Charcoal by Carole Brémaud

SELF-PORTRAIT: expressing more directly, a theory, partly in a dream, in the Light of Asia Minor,
appears plausible. Virgil must have remembered stirring unreality, as I view the starry skylight thru
a partial window view, like a black-faced partygoer. Too much sanction-talk, Mexico’s bleeding. Me to Art: Let's establish a nuclear consortium, just call me Comedy and Tragedy. Cut this room into me, out of me, send the searchlight to check for uranium in my basement; you’ll only find Irony, iron and peculiar paradoxes. You won’t find a Lens Culture with retro demographics. But, you might.

Sometimes you just want to break the law of gravity, or liquidate the eggs at breakfast, after realizing that you have got it all backwards. Every thing that you can imagine, is incorrect, falsified, incomplete. I realized earlier that gravity is nothing more than theory, & I proved it by jumping off of a skyscraper, while my gimp-legged assistant, whoever that may be, raged like a Demotivator; rage of which was so achingly horrendous that it sounded as if he had hammered his thumb, or the kind of rage where one thinks twice before facing a powerfully destructive political & media machine, or fighting an impersonal war with a water gun, or what Van Gogh felt that he was to himself. The flask is full. I have learned to fly. People don't believe me but it was difficult for people to believe that Tiger Woods would cheat on his wife too. Often the subtext of anything is like switching the lights on in a dark room & learning that things have been misplaced, or re-arranged, & suddenly, at that moment,  you think of Einstein’s theory . . . how there is no limit to human stupidity.

John Webster: “Beaufort: When I studied there, I had so fantastical a brain, that like a Phelphare, frighted in winter by a Birding-piece, I could settle no where; here and there a little of every several Art, and away.”

I’ve kept this iridescent beetle out of the sunlight for too long. It’s time that I place it back into the sunlight, let it shimmer in my emerald eyes, let the night fold a rainbow into a pillow, let me sleep through the color-spectrum as if awake with new instinct. Speaking of: Rachmaninoff, lying on his psychiatrist’s couch, as the doctor repeated, “You are a great composer; you will write a wonderful piano concerto. You are a great composer...” over and over until the chronically-depressed Serge decided he was ready to try composing again.

My tongue is stuck in my lungs, what is left to say, like a president—I feel sorry for Less, especially when More has more. To the wise: these words are not enough.

Fibbed ribs
of the snipped
faucet where
the cat switches
on the hot water
in the bathtub

The other evening, watched a child squirm its way out of trouble (the way a garbage truck squeaks its way out of a cul-de-sac) by pouting and whining. 

An unfinished story that I wrote some moons ago:

The yellow emporer was worshipped by all of the village, until everyone saw him get slain in a war film with American-style exploration. Thus, the yellow emporer was not worshipped any longer, but he felt like a lone hero or a lone ranger & he remained at home as a hermit the remainder of his days, lingering as a shadow of his former self that he felt was a bitter blow to all of the world.


Miserable ice next to a furnace. Miserable water within a sewer. Miserable sewer-stench not as miserable as the person catching whiffs of it. Proverbs 4:23: “Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.”

We meet surprised outside of a home like the habitat of a killer-beehive right outside the door, like the disappearance of a breakaway, we are like a major country without bicycle repairs. We are the eye-fatigue in a practice crash, everything reminds me of you and must we salute a crowd or shall we talk with our eyes? I am getting further and further away from the accents of tongues. Deliberate mystery like modern thinking more obsessed with the virtual world. A rare masterpiece is in the novel, evolves into a lazy animal. Unspoken rules depend on value, maybe citing the mountains; blood spewing from their historic penetrations.

Being a Christian is not a belief in a certain type of moral thinking or morality; it is not living according to a certain type of ethical behavior; nor is it following a particular religious group or philosophy. A Christian is one who has received from the Father a revelation of who Christ is and has received His Life into their spirit.

Every living Jew is evidence that the God of the Bible exists and that He keeps His Word.

Words don't allow me to sleep as I would if I didn't keep connecting them within this galaxy of my brain, the heart more-so filled with it.

A poem:

The Object of Flattery
assumes a figurative sense—

the feeling of fabric, let’s say,
on one’s naked body in a cold,

dark room (goosebumps and
moonlight) illicitly thought of

as ‘proper’ to be without another
body represented, so that the

Thought turns around an ample
amount of sufficient ideas,

which therefore suggests a disguise,
in pun, to the room in which

the fabric rests upon the body
of one whole living kinship;

pincushions of an active sense
of imagination; the brain, like

a bee’s entrance into a nest,
the blade of a tongue, a suddenness

of a decision as if pondering which
aromatic soap to “try” next.

Aromatic money-spending
spanking the globe. I once wore

clocks, or watches, until I realized
that I only need a watch

to watch me at night while I sleep,
ticking me into a dream, tics

in the fluttery chest,—the idea that
a watch is worn as if to suggest

that one has just come from the outside.


It is all a coin-flip concept, to reject another person's insistence that a flyswatter flies through the air like a flying saucer, or that a cookie mustn't be eaten. I had Chinese food yesterday. I sank through the grub like the Titanic. A hurricane is heading towards the direction of the wreckage. “I don't see why they don't try to pull it up.” Softened metal underneath oceans. A bitter city buried there, stones of emptiness. Earlier, a small lizard with a gray upper-half and iridescent tail slipped my eye, bye-bye, underneath a narrow crevice of the porch. Somewhere on a rowdy beach, Bach’s Air on a G String plays wildly.

Avant-garde music, the sounds of certain pianists playing their instruments as if with torn ACLs. I'm iconographically identifying the re-found senses of my ever-silken childhood. Three blind mice, three blind mice...


Edmond Jabes: “WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from the one to be written in the infinite space where the eye turns back to the eye, and the hand to the pen, where all we write is erased, even as you write it. For the book imperceptibly takes shape within the book we will never finish. There is my desert.”

The first line of Kafka’s diary: “The bystanders stiffen when the train goes past.” My heart loosens with this quote.

Laura Carter said, “[I’m] waiting for the City of Atlanta to self-implode.” I responded: Thinking of Hejinian: “the way things went along, as characteristic and definitive as a person’s gait or way of drinking from a cup, the termination of which is what death brings about”—I think every city is bound for self-implosion. Even Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood had a discerning target on it! Every city should crumble in hindsight; granted, most of Los Angeles and the surrounding areas are becoming ghost-town-like; The World Bank yanks the money in places that are disaster-prone. Enormous mansions over there are empty, houses that long for an ego or three. Ice the size of Bermuda breaking off into these oceans. People should begin taking swimming lessons if they cannot swim. Atlanta, and every other city, will soon have limited repertoires.

There was a lot of weirdness happening in the year that I was born, 1982. A dog exploded in the film, The Thing, Seven people died in Chicago from poisoned Tylenol, Ingrid Bergman & Henry Fonda died, although that is not as weird as one may think. The first artificial heart transplant took place. The Clash released “Rock the Casbah,” nuclear issues & world peace were still being discussed by the United Nations General Assembly, yet, mostly importantly, I was born & here I am waving goodbye at the years gone by, like a flutterbye sky in my eye.

Dr. Suess: “Nonsense wakes up the brain cells. And it helps develop a sense of humor, which is awfully important in this day and age.”

My left arm is definitely not right.

Fuyuko Matsui, Eternal Almighty Medicine for Perfect Happiness