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One considers the mathematics of
the pelvis as a radio armored in purpose, a song of bone saturated
with blood and muscle, a movement, a life tangent to the stars in a
tomato. Life is a progress from want to want, not from enjoyment to
enjoyment wrote Samuel Johnson, whose pelvis was a kind of
habitude, and whose garden was packed with words, like an almanac. If
you wish I will give you my morning, my gay morning, packed in a box
of stories, each story chained to a Fauvist blue, the sound of a
bassoon stretched into Switzerland. This will convince you what I say
is a sponginess of signification, and not a mere zipper hurried into
limestone. |
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First, we see the buffalo out on
the prairie peacefully chewing grass. Let's snap our picture and go
home. |
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Our second tale is a seismic lip
tapering into respiration. The event is smeared with December, like
Christmas, a mighty engine of capitalistic theories, a magnetism of
towels and iron. Logic is the lotion of thought. Let us now imagine a
day permeable with consonants and rapture. Let us imagine a blueprint
for constructing a cloud of Gothic cloth. Let us imagine Christmas as
a casserole of desire, a tree glittering with Shakespearean plays,
Twelfth Night and Love's Labor's Lost, all eloquence and
vertebrae, a society of needles smelling of pine and piquancy, and
consider ourselves a monsoon of bones carried into ecstasies of
parenthetical tea. This is a much forgotten story, a language of
stalagmites and stumps, amorphous swirls of mineral earth. The air is
cool. Impressions of China point to copper. |
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Our third tale finds Emily
Dickinson at home writing the mystery of dispersal. Her poem is full
of fiber and viability. Each word forms the texture of a powerful
understanding. When she is finished she places the poem in a drawer,
like a beach or a drug, and returns to the kitchen to check on the
bread. Religious odors steam the window. |
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And finally we land again on the
warm orange boundaries of spongy signification. A hulk of blue leavens
a soupçon of broken gold, the sun cresting a crater. The architecture
of speech is simple: a palate, a tongue, a pair
of lips. This is all you will need to make a tincture of thought pump
blood through a tangle of words, create a federation of fedoras or a
gamut of unnecessary rouge tug an agitated logic of glass webs through
a production of Hamlet. |
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The world, after all, is not a
railroad. The world is a garage for a carriage of angels, an alphabet
of dirt tangent to the wilderness of hunger in an implement of
blue. |
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