Saturday, November 15, 2008


An axe is flung down in the cabin of my habits and disappears. Laughing, then
writing, I told someone nearby that the tongue is made of grains of blood. O you
who awaken with one eye in the slits of the wooden door, good morning. And good
night now. And anyway this is the street where the nearby branches grab us by the
collar. Crying in the distance is a longing, addressed casually by everyone. The
asphalt sheets are already gathering the wrinkles of the evening.


The radiant subway again. Today, too, in this still-radiant subway, small white
explosions occur here and there. They are the sounds of our joints popping, the
sound of an all-too-convenient despair fading away. The walls collapse, and the
birds of the earth, now without hesitation, begin transporting their nests so as to set
them into these daily-renewed explosions.


It is now time to describe, toward a mossy nothingness, the shape of a fragment. The
moment a shipwreck seeks- against its will- the pretense of wings, and when the
eraser under the eaves just about to disappear first faces itself, and when this too is
nothing more than a short-lived illusion. The dim brilliance of the fragment criticizes
the sharpness of the form. I follow the contours of the blade. Not for the purpose of
sketching, but in order to draw up a contract with the sweat of things at the moment
the line tears, and to cross over to the next shape.

(for some reason the form is completely messed up on these. but they are all block prose poems)

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