The Soul selects her own society,
then Shuts the door.
e. dickinson

Monday, March 24, 2008

parts from A Media of the Seasons

Not like any kind of professional editing, a chain of stars chained to their
windows, irreducible the soft gender does reflect from American Apparel syntax:
consider a light-bulb in the TV, knocking back, knocking at a thought full
of pollen in the neighborhood. A static reception of coughs, sore throats,
a spoonful of honey coating the light; the light not knocking, not on the TV,
there was only a possibility of montage rearranging itself somewhere in the
plexus without any use for it but to make the flu derivative.


Pigeons exited a building, sure, that's what I'd want you to think. That's what
I convince myself too: X amount of lbs. of impulse, each carrying a word on
its back, scattering the conclusion though its not that simple. More like a habit
to click them all at once or shove them into a folder because you just can't.


In the summer it takes longer for a video to upload, the heat in constant motion
where you touch it to stop. In real time, we escape from a neon-theory of hide and seek,
delete all the furniture and figure a way to be people with limbs again. The video skips,
mouth-less seconds bite at the frame where you laugh around the edges; a laugh so
consistent it gives reason to fast-forwarding outdoor escalators and some invention of wind.
But slow enough to notice each step without having to pound a fist onto the stop-button,
cover up the affection accumulating and hollow out the grass we're standing on with thousands
of stop-buttons to make it less obvious.


The weight of a crowd suggests a few things: improvisation, structure, how necessary
some tickets to watch the film projection in a cemetery. What more for a picnic atop an epitaph,
spread a sheet over your Myspace page to keep the profile from shifting. A hyphen as long
breath or wishing through a tunnel between two points, not a point, just an appropriation
of friends to keep the clause from wandering.