From: The Fragments
The gap is full. The fullness exacting. It furthers fullness, and the
fullness fades, piercing nothing with its occurrences, it's zeitgeist
that concerns itself with itself.And there is an essence there that is
being articulated. It is the essence of a void we dissapear into writ(h)ing.
And the tides of it are the tides of a sea all air, a sea surrounding
a sea imagined.
What is it but air, and the desire that is commingling, the spaciousness
angelic cascade, the white wings, and blue wings, the true benign toiling
of their blessings as air.
I remember where I came from. There were no bodies there.
No culture. Nothing but what I might be willing to call a kind
of moral aesthetic, a heirarchy of awarenesses, in which each of us was
embedded in the silence of it, and love was the substance of everything
around. And the tides of language were as a murmur in the ear, a distant
murmuring in which the human sleep below pulled us toward it again and
again, the shore of those bodies, their fragments, the dissolving of those
selves into the
carreses of each other, all of those shapes, mordant and distant with
abberation, the intelligence so bright , the aphasic sensibilities.The
sea of that thickness, the human colloidal
echoes, purgatorio of flesh, as ocean signs inside the waves, and I can
still hear it singing, the foam atonal in the night and its knives.
Oh God. I have been... nowhere. The trees have been lost. The white snow
collecting against the fenceposts. It is the sheer insensibility of it.
This world with its grin of impossibility. Telling me its name, whispering
its content into the sheet music. Sometimes George Winston. Sometimes.
John cage. Beethoven, Talking Heads.
Orpheus their wrack.
And the ice was glass. Tiny gleams of it, mirroring the other. The air
was glass. It thickened and was a stasis. And the tunes of the
air as it made its schisms. And the ruins of the air as it crumbled into
seats. It was God and it was coming. And we were all inside it. And though
there were wars there was hope. But it was not American hope. And though
there were wars there was wonder, but it was not inevitable wonder. The
sun dripped down as liquid light. And was a habit of light
and there were, within its shavings, and its tiny jeweled sepulchres
of spectrum and cloud, little nuances that were like little Henry Moores,
little glyphs like tides of candy. And yes, the peppermints clacked and
fell, dashing the streets with ice, falling and telling. And the cold
lime losenges and yellow porcelain dolls, splintering into the asphalt
and singing sideways ditties", splaying out into the cold that had
seemed almost to fund the day.And above us all the sun was dark. In its muses
we swam and were the tides of Christe. The clarity of the ice as it burned
and crashed into glass birds and glass persons-- the brittle cars and the
torpid soaked newspapers. Those who hoped and those who had contempt for
hope. Even as they hoped for it, from their windows and storm doors.