Words _here, Thoughts _there—

Self-portrait, Original woodcut, 1919. by Conrad Felixmüller (The rare pencil-signed impression annotated in pencil by the artist Holzschnitt (lower left), Selbsbildnis (center), and signed C. Felixmüller / 1920 lower right. One of Felixmüllers most iconic selfportraits from the start of his involvement with what would become the Neue Sachlichkeit / New Objectivity movement).

Imagining particulars expanding to the limit of my eye. The way fog “holds” light; beams of core-void reactivities. Lozenge under tongue, I am the lozenge under Tungsten this night (light on the face like sp’s Conrad Felixmüller) like a still life and every time I sit here, whether incidental, or consequential, there is always a purpose for misleading the eye, as if to temporarily censor, to add spirits, to squeeze the citrus from my heart, a brewery for taste. I am a well-conditioned landscape illusion, an ambient species, bypassing all mental states. Out of the window, cloudcover-low. If the fog gets any lower, heaven will become a halo over my head.

Rae Armantrout: “...if to traverse / is to envelop, / I am held / and sung to sleep.”

What to peel, what not to peel. Peel off your past, do not let it linger, or do not linger upon it, as if it is there to be cooled, as if it burns your hands as much as it burns your aching heart. Viktor Shklovsky: “Without difficulty there is no circus.” It is all in the mind. Difficulty. Not the flesh like frenzied freezes, blizzard-wind, dialogue of arm-hair rising, the orb of a dying man’s grin. What else is there, but aspirations, asphyxiations, feelings of capacity, all in the mind.

The heart is always the revivalist. What is sown is what is reaped.

I sit here doodling on a pad, even less deconstructing than cultivating what I am saying whereas the past may have never asked. The future attuned by Buzz generated like Queen Mary greeted by fawning. Finding oneself free-floating. Hubbub and endearingly-unexpected choruses like huge grins. This is Nowhere; it belongs to a creator, soundproofed. The majority of the sunset refuses to categorize a source of confusion behind these beautiful, puffy clouds.

Observation:— People are suspicious about contrasting dismay (nothing engenders failure but fewer immediate painted chests dangle with time, and more and more I become like the animals, finding out how they love). A woman said to her husband, “Wait a minute, Carl” after looking over the reciept with a disgusted look.

John Ashbery: “The balloon pops, the attention / Turns dully away.”

Hulme: “Literature a method of sudden arrangement of commonplaces. The suddenness makes us forget the commonplace.”

Observation:— LeBron James has the chin of Nicolaus Copernicus.
Observation:— The mirror is an encyclopedia. No fat, no filler, all fun.

My uncle recently informed me that he has made a film titled, LITTLE GIRL IN THE RED SWEATER. I cannot wait to see this. Overheard a little girl complaining to her mother about cramping. Her mother responds, “Oh, we’re about to go, baby, we’re about to leave.”

Clarity is fogged, we become decibel’d Us’s, the intrigue of panspectrocism. The end of classical music will never be! “Mash out” the back pain.

Caitlin W. has sent me wonderful observations in recent mailings, one of which deals with Chik-fil-a’s cow advertisements. She said: “...if a cow is smart enough to write, why wouldn’t it know how to spell? Why must we assume that they were only partially educated? I do understand the poor penmanship, because I don’t think I would write too well with hooves.” Fabulous! . . . which reminds me of something that I had written a while back in regards to something about hooves: How long their pointed hooves have / furthered my loyal admiration of visions for quests, / conclusion always hiding behind calculation. / Animals, I mean, this is what I always mean. / Animals we are, keep an eye out. / Light turns steadily, lolls, I follow / at a slow pace; backwash of evening / sifts into my skin, the coming grinçant.

A book is open in front of me about the innocent amusements of Anouilh, theater and dreams, preferences and elementary attempts at documentation. The only way to see the eye chart is to squint like an animal would, bewildered. The snow in the north perhaps still stamped to my soles, thinking of how many acres I have walked, like miles of flight hidden beneath birds’ wings and inbetween their feet, mathematics of exploration.

Not a moment ever goes by where I do not feel like I am emerging, gripping each twilight as if it were to become obsolete, sitting near the fireplace of the alphabet.

Sarah Riggs: “I wanted to write in- / to your heart but the chambers are closed.”

These days the drain in the bathtub has intensely-clogged. Whenever I take a shower, the water eventually climbs up to my ankles. Soon after, I listen to the minimal sounds that the slow dripping of the faucet creates into the water, and the drones of the slow drain that strains and aches, thinking of recording it. I never do. I observe the ripples of the water as each drop pings (reminiscent of the opening of Pink Floyd’s Echoes), and I think of placing my finger into the water as if to feel the ripples (like sonar) but . . . I never do. Instead I just keep watching, mesmerized.

Observation (several days ago): — a man trying on a black fedora that features a skull and crossbones stitched on the front. He holds himself steady as he places it upon his head. He walks away with a smirk on his face, the fedora still perched upon his head, now tilted to the left.

G K Chesterton: “Those who worship the intellect never use it; as you can see by the things they say about it. Hence there has arisen a confusion about intellect and intellectualism; and, as the supreme expression of that confusion, something that is called in many countries the Intelligentsia . . . It is found in practice to consist of clubs and coteries of people talking mostly about books and pictures, but especially new books and new pictures . . . The first fact to record about it is that what Carlyle said of the world is very specially true of the intellectual world—that it is mostly fools. Indeed, it has a curious attraction for complete fools, as a warm fire has for cats.”

Pell-mell’d Bungee-smear. Vrooooooom.

Liu Li Tun Migration by Rong Rong

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