Kate Schapira

 

 

 

Places in Math

 

 

 

Darkness is a substance, thick substance that comes between. Brightness is absence. Don't you know a creation story when you hear one?

 

 

 

There's a lot of dough here. There's a lot to involve. There's a lot at this address, an address up for sale. There's a surface mark, an orange mark. Adjacent, it changes value. There's a trick to it. There's a lot of diversity here, a job lot of resentment. A bright blot on darkness changes the tape. There's the rate at which the first posts are driven.

 

 

 

Shadows collect by number in the basement, at the downspout, stains. Mike T. and I were going to smear the new thresholds with tuna for purposes of elimination. Never got to them. Nothing stays purged. How far will the shadow and what will it shade? More growth? Potential? How long would it have taken us? And the value of our time?

 

 

 

The world, the insect city. The city that goes on, the late city. How long will it take the city before the city. Discount city: the sign lights up, lights glow, lights new: Discount City. The hoverers have found a winner to be brighter than the signs that say, "Stop Speculative Development," brighter than, "Olneyville needs affordable housing not luxury lofts," than, "This is my neighborhood," brighter than bright.

 

 

 

Judgment is traveling toward migration at a rate but migration is always farther, always faster. Don't you know the river, almost a stream here, flows back on itself, curls over its bags, its now possessions, packs its inevitable fish?

 

 

 

I saw banners streaming through the buildings. They had no place to live.

 

 

 

Lift off the angel roofs and insert the good fits, the targets. Plant lights to make people walking below the windows feel lonely. Certain computations begin this way, with a pure softness, uncontaminated, breathing peacefully, untroubled, a speculative light.

 

 

 

No substitute for myth has heretofore been successful. Isolated efforts wheel around the towers like bats, tower the ads along the sides of buses. "These people couldn't walk to work." If you weren't one of these, you'd be home now.

 

 

 

The same chairs, committees, the same panic forces a bubble in neon, housing air, rising. Reach the noonday clot people cross with strollers, not figures but people. Not signs but prefigurations.

 

 

 

Somehow the horror ghosts bring becomes tenuous. I saw other people pretending to be ghosts in order to enter the ghost preserve, with striped masks on, naturally. Posters hung to imitate habitat. In the stiff cornflowers, milkweed, false wheat bending, Queen Anne’s stems with no air of vulnerability. No air at all.