Distribution Automatique

Friday, May 16

While I am remembering something,
something else occurs.
In one space every movement is vast,
in that movement I am a whole world.
After each feeling I look back. That
world no longer exists. It's only a
moment and its already changed. I
(made up) told a story and I expected to
correct it later.
I got drunk on my anger, etc.

(turns up)

Many pictures emerge, repeat in a series:
Every moment has duration, a
presentiment, a disclosure, a destiny
and a specific quality all its own.The
predicted, the genuinely experienced presentiment
of the future can be a blindfold because it
excludes the moments between, the gaps between
the shared events.That is your private
world. Its lines trace its thoughts back
to words.
Images don't correspond to moments.
Someone is caressing the sand, someone
the sea itself, developing some pictures.
Someone said "you should think before you
act" and someone said "give it a few
more weeks." That's not a person though.
A person is more like "though" not
meaning or wishing a specific definition
of anything (least of all a sequence of words).

I can (build up) arrange my collage like this each piece random and unalterable, but
instantly changeable into its opposite or placeable on some
other edge or ending, some
vein reaching out for some other

I want to decipher the collage.
It is a language like thought
unconnected to objects, undistracted by
objects, impervious to the illusion that
an idea might exist in such an attachment.
I spell it by cutting out
and arranging the pictures in a
hieroglyphic series:

if that's how you were I just forgot, etc.

Just as forgetting has a neutral
scent, like a long breath of air into
the mind, the mind exhales what it
draws to itself.The sea is ungrateful for my attention

same bones washed up on the beach
are my bones, same mistakes

Its meaning is clear, the words opaque,
the gestures are visible, the text

The amazing red dawn
gulls going by that morning on this
morning present past
during, not before
thinking of those colors
and the big gulls descending ( they ? descend, etc

would this abrupt sound scare her away?
The heat suddenly overcomes a man and he
feels detached.Slowly, so infinitely slowly
he notices the sea. It seems to take such a
long time. Anticipation of surprise shows
on his face.

What speaks clear dies in its expression. The inexpressive
silence that began the day was not completely
resolved in its masked absence. No person is
composed of a series of altered signs. Make him speak in
symbolic characters,make his words
untranslateable figures,hieroglyphic
signposts preceding language. It isn't
only silent when it negates itself, it is
silent in its act of observing its own

I picked up the scissors and cut a
black and white photograph of a plain wood
building (an obviously deserted army barracks) out of
a magazine.I cut out another picture of a rainy day. three people singing
in front of a small church, cut it
down to one person and half the other,
attach, it to the left side of the wood building.

etc. to > "obejcts of thought"

Words are abstract, close disorders of
thought not fit for remembering. Or thought
grows away at its words, seems to

pause without pausing, excitement for
nothing. A bone and fruit, side by side.

they went- etc.

Every time I write the date I speak your name.
And I retrieve it from the dust of its origin.

A poem has an imperfect face.- noplace
to let it fall- outside more inside-
rhythm is memory- nothing precedes-
nothing more

The rain looked white on the windows
and felt like ashes on my fingers.

In silence
In a dim language
without reference
to the inner counterpart

the small acts of pleasure, etc

it' like a big skip in the fabric of time
a particularly tough weave in the wholecloth of our association

Somewhere around St Thomas
I found something red
which reminds me of you

and I know you know
this is my only way to keep silent
and listen
to transform my thoughts
according to specific memories
we hare

the birds around here
have to sing into the ever-increasing density
of the implosion my silence draws into me
an empty universe inside an even emptier order of memories

No, I don't know
No, no in a dream
the text's a chance
no bets
the professor is quiet
out to the bar- games-
an accurate phrase out of phase
Listen in light of what comes next
not what came before that
but what's next as what's coming before

How else to express it than in
symbolic characters, words returning away
from representations into abstract forms,
untranslateable figures thrown out of the
mind like formless masses of spacial design,
suggestive perhaps of the mind's langujage
before words, the cacaphony and squawks
of feeling- of anger and laugter, delight and
fear, terror and awe.