The mouth of the wind pushes back the language of the dead. The memory house releases the speak mouth. The house sheds its meaning. Come back hold your thoughts. You twist at night with the mechanisms of the birds, noises in paradise, irony in the slash of a cross. Severed and hardened not abstract you stun yourself into reluctance into place. The yawpers stand together holding their tongues in their hands. I steal the words you forget. The monkeys are crimson. They eat their cake coming down. They make the image that has its equivalent in light.
In the city the sky opens up . Imprinted once in your memory you heard the baby calling your name. Aren't all children greedy for their mother? A sea of pink leather where Orpheus fell in love with death through codes in the radio of a car. A car burns on 4th Street . Illuminated stars on a flat back. Consider how the voice scathes the ear. A bird takes flight in a world where we weep for machines. To internalize the truth your lips like flying tents.
Biographies compress the 2 Annes and Jacqueline. Below 100 the world speaks to you in numbers. Tracks of light in individual history. A blood red sky through the language of Finnegans Wake. How do you write Eva Hesse? The hearing part of the word has its equivalent in light.
You say the words become a way of understanding what you say. Holding on to time becomes a way of sleeping with the dead so that time becomes a softer image. Beckett was shocked so we can be shocked. Dreaming of elephants on orange sky. To save themselves they lose the key, enhance the plot, get lost themselves. You have the voice but not the words. Falling into oblivion. "Hey, you ain't got no milk." The heart becomes a monkey's angel . The beautiful sadness is not beautiful.
How is work and here's why I'm asking.
It was a sunny day. Cries from the beautiful bushes. Someone wanting food. Someone frightened. I told him how to get happiness.
I like what your dinner tastes like.
Your hair looks good.
I like your writing.
You are nice.
I like when you read to me and when you play with me and when you buy me things.
You are pretty.
When you take me to places.
How to get happiness.
Someone was frightened. Cries from the beautiful bushes. I like your writing, when you play, when you read to me. I like your hair when you let me do things, cries from the beautiful bushes, to places tasting.
Without a backward glance the line of the arm and the beautiful shape of the head. Huffy Stalker, Fret and Strut. Angelic wrangling, the night forms a large stairwell. Maidens in the abdomen. " The beautiful mother is my mother." Don't water some too much.
Living without her is different than living with her. Being from Washington is different than being from Baltimore. Eric Jacobs is different from Gregory Jacobs. Gregory Hines is different than Cab Calloway. Being like your father is different than being like your mother. Identifying red is different from identifying blue. Recurrent dreams and recurrent dreams . Lackluster in thought the words shine. Thinking now is looking . Dreaming of a sky that holds things. Virtual reality by Diane. Off the mother ship into funk. Barry White is still Barry White. What some can only utter. So long Eric. Louis Armstrong's First American Tour. Baby Uh All that.
In that the first loss unity is shattered, selves turn inward violently. A closed arc rushes toward an enigmatic end. The emergence of animals, their movement through land. Your mother came home. She knocks on your door. Your father won't let her in . You let her in. She gives you a book to record the content of your dreams. Reciprocity steps up into individual life. The spectators assemble themselves the ticket. The ticket takers are careless yellow spotted snakes. Draw yourself on a paper bag and the message breaks down. A small deity. Open your talking head with food. The library, the illicit playground deconstructing the letters on your hand. They dog themselves as if the outside of the boy is as important as the inside. This was the way he loved her. She knew by the curve of his mouth and the sound of his voice. White over blue. A book to record the content of your dreams. Here is a book to record the content of your dreams. St. Anne, your mother and your daughter stand at the archway of your door. This is a poem about mothers and daughters. East before west, 5 points to a star, where light is diffused. Let not the sky be filled with your lament. They read their golden books to guard the bodies of the dead . People perched in trees. You are turning. Your thieves of great wisdom fall apart. The sky floods into blue shift.
Dear Myself Bloody Monkey
2E's in F
3 S on T
12M in Y
4 W on K
10D to D
7D in W
5F on H
12 I in F
3F in Y
4S to S
2F on F
He speaks and people cry, they eat and then dance and then go home. Cover the mirror. Close the door. Rip your shirt. Wash your hands. Don't mention the dead. The beautiful sadness is not beautiful. The language of Finnegans Wake and the patient connects herself to everything around her. The language becomes more complex until it becomes too thick to sound. The patient becomes quiet. They want her radio (her writing).
You quit writing. Your images take on a translucent quality(scroll like).
Dear Myself. I.
You quit writing. You only write letters. You write list of things you think you should do. You think about the way your friends write. You think of ways you have written in the past. You write answers to questions you think someone will ask you. You write one sentence a day. You look up the authoritarian I. You look up procedural writing. You look up political writing. You think about what someone said. You think about writing your dreams. You write letters based on analyzing your dreams.
You quit writing. You think about how you have used language and words to hide and surround yourself. You try to decide to quit writing. Your passivity in language (as a way to desire). You don't write about what you're interested in. You think this will separate you. You don't want it. You want to make it plain. You think it will make you unique.
Where we read to each other, holding on to the primitive, the color blue. Dear myself, my brother. Her dangerous place was her disease. She told me in a letter to herself. Another red into the blue and then the shift.
Charlotte Bronte comes to share a cigarette with you. Her words split open bursting blood red then inside the core. The shift from (blue) brother into the red on red. Now that might eradicate the past but would it give it meaning.
My brother is a good artist. He can make a man in a monkey in the letter M. A word in the book goes into the eye as it reflects in the eye of the letter M. Reading or being read to. A man is in the monkey in the letter M. A good reader turns the page . Inside the monkey is the letter and inside the letter is my brother.
The weakest cry out of tubular (as if he is hurt). They know how to rage, to begin their deception as if they themselves are hurt.
And in what order do they want their food. The food is reflected in the eye of the page. Your process and imagining will suffer from the proliferation of your grief. You want to ingest words without revealing . You begin to use ideas instead of looking. You take an installation of rendering the fascinating mother and the fascinated child.
Another explanation. Yellow on amber red. This was the house you lived in.
Dear Lynne. Dear Myself.
Hand on foot, a gesture of hands, the shoe falling away (spiraling down). I could have walked through with my eyes closed. Then I remembered how beautiful she really was spiraling out into the language of bees.