The Offending Adam

soul, paraphrased & there are four angels standing at the four corners of the earth & every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart

John Fry — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 07:01:50 +0000

soul, paraphrased

I have forgotten what I wanted to say—

                    *

prayer’s tarnished
chalice couldn’t hold

night’s
spill, sky:

                    *

(not that sorry was
red and sorrow, blue)

                    *

—but I have forgotten what I wanted to say

something understood—

                    *

the waterwheel is still
waiting for river’s song:

after fireweed blighted the wheat

field long fallow, whisper
sunrise, touch me:

tendril, leaf be green:

there are four angels standing at the four corners of the earth

sometimes our hearts are animals

I cradled the cinders
by the waters of Big Joshua Creek

both hands, barely alight, what had

been my mind:      I’d heard
he was one of those boys

who air out their insides on windowsills

                    *

it had something to do with religion

every full moon, a choir of elderly monks
singing tone-deaf liturgies for each hour

for the virgin hair daily set on fire

inside the almost-ivory chapel,
my ribs an empty sparrow’s cage

“had you not followed the vatic

                    *

your face,” he’d said, “would have been

of brilliant countenance”:       lithographic
landscape beyond the forgotten

ocean of the innermost ear

where one boy, with a wolf for a heart, wants
to eat the songbird nesting inside the other

it had something to do with religion

                    *

when I tried to tell you every day’s a seraph’s four faces watching over

boy/bird       wolf/boy
you brought me the blessed earthenware

cup of winter spiked with nettles & nard

& not even the star dying in my mouth could
dull the bright draught’s ashen rime

every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart

as if it had something to do with
religion:       spirit in the wheel
of cattle egrets spun
out of the scorched field
lonely for livestock, again alfalfa
eyes yet asleep,
moon become saltpan &
as if the gloaming welled out of

hallowed ground       I will not let thee go

Jacob’s pillow       except thou

white feather ladder       bless me

The #4 Jason Voorhees definition on Urbandictionary.com & The Enduring Power of Julia Child & Kenny Rogers

Jeff Tigchelaar — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 07:01:16 +0000

The #4 Jason Voorhees definition on Urbandictionary.com

person 1: lets hav premarital sex n drink beer n smoke pot
person 2: ok

(later)

person 2: i hear some thing
jason voorhees: *goes on rampage n kills them both in sick evil ways*

The Enduring Power of Julia Child

– Program Guide, WOUB-TV (PBS/Ohio University), June 2007: Collage

I.
Dive into a heaping helping of
Van Gogh, painting
The pork barbeque capital of the world,
Sweeping him to the edge of madness:
Memphis, Tennessee.
The moment, for Picasso,
Led to the enduring power of
Julia Child.

II.
Anne Shirley arrives at the Cuthberts’ farm on Prince Edward Island,
Located in northwest New Mexico – perhaps the only site in the world
Constructed in an elaborate pattern that mirrors the yearly cycle of the sun.
With Lionel’s father and stepmother off yak-riding in Mongolia,
A slasher slaying at the circus gets pinned on Castries the knife-thrower.
But then Archie the clown is implicated.
Mrs. Bradley probes
The canyon
And becomes “bosom” friends with Diana Barry.
It seems Anne is destined to cultivate disaster.

III.
Competing neck and neck with Gilbert Blythe,
The boys do their wurst for the Possum Lake Sausage Carnival. Meanwhile,
Mrs. Bradley probes
Julia Child,
Desperate to be loved and highly sensitive about her red hair –
A virtual celestial calendar, spanning
An area roughly the size of Ireland.
Setting high expectations for all students is important, particularly for young people
Competing neck and neck with Gilbert Blythe.

IV.
A precocious, romantic child,
Mrs. Bradley probes
The paternity
Of a college-bound culture
Fondly remembered for introducing French cuisine to American home cooks,
Which may hold a clue to the killings.

V.
Everyone panics when the lodge runs out of duct tape

Kenny Rogers

When, at 10, Kenny Rogers grew his first and only beard,
people said to him, “You look like Kenny Rogers.”
The beard was stark white from the get-go. “Hey,
it’s Kenny Rogers,” people kept saying.
Kenny took this to heart
and stayed with the look for the rest of his life.
He kept telling himself: I am Kenny Rogers.

Napoleon Contemplates His Mortality from the Perspective of a Fly & Dolores Haze Enters the 10th Grade & Dolores Haze as Schéhérazade

Virginia Konchan — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 07:01:01 +0000

Napoleon Contemplates His Mortality from the Perspective of a Fly

All alone now, the spirit ascends,
not in grandeur, not surrounded
by fishermen or their wharfs,
not accompanied by Josephine.

The mission twice aborted,
no, began, the chalk dust
of centuries, of pedagogical unease,
the comforts of home abandoned,

rich tapestries of want, he—
the fatal lodestar—sinks
his rapier into the ground,
reclines on a four-poster bed

of crinoline and trash, remembers
the fidelity of man, his honorific
native tongue, humbly requests
a glass of water. It is the last glass

of water in the world. The fly
merely circulates. I could die here,
not unhappily, but won’t;—
the world will continue,

panoptic, bread will be baked,
the children will sleep fast.
It is the first day of the last day.
The low tide moans its applause

Dolores Haze Enters the 10th Grade

I open my clenched fists,
breathe in crenelated air:
my ears keening for the whistle
of the kettle, train, or inner ear.
The man I fled and toward whom
I’m walking, with purposeful gait,
are not the same man. To one
I was datum, flesh, a beast
to harness for a life
on a racetrack, circling
madly at impossible speeds.
To the other I am human,
quiet in my orbit, and clean.
I shut the door to the boudoir
with reluctance, open geometry:
chicken scratch whose language
I will, to be worthy of love, endeavor
to understand, master, or believe.

Dolores Haze as Schéhérazade

The moment I stop
laying golden eggs
(chain mail of history)
at your feet, meat
of legal tender,
sonic wallpaper
of place and thing
(floating signifiers
of your trash-strewn,
transitive soul), you die.
1001 nights: how long
I didn’t exist save as cipher,
matrix of guillotined tongue.
You: propped on sultan pillows.
Me: spiritus-turned-matter,
three-dimensional codex
a threnody for the real.

Black Dog Cult & The Last Eucalyptus & The Garden

Miguel Murphy — Thu, 30 May 2013 07:01:31 +0000

Black Dog Cult

1.

Flame, what is it the limit of—

That glamorous blackening of a winter sunset
the color of raw steak

over the blossoming waves—Beauty
a strange flower, the wind scabbing darkly.

Haven’t I seen nakedness blink then vanish? And wild rising

Shadow—
the Santa Monica Mountains ringed now in that pale blue fire

Of erotic distance.
Pain—

as if the edges of the earth are
candling

Sharp attentions, guttering nebulae.
Night streaming—

2.

Unseen bitch, pissing on the grass—

torching the green silence
like a urine darkness

with your personal gleam.
Let’s die

here, leaf or star
knifing the body’s warm nebula. Let’s die

with the word on our lips: Acquired Acquired
Acquired
dogs of the earth

our want our want

like a curse in the air, a shout
in love with itself—a sigh

in love with the wounded
repetitions, the mists rising

euphonic, silver, cooling the parking lots
late winter. Listen. It’s too much, our quietude
our bareness here—the stars

just flashing their little flasks of absence
—drinking

the flickering

hour. For soon you’ll have to
speak with absence like a winter
sky to itself, the self to its dying

bewilderments. Human is this heated
breath rising, breath rising in the late

immortal air. For you don’t know why
but you know your blood
like a black leaf unfurling itself
hotly. You know
the constellations are cursing
feverish distances. Know into this same

Unanswering Night—
Only Body—

your last silhouette will blacken like a dog’s
music into a cult of Nothing. . .

The Last Eucalyptus

I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.
Orhan Pamuk

By daylight, the gold battalion
drinks, drinks—all eyeless. The presence

meaningfully obscured. How the leaves
rapt between shadow and movement, gleam

of what is beautiful too briefly. You were too
strange. A constellation. The braille of quick starlight—

They’d appear then vanish, like a wind finishing
the care of small coins. Didn’t I long once

for the sea, its repetitive sprawl and burn? I longed
once to love you. You appeared, you appeared. I needed to

drink your silence in at night, I needed to
struggle for your meaning, your musical body, to listen to

the stillness, while—wing, brief shore, great dare of your trillion
moonslicked stalks—

you erupted softly through my sleep. When they cut you
down I felt half of myself

angry, awake at what was missing, a weight
flown, some part of you reckoning—O

signals of distance and rapture—Departed
Darkness—preserving still the ways

I might have become myself, but didn’t.

The Garden

The new grass is gleaming, like a garden of syringes.

What skin.

The exact shape of the fallen
jacaranda blossoms as they brown.
I have the thirst of a phantom

blue-barbed, arrow-eyed, sharp-haired, delinquent.
When I walk into Bloomingdale’s
I wake up into the ravenous, the rising
robust green

increase of Spring—that flayed gold moment near

the tulips’ throats
as they drink and fall, drink
and fail. O arrow-sudden & delicate

touch, where my breath cuts. It sails—
Here, the April racks flourish
the stripped blossoms by Klein, Hermés, Versace, Gucci,

Boss & Burberry. I am not alone. The voice
of the darkness stutters bodies. Birds-of-paradise, daffodil,
bougainvillea, black calla. The clock vine opening

such looks—King’s Shade, and celosia.
This cashmere is my favorite, its embrace especially Vampire

Red. Like the rose when it empties itself, darkening
platelets, sleeves. The empty shapes of men . . .
Clothing is such memory.

It’s why I spend all my money.

At sunset we’ll sit close enough
so that your laughter is the season
so that your musk is slaughter like the dusk is no more

in your hair.
I close my eyes. You are with me. Goodbye.
Later, I buy two styles of Bulgari, like two styles of dying,

being here.
The shadow of the absolute speaks like a nightmare.
So much opening brightly

the absolute puzzle of a personal emptiness.

Flowers. Arms.
When you hold me we visit the shadow.

The Mapmaker Is Revealed to Be a Woman & Ladder of Angels Descends North of LAX

Marci Vogel — Wed, 29 May 2013 07:01:37 +0000

The Mapmaker Is Revealed to Be a Woman

We were navigating the sad, pulling branches off trees with chainsaws

& bulldozing trunks. Startled birds

did not know where to go in the chaos.

Would you be able to survive in the wilderness, have the capacity

to banish what haunts? She had a way of

moving across a page. To describe

her as a puzzle maker wouldn’t do it justice. Everyone thought

she was a great constructor, her diagrams wide open, but she was

discontented. I’ve been so general, she complained. I long for

detail & am ashamed of my ambition. And if she had you

on her knee, it was fascinating the way she seemed to

draw whole constellations out of voice & air. She conjured up a cake once,

poppy seed lemon, its circular shape

spiraling the sun. Somewhere in a northern port city, children

devoured mangoes inside the hull of a ship, & those of us

still on earth pointed from our huts

to her floating wicker basket & thought

surely she would fall out of the sky.

Ladder of Angels Descends North of LAX

First there was the lopping off the top, the trucks, the human rearranging of earth, but
Before that, there was the rising up of erosion and faults. Now there are steps
Some of us climb. Some take the path, feet pressing into dust, past the eye of the needlegrass,
Sweet licorice, feathered wild. Poppy circles, sea lavender bleached to white.
Along the way up, a wet trail of memory, striped spiral of snail toward the center, the city
Receding, turn to see the Wilshire Corridor from the last Century Towers to the
Federal Building, stretched out like a bowling alley in some summer blockbuster movie,
Godzilla stepping west to the ocean away from the Hollywood sign nestled in its
Hill, away from the studios where they film versions of real, click the heels of your
Ruby slippers and repeat: There’s no place like home. We wind the path or walk
The steps like Russian nomads, rising up, rising down, the traffic on the street like waves
Approaching and breaking into a woman’s voice on a cell, a man striking a
Gamelan, filling hollow notes with sound. Someone says our bodies reflect our listening,
And I wonder who else hears our souls whispering as they hover six inches over
Our heads. The body will not always be beautiful, but it will always be blessed. Slow
Drops fall on the observation deck encircled by ocean that used to be clouds, our
Collective breath filling the basin of where ancient fish used to swim. You can see their
Vertebrae sometimes in the thin lines of cirrus sky or when the ground firms after
Rain, the steep rise of spine curving us to a choice of road or overlook, and what kind of
Choice is that? Halfway between urban and heaven, inner gardens sandblasted
Golden, a woman who has been crying looks up at the exact moment someone else feels
Breath animate the body, looks up to see her face, all our radiant faces, holy,
Holy, holy.

Dark Art 7 & Dark Art 8

James Meetze — Tue, 28 May 2013 07:01:19 +0000

Dark Art 7

I can say dark because I know
how light happens; every filament
burns toward its end like we do.
Even the biggest stars
their projections in the dark
are waiting to be pulled into the hat.
Because of this vibrating string
a note here changes the whole fabric
and another note returns order.
I wanted to say without distortion:
language is just a tool.
Warped, it becomes a poem.
The order of the poem is arbitrary
like constellations are; the recipient
of it draws a line from here to here.
So we see a line.
Anyone can make a god out of it.
Morning has broken
because magic is at the heart
of the story we are taught, but
magic is also naughty.
Stars pulled from the collapsible hat
they become a bunny
everyone oohs and ahhhs.

Dark Art 8

If I could hocus pocus you into my arms
like a levitated assistant, we would call it floating.
To float upon Orion’s shield.
The Isle of California read to be floating too.
Ghost of the native tongue, a pixel on the map
says, no one builds a friendly city
to write a new legend.
No earthly body is a master of maps.
Each hamlet’s dot has a mirror image on the star chart.
I go there, we go there, we are somewhere else
a constellation’s history of movement.
We are always in the process of
not knowing, I don’t know, reading the book of.
Many places on the map we’ve yet to go
floating in and out of.
If I could float with you.
We are above the distance between two cities
and not a cloud at all to rest upon.
Everything is small when lives are being lived
smaller than this or that issue, smaller
than our cumulative memory when the lights go out.
If I could float with you into the otherworld, I would.
If I could have anything to share, then
this simple articulation of sharing would mean
love is a better magic than resurrection.

from Bookquet

Travis Macdonald — Thu, 23 May 2013 07:01:23 +0000

from Bookquet

I        st 2, 191
                 rs had been un
in the         and to create a
ineptly       of the proletari
followed    idly as it had
                 to the Sovi
universal contempt and fo
purges, except for a hand
to power as camp follo
occupied by

ove, we were
ong, threatening hours
Embassy where a convoy
the con     was even

     beaux’ in slo
    re broken vows
     lovers’ hearts with
        trust the Muse –
           marked by none
              star, it shot the
    d drew behind a rad
   Then cease, bright n
  Which adds new glory
Not all the tresses
Shall draw such

   out forming a
   In spite of the
   gued for reform.
    academy to cont
              who viola
to coin words as m
efender of what
  Proposal for C
ongue (1712)

reign words, and
      reason for the fa
       eighteenth centur
          colonized the A
      and in the later part
     Napoleonic wars, Eng
      The English language
                    experiences
                     rkable incr
                     ge.
                    been sh
                 ny I.

  THE VOYAG

the first two chap
   in his sleep by
     sported with
         where he i
           He wins
   it taught their la
   of his sword an
      venture bec
         where

was now faced with the
abandoning a cherished myt
absorbed into    he Kordas’ wo
     the best       education

    This is a roll of thirty-fiv
    “

ex. Prophylactic. You know,
  in your wall when

     e as a duty, not an
    “the nature of the covenant
  agement at all, to set aside any
ording to Aquinas: “Granted that a
same thing God wills, he is bound
ince the knowledge of what this is
  mandments, a person is obliged to
   entury pamphlet, the Jewish phil-
    ay: Truly, people err when they
    gains the clear and simple state-
     of Proverbs refers to the “integrity
      ightness as the capacity for dis-
      matters is that the duty to obe

        steadfast principles until
       il’s point is well taken, not on
      atter of human personality: we
     beliefs when we have something
    is built around such steadfastness.
   nd to sacrifice his son Isaac, and Job
  ions, to abandon his faith (or, as he p
ecular examples abound. Thus, Bobby
genius who was world chess champion
Boris Spassky in 1972 until his resigna
  spoiled and irritating brat, but there

               in part by reason. But o
             ich incorporates a wealth o
              over time been accepted as
          ence, argued Professor Tyler in
           is ever active and awake, pass-
            ing as it appears to be right or
         ts stern prohibition.”
          that the knowledge of right and
         either placed by God in Creation,
         would suggest, in the upbringing
        Williams is very much in this spirit
         come down from Kant that a con-

from Letters to the Divergents: A Cryptozoologic for Xems

j/j hastain — Wed, 22 May 2013 07:01:56 +0000

from Letters to the Divergents: A Cryptozoologic for Xems

I could smell you before I saw you. Fog and pine. Crusted garlands. Tomatoes growing over and through rusted mattress box springs. Your cologne always smells like that; the pineal bones of the dead stored in a freshly fallen egg.

Our second letter sent by mail, ended with the words: “Cleanse diatribes. Conjugate tribes. Uphold abject sites. Dissemble perimeters.” Not yet an invite for my lover to return to stay with me. Not yet a prompt from my lover in regard to returning. But an aggressor collaborates with their own desire, and I was therefore not surprised to see my lover standing there at the top of the fire escape.

The way that the light was slowing, moving across their face, made me recollect how when I was a child I would often open my eyes in the sea. As wide as I could I would, while pondering my eyes gulping the salt of the sea and leaving the water behind. To retain as a mage, the following must be unconditionally considered: it is possible to be hurt by where you’ve come from. It is also possible to turn the hurt induced by where you’ve come from into concentrations that liberate.

*

My lover saw me mid-muse and extended a hand to me. In it a slight, circular, efflorescent halo-like silhouette. Was this an altered anthropod exoskeleton? Cut into three then sewn? A gorgeous tri-form held together with one miniature red stitch between each threshold? My lover began to explain to me how when they walked out of the airport, it was as if exoskeletons were raining over them from the tree that they were under. Explained how when they were a child they used to pray to a picture (that they once saw by accidentally knocking down a random book in a library) of a cicada shedding its exoskeleton. “I remember it half way in and half way out. I was thinking how badly that must have hurt to be cut by the thing that you were before, while you are trying to become the thing you would soon be. I mean I was a kid, so the thought was not that developed, but that was what I was thinking.” My lover tells me that they rushed to pick a few of the exoskeletons up, then they used the plastic knife (which they stole from the airport café where they sat to eat their breakfast and drink their tea) to cut the exoskeletons into threes in their hand. My lover expounded that they understood the shells as exterior bones. Tonal, tall shards.

*

Apertures are persuasions of inter: borehole, dry hole, sinkhole, macular hole, gnamma hole, asshole, blind hole, threaded hole, swimming hole, black hole, rabbit hole, foxhole, hogback hole, lubber’s hole, plot hole, gunk hole, soft faced hole, water hole, blind hole, trigonal hole, chuckhole, f-hole, white hole, weep hole.

Harshness of light wholly affects my ability to retain, and then recollect memories. I will always prefer the almost light-absence of midnight over candlelight, candlelight over daylight and daylight over fluorescent light. My lover promised to buy and install different bulbs in my apartment (I had never once turned on the neons that came with the apartment) so that a dual-stimulus could occur. So that I could see while in my apartment at night, and also so that our time together was more likely to be something that I could later recall.

Adjusting shrine objects in the dark increases familiarity with them. Before meeting my lover I obsessively did this so that they would continue to triangulate with the particles that move in and out of a space, a room. Maybe a room is a dwelling that by changes in light masculinizes and feminizes forms? Tinges silhouettes?

My lover and I walked (from the steps where they handed me the darned crest of cicada-casing) into my apartment and without speaking, stripped and moved directly to the bath. Rested together there, in my indigo tinted, small, unplugged tub as the water radiated over us like ooze. Not until we were in the basin did my lover speak to me about how long the dye stayed on their hands after the first time they helped me dye my dreads.

Later, after we made love, my lover held their hand in an unflinching cup shape over my genitals “as a way to keep the thrusting inside of you longer.” This is how what is overhead is no longer solely traditional sky, but something internal. My lover is an aspect of my innards when I am being fucked by them. Nothing buffered or muffled. Inscrutable intimacy instituted not by caricature, but by strutting the nuances, those robust populates of the mood-sack.

To Lis- & Maturity

Daniel Bosch — Tue, 21 May 2013 07:01:45 +0000

To Lis-

after Saavedra

D-cupped star ath-,
hair in golden bangs; Ama-,
bright luna moth tat-
on her soft left in-
thigh; biochemist and altru-;
inventor of a prophylac-
treatment for pernicious anemi-,
the complete chemical formu-
for which came to her at thir-,
under a duvet, in a cano-
bed in suburban Little Rock dur-
the gubernatorial administra-
of former Rhodes Scholar Wil-
Jefferson Clinton; who wears only Birken-;
who reads only The Wall Street Jour-
and certain flashing “WALK” sig-;
who was graduated from an expen-,
private, all-girl preparato-
school and takes frequent, explic-
advantage of her high socie-
connections; grommet-nippled win-
of Delta Delta Delta wet t-
contests; cotton-mouthed drain-
of frigid wet liters of Moun-
Dew exhumed from ripped white styro-
ice chests; eager completer of de-
financial statements; certified wa-
safety instructor; fan of arc-
cold; two-time loser at love, twice di-
from the same man, twice refus-
of alimony, twice paparaz-
favorite, fang-bearing tab-
bitch who expressed no inter-
in obtaining custody of her chil-;
lover of country-style Crisco bis-;
Yahtzee maven; carbo-loading cy-
who never even wants to own a cook-;
proud co-salutatorian; wooden-leg-
bar hopper who found the audiocas-
edition of As I Lay Dy-
tedious; compassionate evangelic-
who pays her tithe to a Dutch Re-
Methodist Congregation in Michi-
and planned her sweet six-
around a barbecue rally for the N.R.-;
Lisa, to my sun a passive so-
cell; hot-house flower; delicate cross-stitch-
of egregiously implausi-
aphorisms; keen swing-
of a mean, two-fisted back-,
who never naps and who wears sensi-
shoes; Lisa, who can nei-
sketch nor paint nor even take a good photo-,
and who yet believes in Pan-As-
unity, in an American meritocra-,
and that finally, after all, haute cou-
may look hot but is infeasi-;
O yes, Lisa, bullish on space trav-,
Homeland Security, spar-
the rod, and the Ruskini-
curriculum; who sniffs e-
at clean, convenient mass transporta-
and who thinks elaborate fire-
protect every electronic transac-,
especially love poems; Lis-,
my Kalishnikov, my Winches-,
my freshly cleaned and reassem-
Uzi with a full clip; pumice eve-
callous on your ruddy palms, reap-
that patriotic French mani-,
throw away your plastic sand-filled bar-
and your Sega gameboy, ba-,
unbind your feet! Dad-
home! That’s me stamp-
gravel with a light blue Melt-A-
glaze from the soles of my black, steel-
boots; I’m home to write poet-
about Lisa, my muon and my centripe-
force; my vortex and my ver-;
speaker of my house and my secretar-
of health and human services desig-,
eligible for a lifetime appoint-;
my pointillist’s stipple, every-
tick this versifier’s tock de-:
my penultimate and my ultimate sylla-.

Maturity

long owed to Lisa

Odd to admit now Brighton
Frightened me: the ‘B’ line; the wet snow,
Weightless as in a globe;
Nobody interested in the poem,
“Maturity: An Ode,”
I was so proud of writing.

What I thought courageous
Ages less well than love; the reservoir
We circumambulated
Hated being my metaphor
For how to safely store
A childhood’s griefs and rages.

Odder still to remember
December in San Diego:
Anesthetic palms, green-fingered scrub
Troubling the soil’s chocolate-slow
Flow into a faux
Hand a fault dismembers.

I had no way of knowing,
Owing to loves past,
That our new undertaking—
Our breaking, our holding fast—
Might yield, at last,
A love so thorough-going.

But the muscle does not pause as
Losses accumulate;
Its beating does not lessen,
Lessoned by fate:
Darkly blood moves; lungs oxygenate;
A pulse answers for causes.

And if maturity’s billion synapses
Lapse after firing
Only to light the path again—
Against desiring—
Against such pathetic wiring,
Logic, not love, collapses.

Oddest of all how writing
Frightens me still,
That losses accumulate
Late, and ever will,
Yet now the reservoir is filled
With love, and the world brightens.

After Swann 48-50

Marthe Reed — Mon, 20 May 2013 07:01:29 +0000

48

as though tendering
the spectacle of
aesthetic co-ordinates

a shell-splinter
pearl-grey gloves
his crush hat

a specimen
girdled
in the polished disk

of sensual bliss
moved
an accidental

fragment
evokes
his horizon

bounded by two
fans or
two adjacent chairs

glad of a companion
she preferred
an obscure

melancholy
a series of trapezes
the pendulum of

her constantly accelerated
reason
murmuring

almost horizontally
a hollow sound
limiting her field of vision

49

claiming
her due
a pattern in the carpet

dumb-show
expressing
the act of politeness

she moved
in order to
straighten

her fan
a tender smile
taught in her girlhood

sinuous creatures
somewhere beyond
a more premeditated reaction

she had
solitude
a sudden

slender young
beauty
free from the scrutiny of

memories and sensations
a woman
reduced to

an echo
a token
romantically compressed

50

to modify this
overture
she seemed

to appear
by an invitation
a moment dreamed

in the plays of
social engagements
the expression of her anxiety

a pretence
in which she might find herself
a lump of sugar

a thousand signs
underlying
her

might one day emerge
into a laugh
such lovely things

it was only
the emotion of
her gratitude

so delightful
an uneasiness
running

within reach of
the moment
an impression

isolating the word
a regular little peach
half wishing to oblige

The Offending Adam

soul, paraphrased & there are four angels standing at the four corners of the earth & every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart

soul, paraphrased

there are four angels standing at the four corners of the earth

every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart

The #4 Jason Voorhees definition on Urbandictionary.com & The Enduring Power of Julia Child & Kenny Rogers

The #4 Jason Voorhees definition on Urbandictionary.com

The Enduring Power of Julia Child

Kenny Rogers

Napoleon Contemplates His Mortality from the Perspective of a Fly & Dolores Haze Enters the 10th Grade & Dolores Haze as Schéhérazade

￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼￼Napoleon Contemplates His Mortality from the Perspective of a Fly

Dolores Haze Enters the 10th Grade

Dolores Haze as Schéhérazade

Black Dog Cult & The Last Eucalyptus & The Garden

Black Dog Cult

The Last Eucalyptus

The Garden

The Mapmaker Is Revealed to Be a Woman & Ladder of Angels Descends North of LAX

The Mapmaker Is Revealed to Be a Woman

Ladder of Angels Descends North of LAX

Dark Art 7 & Dark Art 8

Dark Art 7

Dark Art 8

from Bookquet

from Bookquet

from Letters to the Divergents: A Cryptozoologic for Xems

from Letters to the Divergents: A Cryptozoologic for Xems

To Lis- & Maturity

To Lis-

Maturity

After Swann 48-50

48

49

50

Napoleon Contemplates His Mortality from the Perspective of a Fly