Sunday 12:44 pm

Starting the downward slope of the day. Just on the cusp. The lip of the falls. The height of day: hot, humid. Grey cloud-cover to trap in the smoke.

One of Ligeti’s etudes, Automne à Varsovie, is the perfect accompaniment to descending. Neither hand knows what the other is doing so flail in minute spirals cataloging a fluttering down. Lightness concealing a darkened interior of possibility or collapse.

Vertige

En suspens

Coloana infinitå (simply amazing)

***

Dr. Octagon

***


I ask her where she is going. Downstairs, she replies. Yes and to do what, I thought to myself

I was thinking to myself

I was singing to myself


***


from The Farrago Embers


Splintered door


Fallow days


The world needs to be given updates on its performance


Scarlet towel hanging on the back of a white chair with rounded edges


At the height of my encounter I turned into alpine snow


If something is trying to push you into being then push back―
fight to prevent a clumsy entrance


***