February 14: Valentine's Day and Blizzard-like Conditions
Link to Weather Underground
What fathoms of ice are there unspoken endangered:
the quiet of the hiding places spreads out into change mechanisms.
What strange occluded landscape this interrogative imagines for us:
the variable diverted into constancy and the constant unforeseen.
That white expanse is in your head: that meeting of the minds is a primordial smudge.
You, who would envelope the mountaintop, redouble yourself a moment.
Remain within the confines of pleasure if you will (and you will).
You, who would touch all that is involved in this equation: split off a moment:
clamber out of the multitude briefly apologetic for your delirious one-ness
and then scamper back in.
In the mountainside, an illusion of silence. In the silence a scream at the point
where tonal unity propels formation.
Take support where the inference is supple. Earth community a small sign on the train route.
I prefer the TGV's brutal vivesection of landscape. High-minded vixens of cosmology: it is
impossible when the variable is this degree of unknown. What degree? The enth.
The rate of expansion is related to the dimming of the light by what amount –
that in which the factors rest is not closer to known than the giving up of power
the giving up of power to love the giving up of power to Con Edison
the giving up of power to the dream of the long cool landscape the various backyards we
have thrown into our bodies.
Chalky candy heart universally loved and detested. The bag of cards from school a minor
trauma. What a dormancy this planetary filter. The illusion of activity. "Lake-effect" snow is
not precipitation. The neatly chambered seasons climb out of their vast network of formation
and stumble off as minor characters. I will climb into a volcano, love, and from there the full
moon will fill me with lesser gravity.
You who would beat up the skyline of human romance.
The vehicular anti-taxonomy.
The congruence of quantum physics and children
with heart-shaped envelopes trotting out the ceremony.
That white tablet of hunger.
That filthy faded sky.
That ridiculous lunar landscape outside and its vague awareness of barbarism at the edges.
As if reaching for the telephone and introducing oneself to gravity. As if receiving that email
from the interloper you had hoped would remain anonymous. As if the melting down. As if
the static vibrations. As if the many brainwaves. As if the dark energy. As if the brain's
reliable old filters. As if the microorganisms and the anti-bacterial scrub. As if the boyfriend.
As if the children. As if the typing away. As if the country didn't. As if the rising tide. As if
be mine were an answer to all the falsehoods and all the screening and all the ravishment, and
were welcomed largely as such.
1. The Parliament of Fowls by Geoffrey Chaucer is perhaps the first St. Valentine's Day poem ever written:
A gardyn saw I, ful of blosmy bowes
Upon a ryver, in a grene mede,
There as swetnesse everemore inow is,
With floures whyte, blewe, yelwe, and rede,
And colde welle-stremes, nothyng dede,
That swymmen ful of smale fishes lighte,
With fynnes rede and skales sylver bryghte.
March 16: Endless Seductress Resources: Late Blizzard in Northeast
Endless Chalky Vista.
Almost feral where wild looses consequence:
The catastrophe threshold needs an update. Matter enters matter and transforms it
Small acts of thievery and bourgoise pleasure a small barbeque at the foot of the river
amuses the attendants.
We are guests of nature.
The glittering remix of detritus into objet is a kind of downward mobility that critics love,
hungry for dystopias to exalt. The call-and-response gesture of the birds wavers on the
The season's largest snowstorm is not in season.
Equinox two feet under: Behave.
Behavior was heir apparent to God but we could not commit to it.
We prefer to host than to enter the conversation as a guest.
Snow white was born as a drop of blood on a field of snow. Rose red was the sky and the sun.
One was a devoted wife. The other ravished.
Narayana, blue as the earth.
When lying down, the female form extends itself . Madame De Chatelet undressed
in front of her valets, as they were not, to her, men.
Spring is a formality undone by this renegade snowstorm. The day a rage of snow, an echo
of our summer air-conditioning: if you want me, come and get me. Naked before the
If we will not behave, it will behave us.
January 6: The Un-Fashioning (60 degrees)
Opening arguments a predicate for dissolution
into full conversion disorder a freezing of the global face a humor
Congealed grease on the hot tins of chicken remind me of something
I have been meaning to avoid a pointless attracted island of malaise.
The lichen are out, the crocuses, to everything an early death.
The phone rings staccato and we break apart.
Affiliation is over- appreciated as a mechanism.
I come into the office distanced from the action and yet.
What we need is a deep freeze.
Death is coming in all wrong.
What we need is a new way of understanding our cyclical relations.
Abandonment seems worse but it isn't.
Use it up or wear it out find a new way or go without.
I come into the office enamoured of its redundancy:
the routines themselves devour.
It is 60 degrees out in January: Her arm is swollen from a tick bite.
The balance is always shifting but now the shifting is shifting.
Toward a blue morass: you, reader, are there too. In my journals. Besieged.
The maladroit reportage of this rapacious extermination
as located here on this pinpoint: Fragmented at the sum of its parts
talking to whomsoever will have it.
I prefer desecration he says to the pabulum of healing.
Your happiness I in the office am in the process of
a profound capitulation crawling out only long enough
to avoid the exit route
How to condone relations around it?
Karl Lagerfield in powdered hair and skintight jeans reminds me somehow of the chicken tins.
Something I have been staring at all my life.
The opening argument would have to include trains: The loss of public transport,
the rise of the myth of home. Clifford Pynchon says that the brilliance and speed
of the railroad will overturn stale ideas of home and hearth, making humanity nomadic
My materiality is in conflict.
Karl Lagerfield chooses models so thin they are disturbing excess of plastic not flesh his
nano ipods flow over the 18th century apartment like colourful birds.
Perversion like everything else dissipates with exposure he calculates this as a fashion.
The difference now is not the duration of fame but the incestuousness of cause and effect.
The warm Spring day in January a radiowave the bandwidth of our instinctual desire
to settle in all senses. Suddenly death precedes the appearance of mortality.