2006-09-19
rachael and the tattoo.'if we pick them
we'll pick by guessing
white chrysanthemums
when frost has first settled
and decieves the eye"
-mitsune
One morning words were missing. Before that, words were not. Facts were, faces were. In a good story, aristotle tells us, everything that happens is pushed by something else. For Instance, three women were bending in the fields. What use is it to question us? they said. Well it shortly became clear that they knew everything there was to know about snowy fields and those blue-green shoots that come up in late spring and a plant called 'audacity' which apparently poets mistake for violets. The little ticks in forms of questions construct an instant of nature gradually, without any boredom of a story.
I try to avoid it. Boredom, that is.
It is the task of a lifetime. You can never know enough, never work enough, never use the infinitives and participles oddly enough, never leave the mind quickly enough.
In each of you I draw, it's wrong but I do it. I find, beneath the pencil scratches, radioactive material.
Do you think 9 miles is down far enough?
16 miles?
195 miles?
They are of course, my own scratches.
Faces
I once thought sharp blades
the way they pointed them at me
and waited
a hunter is someone who listens
so hard to its prey
that silence pulls the weapon
out of its hand
and wounds only itself
To Singapore and Toronto.
Good Morning or Night.
Katrina at 11:23 PM