NOVEMBER 2021
cy twombly’s photographs
june jordan (esp. sunflower sonnet #2 starting at 13:05)
There’s something like red in the tree, but it’s
the orange of the lampstand
brought in places I don’t want to remember
because they, too, carry weight
mercurial, shifty turns of weather in the span of a timeframe that feels meaningless, or what is the notion of now if not a negotiation of all the change that can happen within it?
painting in verticality as it is in horizontality (it’s nothing because it’s only infinites)
the lemon tree in the culminating passages of when we cease to understand the world
“like so many poets, claude vigée hears the grass grow”
colour as if able to be walked into
the lake shimmering and electric at sunrise
I have just realized that the stakes are myself
I have no other
ransom money, nothing to break or barter but my life
nona fernández and the imagination of more power than memory
audre lorde and the refusal to never leave the pen “lying / in someone else’s blood.”
It was then when I first noticed the aching
of my hands, how they were soon to set themselves
away — they came and went, as if they were lace for the breaking.
Come, lovers of dark corners,
The sky says,
And sit in one of my dark corners.
arcmanoro niles and his shocked-colour visions of lives gathered in a face, in a frame
this cannot be the opportunity for useless thoughts.
goodbye to etel adnan, who told us that “there’s eternity / in the calendar of Being.”
I never thought Michiko would come back
after she died.
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.
hallucinogenic versions of pain, vainglory, witchcraft, eroticism, but ultimately the ugliness and violence when a man’s fear meets a woman
Nothing passes from rest to motion unless you move it in hidden ways,
O new moon.
in a past that keeps happening
ahead of you
If blue is only 4500 years old,
of course we don't have one
for email rage, or hunger
that isn't really hunger.
: What are you now? If we could touch one another,
if these our separate entities could come to grips,
clenched like a Chinese puzzle . . . yesterday
I stood in a crowded street that was live with people,
and no one spoke a word, and the morning shone.
Everyone silent, moving. . . . Take my hand. Speak to me.
