To submit this material to the alchemical process means to apply
conscious effort and attention to the task of refining and separating
the composite mixture to the end that the Self or archetypal psyche
will be freed from its contamination with the ego.
-Edmund F. Edinger
Benediction joy joy.
“Egyptian art” searching universal solvent (forerunner chemistry)
for life’s lasting, secret first-rate elixir
the color of bees bodies,
like several times self-assumed graffiti-ale
(even Herodotus drank the barley bree),
virgin church-ale, popular but weaker than bath water, than will-hops.
Now the leaving silver, the returned lover,
rain-water out o’door, now mix with
spotted, dapple donkey Quixote, feather
fetish dust-pinch, childhood fever, orchid wig, your waking flesh…
Take the oceans’ peach jellyfish petticoat silks
to dream by, heal, contract covenant, water-pray.
Snuff leave-taking of bedside air.
Is an echo a contamination of the original?
Hi….Hi, Hi, Hi, Eye, I, I, I, I, I…
She stood on a hill with seven brown eggs in her dress’s
pulled-out hammock, and she saw, exactly like, above
the slain sun, her mind moving away from her body,
its tarnished basket of coin.
Footfretted in it,
cast your salt’s earthcast, buried on the north side, hand-
print, foot-print, beheaded opal ill luck,
love-brought, bringing in shirty, money,
to shoe it in, depart the groom, Shall I, Shall I?
That’s the old camp, to strike lucky at the mouth
of the sea speaking back in heavy breaths.
Always harping on one string till an answer stitches out:
Hull, Hell and Halifax
further to make your point less of
an ache to happenstance’s criminal mystery or cry.
From: First to last, love
the brethren house… in your third age
of who you are, seeing itself as the only window with its light on,
as the fall-out time still reaching you,
like dirt up to your ears until you can’t hear anymore.
He will she, she will he…
Hear Ye, Hear Ye, this court will come to an order.
from Voyeur Hour, 8PM
“there will I be, waiting for myself”
from the painted porch of that house you are not building for me, that could be
mine. It was my body that survived your Amazon obsolete course, flight of green stairs
down the waterfall, survived the carjacking turn of events caught on tape, my blood-trail.
I can hardly see until you open my eyes with your one eye, sugar on the mark. I hate you
because you gave me permission. I’m all leather in the saddle. You’re in the horse.
Through the window, I hop in the passenger seat next to you driving down the street, your Elvis
sideburns on fire. Fear has everything to do with it, but I don’t have to be afraid for long, do I?
The weight of water holds my new voice upstream. It moves like an epitaph to
the future. Whoever swallowed that drink, gave me thirst. Whoever gave me music, knew
silence. Swine eat pearls. Clouds fall down and drown themselves in the soil, in another
state. I am reading other women like myself in a Venetian metaphor, subsequent
orientation on the verbal page. Billboard images bully each weakness until your ribs
hurt like metal crowbars. Rabbits breed like the violence in the mind. Humpty Dumpty
falls down inside of me for a few hundred thousand dollars. I can see myself there,
bearing the mark of the real world where they are making up what comes next, in me.
The level horizon keeps on leveling out.
Stars are just tiny stick pins in the voodoo doll of the universe.
You’ve been in a glass-bottomed boat with no air
–– fathom the wall for it’s paper-guilt lily, press your bare breast against it.
from Voyeur Hour, 6PM
Today I followed a young couple in the street,
wanted them familiar,
his pant leg, her fallen shawl, what truth should look like.
Gestures passed between us. Out of frame:
their hands, their mouths, my loose hair.
There’s a soft vein at the ankle, one wrinkle above the lip like a Spanish accent
over its vowel.
1: one obtaining sexual gratification from observing unsuspecting individuals who are
partly undressed, naked, or engaged in sexual acts; broadly : one who habitually seeks
sexual stimulation by visual means
As if you already knew what I was doing. Self-touching.
Sight taken. Image given.
A bicycle in the bathroom, its metal bell. Body of books in bed.
Story points to context, you know.
Just chance encounters
I insist, because nothing happens otherwise.
In case you decide to become a smoker,
and the everlasting lack of sleep stares back like a new bruise…
Richard Tuttle Behind Artist Richard Tuttle
Beauty…is unavoidable, though art is not.
Look fifty four inches from the floor at the height, light switch,
the objects, even the part you don’t like
hung in this annex-dark room, there
where your hands might reach: drawing in space, a postscript
everyone wants to read.
But people become after the fact as they walk away or toward—
(I’m not leading. I’m following) Take a couple for example:
Two With Any To the place where something happens as the salt is passed,
crushed between them, where
in the middle something happens, maybe 20 pearls
swallowed before sleep,
the sea a blanket pushed to the body’s margins,
maybe a Borneo Draco lizard leaps like a blue and yellow umbrella
spotted red from your bedroom gallery tree outside
as the wind frames the tree by its own movement, in that same moment
you tell yourself
perhaps I can free myself from myself here
on the side of what cannot be seen,
I’ll open all the Verbal Windows and hear the past, its dead fish head
heavy-breathing down my neck, hear
a child’s hiccups held far-off like water dripping because
the moment where we feel least understanding is the moment when
unstrung from thinking, in a room full of people looking at art,
when a body wants to fall in love elsewhere…all the beauty it can bear,
it can self-drown.
It is hard to get free of all the beauty in the world,
paint, language and salt soaking up the oyster-chattering darkness.
It is easy to get obsessive.
Back-off. Walk sundown-backwards pass the lawn sprinklers, back
inside. Press your back
fifty four inches from the floor
next to the light switch — let
someone less miserable than you
turn it on.