Manuel Alvarez Bravo, La Buena fama durmiendo, 1939.
By saying “I’m sleeping with someone”, the fellow means he’s
sleeping with the fragrance of her hair at repose, the forward jut of her
hip-bones, the restlessness of her feet kicking the tympanic surface of the
mattress. He’s sleeping with the contours of her embryonic familiarity.
The thundering noise from above is, in fact, thunder, if we
define thunder with the generous elasticity that thunder generates, sequentially. A
hawk lingers on an arterial wire, it was built in a rainstorm, the hawk’s
plumage is rainfall, its mid-air colors and runoff.
A glancing moment, as when a boxer must claw the danger, given
his struggle for viability within the emergency of his own footing. His
opposite smites the blundering footage underneath his wobbly mentality, an idea
that implies the spark of a knuckle upon the recalcitrant chin.
Your child years, your work years, your aged years. What a
catastrophe—to need—to take action, the way bells and horns regulate the sluggish
ambulation of conveyances bound for a hub, a destination-hub, the afternoon
never able to clear or clarify its ambiguities.
Everything perishes: the belly of a mural tagged by tagger, afternoon
darkening, downhill acceleration, even perishing perishes. What might happen—experts
should theorize—when all perishing perishes: abrupt stop? but what of “stop”, seeing
as it represents a perishable state?
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ReplyDeletethanks, anonymous.
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