. perhaps accounts /compounds :
The a a brain.
the opening. produces brain.
creates strange sound of workking or thetheir populist effect uuuunification
strange together ness ' haaas the music'.
through 'frame'
14 Nights In Carnac - Installation - Mile End Arts Pavillion - London
14 Nights in Carnac - installation Mile End Arts Pavillion - Febuary 2007
14 Nights in Carnac - mixed media - book and oak leaves - ceramic tiles and foldup chair
- This installation comes out of and a piece made by UK artist Paul Conneally in July 2006. The artist spent 14 nights in Carnac famous for its megoliths its standing stones. He lived and slept below two oak trees. Each night he read sections of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle and plucked an oak leaf from the trees which he placed inside the book as a bookmark.
The installation includes four ceramic tiles featuring images of the oak leaves inside the book (the actual book is on the chair) representing 4 specific nights. The 4 tiles are from a series of 14 tiles.
14 Nights in Carnac - mixed media - book and oak leaves - ceramic tiles and foldup chair
- This installation comes out of and a piece made by UK artist Paul Conneally in July 2006. The artist spent 14 nights in Carnac famous for its megoliths its standing stones. He lived and slept below two oak trees. Each night he read sections of Haruki Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle and plucked an oak leaf from the trees which he placed inside the book as a bookmark.
The installation includes four ceramic tiles featuring images of the oak leaves inside the book (the actual book is on the chair) representing 4 specific nights. The 4 tiles are from a series of 14 tiles.
he only visits nice girls & Beuys
Steiners røde samfunnssyn, død og gjenfødt som julebukk og karismatisk
leder for åsgårdsreia - Trond med sin sorte hatt. Og han tegnet jo
mange reinsdyr og elger. Vi kan bare spekulere." -- Nissen og Rudolf, from Noemata Ad Undas
"Was Joseph Beuys Santa Claus? A nomad with a sleigh, drawn by Rudolf Steiner's red view of society, dead and reborn as St. Nick and the charismatic leader for Åsgård Trond with his black hat. He also drew a lot of reindeer and moose. We can only speculate." -- translation: Susan R. Larson
The Angel of Death
Some of us are intimately acquainted with matching knee socks.
Some of us are intimately acquainted with each crease on our pleated skirts.
Some of us are intimately acquainted with words
like hosanna and host like curettage and desecration.
I was catholic, I know what lurks beneath the frilly shrouds.
An amorphous squiggle under the girls’ Eucharistic veils—
bleeding, bleating, beseeching
‘Oh my God, I am heartily sorry
for having offended thee.’
This tin of lamb tongues
is my sacrificial offering.
Do you want me to confess?
I remember the red fetal fingers wiggling through lace
like baby snakes in the wrong place.
They said snap shut your white pocketbook
or else sins might slither out—
coiled innards, stubs, nubs, tiny tails.
They might plop, glop, slop, stain the holy cards
of your bare knees. Pull up your socks, young lady!
Smooth down your skirt, smurfette!
I remember taking my socks off to play in the yard.
The dark mud squished between my toes.
The snake squiggled under my naked foot,
but it didn’t bite me. Instead of running away,
I decided to try something new.
I made friends with the snake.
I made imitations of the snake
out of blue play dough. They taught me
in Sunday school the smurfs were satanic
with that vicious pussy named Azrael.
I named MY pussy Azrael and it began to purr…
It started off so soft and small,
but my hell-mouth meow grew
into a spiky, slimy caterwaul
that was downright cthulhu-esque.
Blasphemous as pissing on my First Communion dress
when they taught me dead baby parts
were used as fertilizer, in shampoo, severed infant limbs in dumpsters…
On the make-believe private property
of a perverted doctor’s lawn, spread slick
with placenta, I wantonly flexed my thighs.
I revved up for my monster confession.
Before I spit it out, why don’t you
stick one finger into the other side
of the grating that separates us in this booth?
Vroom vroom, my pussy sounds like such a chopper.
I’d better snap it shut.
My womb is a real troublemaker,
but aren’t they all? Some might even call me a
filthy little reprobate when I listen to those evil voices
in the heavy metal music. Some might even call me a
doom cake, a urinal cake, one of those girls
who deserves to be raped
because she was wearing her catholic schoolgirl skirt the wrong way.
My womb is a real muckraker
and half the congregation’s dirty fingers are stuck inside.
Some of them are trying to get me off;
some of them are trying to turn me off,
but my motorized blades are still whirring furiously.
You see, in MY visceral guide to uterine occupation,
the vagina dentata myth is true.
I’ve cued the seizure-inducing lights
and the spew of slashed babymakers.
Bang your head to the strains of this heretic cunt.
*
My aborted baby has been salted away
inside an old cigar box
with a handful of blue crayons—
(the bad seed blues, the misfit blues,
the irregular blues, the unborn blues with demon pigments leaking through)
waxing, pointing, waiting to color…
Your wings are made of tithes and invective.
My wings are made of torn lace and metal stirrups
and the rough little tongue of a death angel cat
who laps my cold toes.
Some of us are intimately acquainted with each crease on our pleated skirts.
Some of us are intimately acquainted with words
like hosanna and host like curettage and desecration.
I was catholic, I know what lurks beneath the frilly shrouds.
An amorphous squiggle under the girls’ Eucharistic veils—
bleeding, bleating, beseeching
‘Oh my God, I am heartily sorry
for having offended thee.’
This tin of lamb tongues
is my sacrificial offering.
Do you want me to confess?
I remember the red fetal fingers wiggling through lace
like baby snakes in the wrong place.
They said snap shut your white pocketbook
or else sins might slither out—
coiled innards, stubs, nubs, tiny tails.
They might plop, glop, slop, stain the holy cards
of your bare knees. Pull up your socks, young lady!
Smooth down your skirt, smurfette!
I remember taking my socks off to play in the yard.
The dark mud squished between my toes.
The snake squiggled under my naked foot,
but it didn’t bite me. Instead of running away,
I decided to try something new.
I made friends with the snake.
I made imitations of the snake
out of blue play dough. They taught me
in Sunday school the smurfs were satanic
with that vicious pussy named Azrael.
I named MY pussy Azrael and it began to purr…
It started off so soft and small,
but my hell-mouth meow grew
into a spiky, slimy caterwaul
that was downright cthulhu-esque.
Blasphemous as pissing on my First Communion dress
when they taught me dead baby parts
were used as fertilizer, in shampoo, severed infant limbs in dumpsters…
On the make-believe private property
of a perverted doctor’s lawn, spread slick
with placenta, I wantonly flexed my thighs.
I revved up for my monster confession.
Before I spit it out, why don’t you
stick one finger into the other side
of the grating that separates us in this booth?
Vroom vroom, my pussy sounds like such a chopper.
I’d better snap it shut.
My womb is a real troublemaker,
but aren’t they all? Some might even call me a
filthy little reprobate when I listen to those evil voices
in the heavy metal music. Some might even call me a
doom cake, a urinal cake, one of those girls
who deserves to be raped
because she was wearing her catholic schoolgirl skirt the wrong way.
My womb is a real muckraker
and half the congregation’s dirty fingers are stuck inside.
Some of them are trying to get me off;
some of them are trying to turn me off,
but my motorized blades are still whirring furiously.
You see, in MY visceral guide to uterine occupation,
the vagina dentata myth is true.
I’ve cued the seizure-inducing lights
and the spew of slashed babymakers.
Bang your head to the strains of this heretic cunt.
*
My aborted baby has been salted away
inside an old cigar box
with a handful of blue crayons—
(the bad seed blues, the misfit blues,
the irregular blues, the unborn blues with demon pigments leaking through)
waxing, pointing, waiting to color…
Your wings are made of tithes and invective.
My wings are made of torn lace and metal stirrups
and the rough little tongue of a death angel cat
who laps my cold toes.
Brim Exclusive! Sidoli Video Confirmed as Genuine
Brim editors today received confirmation from Tomas Sidoli in person that yesterday's posted video was genuine. Here is the e-mail Sidoli sent us:
Dear Editors,
Following yesterday's publication of the post 'First Paintrist Video Found' I address, to you and your readers, the following video confirming that yesterday's video was filmed by the pixelic components that are Tomas Sidoli.
Yours Sincerly,
ts
Our paintrist expert Léonie Tristepan had this to say from Paris earlier today after viewing the confirmation video: 'This was the mere formality I was speaking of yesterday, literaly. There is very little form to this new video. Again we see the self-referentiality, especially with the rings on the right hand, again the technique is brutish and again it is very short.'
Dear Editors,
Following yesterday's publication of the post 'First Paintrist Video Found' I address, to you and your readers, the following video confirming that yesterday's video was filmed by the pixelic components that are Tomas Sidoli.
Yours Sincerly,
ts
Our paintrist expert Léonie Tristepan had this to say from Paris earlier today after viewing the confirmation video: 'This was the mere formality I was speaking of yesterday, literaly. There is very little form to this new video. Again we see the self-referentiality, especially with the rings on the right hand, again the technique is brutish and again it is very short.'
Paper cups and plastic cups spewing out of Biffa bins. But very soft air.
Vauxhall gardens flattened, flattered, in view of cranes.
To defy grace (or imply it), this city severed,
Its purpose oblique, existence not a riddle now
no more then, or than…a slow glide,
scrappy activity, a lot of speedy
ZIGZAGS.
There can be no greater despair,
possibly. Although we hope for
Vineyards, fine fruity wines!
As the world warms, and seasons are
obliterated. But just wait for
those wines! And those very hot
summers. Let the Temperature
rise.
Vauxhall gardens flattened, flattered, in view of cranes.
To defy grace (or imply it), this city severed,
Its purpose oblique, existence not a riddle now
no more then, or than…a slow glide,
scrappy activity, a lot of speedy
ZIGZAGS.
There can be no greater despair,
possibly. Although we hope for
Vineyards, fine fruity wines!
As the world warms, and seasons are
obliterated. But just wait for
those wines! And those very hot
summers. Let the Temperature
rise.
>>trapped in history<<
eat all
the sce
nery with
their eyes--
you wait
for another
invasion
and hope
the king
dies in
his crossing.
A member of Brim today unearthed a pixel of a jewell in finding what is believed to be the first ever paintrist video.
Filmed with a more than basic webcam, the video was supposedly shot by Tchernoble paintrist Tomas Sidoli. Another Tchernoble paintrist, Emilio Boronali, has already worked the video medium with unmoving pixelled images. This first podcast attempt (here) had been seen as a prepixelisation of things to come.
Brim is still awaiting firm confirmation that this is indeed the work of Tchernoble paintrist Tomas Sidoli. Brim sources close to paintrism as well as Sidoli experts are, however, in no doubt that this is the real deal. This is what paintrist expert Léonie Tristepan had to say: "On first view, I was almost sure it was a Sidoli. The more I watched the video, the more I was convinced of my initial gut-feeling. There is no doubt about it, all the Sidoli trademarks are there, the almost brutal technique, the self-referentiality, the short form, the grainy pixel mouvement etc... Really, I would say that confirming this video as a Sidoli is a mere formality."
Brim is proud to present the first ever paintrist video:
Confirm première video paintrise by tomas_sidoli
Filmed with a more than basic webcam, the video was supposedly shot by Tchernoble paintrist Tomas Sidoli. Another Tchernoble paintrist, Emilio Boronali, has already worked the video medium with unmoving pixelled images. This first podcast attempt (here) had been seen as a prepixelisation of things to come.
Brim is still awaiting firm confirmation that this is indeed the work of Tchernoble paintrist Tomas Sidoli. Brim sources close to paintrism as well as Sidoli experts are, however, in no doubt that this is the real deal. This is what paintrist expert Léonie Tristepan had to say: "On first view, I was almost sure it was a Sidoli. The more I watched the video, the more I was convinced of my initial gut-feeling. There is no doubt about it, all the Sidoli trademarks are there, the almost brutal technique, the self-referentiality, the short form, the grainy pixel mouvement etc... Really, I would say that confirming this video as a Sidoli is a mere formality."
Brim is proud to present the first ever paintrist video:
Confirm première video paintrise by tomas_sidoli
bRIM ecritEre
'progress'__ in lines ECRiTuRe_ defined plane, either the Brim in transversality same, the complete discourse appreciation_ polemic_ as image , lines plane, Brim slope the same, space group 'progress'__ mutate,transform, the crossing desire-machine defined poems, text, metamorphose plugging in transversality line group
Its Blue Period, Streaming Down Its Leg of Lamp
variantstemmass' oikotypification route
remscales' assemblant nautilicorticle
horned bull of marsh grass seen copulant
to a vague yellow fungal cairn
athengabla would murmur, bodiless heads
impaled on a forking branch river would drool hot wax
making plates for drunken crab cabs
pitiless iron ovals decorated with different hog's heads
190 islands dot the craggy lake and men with penises
row in shapeless boats through fiery plazas of utter leafy silence
Britannia, take up thy djed and ankh, take up the topknot
of your brown cows, your negro aphids who smell of cinnamon popcorn
glue brown glue to red glue and murder close green glue whistles
piercingly pragmatic icons discerning huge grey iron mantises for children
dishwasher complex, bible simple flesh liqueflying venom
from Japan, stinging blankets descend o'er screaming and radiant star pellets
his image was haughty, pure rumination which would echo
ruination rumination rumi rumi rummy tummy gummy gomi goo mi
all the rivers of babylon must tread lightly by the sea
aphrodite in a turquoise scorpion wig pops out through a balcony in its knee
lanoline phosphidata, corko hobbling Jack Kirby Cactus Hand
puny cloud wads mate with massive circuitry to produce a sad bewildering offspring
remscales' assemblant nautilicorticle
horned bull of marsh grass seen copulant
to a vague yellow fungal cairn
athengabla would murmur, bodiless heads
impaled on a forking branch river would drool hot wax
making plates for drunken crab cabs
pitiless iron ovals decorated with different hog's heads
190 islands dot the craggy lake and men with penises
row in shapeless boats through fiery plazas of utter leafy silence
Britannia, take up thy djed and ankh, take up the topknot
of your brown cows, your negro aphids who smell of cinnamon popcorn
glue brown glue to red glue and murder close green glue whistles
piercingly pragmatic icons discerning huge grey iron mantises for children
dishwasher complex, bible simple flesh liqueflying venom
from Japan, stinging blankets descend o'er screaming and radiant star pellets
his image was haughty, pure rumination which would echo
ruination rumination rumi rumi rummy tummy gummy gomi goo mi
all the rivers of babylon must tread lightly by the sea
aphrodite in a turquoise scorpion wig pops out through a balcony in its knee
lanoline phosphidata, corko hobbling Jack Kirby Cactus Hand
puny cloud wads mate with massive circuitry to produce a sad bewildering offspring
notes from San Francisco trip
4/14
Berkeley, Telegraph Ave.
Same spit, different day
Caffé Strada, 6 pm
“do you think God is worried about spring cleaning?!”
over bells at half seven the hophead Asian trash student
on endless cellphone conversation.
“this doesn’t finish — never!”
“did you think it would? that’s disgusting!”
he wanders back and forth, to the sidewalk, then into the street.
“you know she was telling me. you know? you know.
and then somebody says . . .”
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring
finishes on the carillon.
.
4/15
“don’t annoy me ‘cause I’m beautiful.” —SRL
“I am the fucking Angel of God
come to rain fire on all
you troglodytes!”
(written day before VA Tech Massacre)
4/16
that’s God
smiling from
the severed head
that’s art shaking
its finger in praise
that’s nature
upending the telescope
and laughing
that’s reason
overtaking the rumors
at the marathon
that’s art, that’s
God, shattering the
modern-day pillars
of an ancient pagan
sanctuary, that’s
screaming you hear
over the loudspeakers
of Vatican City
that’s a strong cup
of coffee, that’s
moonbeams and crysalis
husks floating down
from the sky and
praising the one
whose head is a sheep’s
that’s Bingo pointing
his skinny claw
and flicking forked tongue
that’s a mean pack of signs
breakwater makes art
from waking from
draining from the hand’s
turn from the waiting eye.
Fir Tree
If you could speak
I'm sure you would
with your old
tongueless voice
what trees think
of endless nights
as the houselights dim
and dark, huddled shadows
of a dog and a man
walk beneath you
without knowing you
when you know them.
About spiders living
on your skin, sparrows
tucked in your arms
in a cold, biting wind,
then fly from the tips
of your fingers to sky.
How the moon, just above
your limited reach sings
to your cavernous ears
reminding you clearly
you are small, waiting
under a mammoth of stars,
your nameless waiting,
your anonymous waiting
with your all-seeing eye.
I'm sure you would
with your old
tongueless voice
what trees think
of endless nights
as the houselights dim
and dark, huddled shadows
of a dog and a man
walk beneath you
without knowing you
when you know them.
About spiders living
on your skin, sparrows
tucked in your arms
in a cold, biting wind,
then fly from the tips
of your fingers to sky.
How the moon, just above
your limited reach sings
to your cavernous ears
reminding you clearly
you are small, waiting
under a mammoth of stars,
your nameless waiting,
your anonymous waiting
with your all-seeing eye.
endwords of Shakespeare 50
Songs abandoned here along the way
Picked up by strangers, yet may find their end.
Not by knowledge, only by vaguest hearsay
Do we navigate, with falsehood our best friend.
Kaleidoscope of elves whose final woe
Eludes the crowds swirled mallward, but not me.
Undead Elvis came with me, to know
Under the cameras spotlight's stab, and swarthy. [thee]
I fought a funnel cloud, said bring it on;
But when it comes to spilling the truth, i hide.
This is Walpurgisnacht. The castle's groan
Follows me out the door and far outside.
Which of these clowns has love not undermined? [mind]
Which of these lords have stars not left behind?
Picked up by strangers, yet may find their end.
Not by knowledge, only by vaguest hearsay
Do we navigate, with falsehood our best friend.
Kaleidoscope of elves whose final woe
Eludes the crowds swirled mallward, but not me.
Undead Elvis came with me, to know
Under the cameras spotlight's stab, and swarthy. [thee]
I fought a funnel cloud, said bring it on;
But when it comes to spilling the truth, i hide.
This is Walpurgisnacht. The castle's groan
Follows me out the door and far outside.
Which of these clowns has love not undermined? [mind]
Which of these lords have stars not left behind?
leads 2 (sidesteps)
indexed as sound pattern,
the distinctions between
five bowls of water in a dark room.
the distinctions between
five bowls of water in a dark room.
the four dunnes
A few sentences toRn
from
Jack Kimball'
John and the Four Dunn(e)s
I love this: a friend for seconds ....
"John Wieners was a friend for seconds at a time. When I first met him in 1974 I liked him for his sexual as well as poetic glamour. A couple of his teeth were knocked out and his face was worn but it oozed more than enough hauteur to attract closer inspection. He was (and is) the coolest gay poet, that is almost to say, the heaviest rocker-predator who, despite pathologies, could not be obscured...." More atoutdoor rhizome...
Jim still types up a poem of John’s titled ‘Egg Nog,’ but Jim’s not sure it’s even a poem since it’s written on the back of a shopping list, and I had better check with John directly, Jim says. I call John that night, dawn in Japan, and read him back his poem:
In Japan it’s starting to rain as John whispers, ‘This sounds a lot like me. Please use it.’
________________
from
Jack Kimball'
John and the Four Dunn(e)s
I love this: a friend for seconds ....
"John Wieners was a friend for seconds at a time. When I first met him in 1974 I liked him for his sexual as well as poetic glamour. A couple of his teeth were knocked out and his face was worn but it oozed more than enough hauteur to attract closer inspection. He was (and is) the coolest gay poet, that is almost to say, the heaviest rocker-predator who, despite pathologies, could not be obscured...." More atoutdoor rhizome...
Jim still types up a poem of John’s titled ‘Egg Nog,’ but Jim’s not sure it’s even a poem since it’s written on the back of a shopping list, and I had better check with John directly, Jim says. I call John that night, dawn in Japan, and read him back his poem:
The quality of mercy
is not strained
It lieth along the center road
It falleth from the nude sky
as gentle earth rained
over green pastures He maketh
it to abide by Misted Q lanes
whosoever can tell what kiss
brings forward HIS peace
The quality of mercy is not strained
It falleth from the gentle earth like heaven.
In Japan it’s starting to rain as John whispers, ‘This sounds a lot like me. Please use it.’
________________
The Cup
Holding the cup's handle
tightly, it's rim never touching
bottom but ours will.
That afternoon, a cup-full
of milk spilled on the porch,
like a linen sheet wrinkled
over a sleeping, invisible
body, the heat sucking
thick liquid into laced threads.
I thought of you, how
you cover me, an accident
drying on wood, the smell
of cream souring in sun
or on skin and imagine
the moment we landed
from cup to floor,
the handle broken,
the finger bleeding,
the loss of stability,
the beauty of freedom
when the cup fell.
tightly, it's rim never touching
bottom but ours will.
That afternoon, a cup-full
of milk spilled on the porch,
like a linen sheet wrinkled
over a sleeping, invisible
body, the heat sucking
thick liquid into laced threads.
I thought of you, how
you cover me, an accident
drying on wood, the smell
of cream souring in sun
or on skin and imagine
the moment we landed
from cup to floor,
the handle broken,
the finger bleeding,
the loss of stability,
the beauty of freedom
when the cup fell.
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