and this is only just the beginning

It is within these pockets of time, ones of loss and gain, tragedy and joy, that we continue to breathe, without permission, without deliberation. And yet we continue to live, death after death, choice after choice. Our lives are wrapped around the will to survive, to keep breathing and existing despite the tragedies that are thrown our way. And each day offers a space for new changes, shifts in our lives that can forever affect the way we view the world, the people, the space around us.

We are thrust into a world full of change, in a vessel contained within a layer of flesh upon flesh. And it is this same layer that separates us from the others, the other souls that share the very air that keeps us alive within this pocket of time. And each of us is born with the innate desire for contact with others, seeking relationship after relationship, which in turn effects change after change.

separated by lungs

When I think there are these things: when it rains the women stay in the summer-house. About loving cells, the movement of cells, and the division of cells they hear the water beating on the tiles and streaming and then the general beating of circulation. You I think down the slopes of the roof. Fringes of rain surround about opening hands, and body, and feet. The summer-house, the water that runs down at its angles and shaking the skin that surrounds hands, body, and feet. Flows more strongly, it is as if springs hollow out. This is a shape, pebbles at the places where it reaches the ground. I’m sick. A shape of blood beating and cells dividing. At last light someone says it is like the sound of micturition, that she throwing my baby against plastic, but outside of this pace is shape. I feel transparent cannot wait any longer, and squat down. There is space between the hands. I try it again. Then some of them form a circle around her after the monster tore down the town left on the doorstep. There is space between the hands and space around the hands. Watch the labia expel the urine. In dull weather the women may shed hot tears, is this why smiling saying that in the sunshine there is space around the hands and spce in the room in our hands a rattle penetrates through closed windows? Someone arrives to visit we shake him shake him. there is space in the room that surrounds the shape of everyone’s vulva, used it to say that thanks to that nobody’s going to come in. and there is space, an uneven space, made by this pattern of bodies. The last splashes of sunlight in the sea I agree is a good place to shit. This space goes in and out of everyone’s bodies at the most luminous spot when, dazzled, they try to move away while I stayed in this morning. It was summer. Everyone with lungs breathes the space in and out as everyone is seized with vomiting. Then they begin to moan who did you think I would be. As everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands in and out, colliding with the floating decaying carcase of an ass, at times the swell the wind turning flags and banners into danger as everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands and they say that they shouted with all their might, in this fragmented city and the space around the hands in and out. I will wake up loving you and when I come home I will love you as everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands and reveal sticky shapeless gleaming lumps of indescribable colour the space around the hands and the space of the room and the space of the tickets for the movies for tomorrow night, I will buy you shedding many tears, complaining that no sea-breeze got up to drive away the smell, supporting under the arms and groins, How connected we are with everyone. It’s like genitals I want to show you all these tiny parts piles of orange oranges ochre pineapples mandarins walnuts green and pink mangos the space of everyone that has just been inside of everyone mixing inside of everyone with nitrogen and oxygen and water vapor but I’m public public public. Holes in my memory sticking my hands in my jeans jackets how lovely and how doomed this connection of everyone with lungs. Wasps coming and going settle on the bare arms of the young women selling the bread, must be saved wrapped protected from age because I am poor and how am I to dress my flesh if I’m not poor, each morning we wait in our bed listening for the parrots and their chattering. Beloveds, the huntresses have dark maroon hats, and dogs. The trees branch over our roof, over our bed, and so realize that when I speak about how can I protect me from rotting, Dominique Aron says that the bird is still flying, the hare still running, the boar the deer the fox the wart-hog still afoot. When I speak of the parrots I speak of all that we wake to this morning, I think writing is desire not a form of it. beloveds, yours skins is a boundary separating yous from the rest of the women watching its approach shouting to those within for the windows to be closed and the rifles kept behind the windows. I speak of the separations that define this world and the separations that define us, it’s feeling into space, tucked into language, slipped into time, opened, felt, even as we like to press our skins against one another in the night. Her face is bare the undersides of her arms are a rosy colour sometimes she begins to sing because someone set them free, someone set them free, and they fly from one place to another, of course of course. Yet being here somehow, open loudly, to remind us of our morning and we welcome this even, stuck on our backs in bed, wings flapping, the women say that of her song nothing is to be heard but a continuous O. that is why this song evokes for them, small books which they say are feminaries, diversions from the pieces of the three-legged stool. Beloveds, yours skins are of all colors, are soft and wrinkled, blotchy and reddish, full of blemish and smooth. The persimmons are mysterious; they never get soft and by the lakeside there is an echo. As they stand there with an open book our world is small, these are junipers with their lonely commentary, the shadows brooding over the lake shift and beginning to shiver because of the vibrations of the voice.

a tribute to gogol

The utter truth of the matter is that Kovalyov had given up hope of ever having his nose occupy the flattened space between his eyes as before. Kovalyov had indeed tried, he scoured the entire country, searching for a doctor who could repair this predicament! But the last doctor he visited, the scoundrel, had insisted on buying the nose from Kovalyov. How someone so lowly ranked as a doctor could ever afford to purchase anything from Kovalyov, let alone something as valuable as a Major’s nose, was completely beyond him.

When Kovalyov returned to his apartment the next evening, he resolved to stay in his room and die an old man. Surely he had funds to last him a few more years, he thought. Kovalyov had no intention of living past the next five years without his nose. What utter despair, he cried, and shut his doors tightly. “Ivan!” Kovalyov yelled. “You crook! Get me a tinderbox!” Ivan came running with Kovalyov’s old tinderbox, opening it for him as he came to a stop beside his bed. Kovalyov carefully placed his nose, still wrapped in the same paper that Ivan Yakovlevich had used, just inside the heart of the tinderbox. He placed it beside his bed and screamed at Ivan to get out before adding: “And if I ever catch your filthy hands on this box Ivan, I swear to God…” And Kovalyov never did finish his sentence.

without giving anything away

The woman stripped her body of the glittering white tunic. Blue black articles of clothing shed to the ground. She raised her glistening thigh against the firm trunk and sheared her long black hair cast them into the fire. The flames danced around her belly an undulating drum a powerful force a heave. She thurst her large arm into the air and red yellow orange light flickered across the flecks of her skin. She screamed. Against the image against the system for her body for her daughters. She scissored the remains of her hair and thrust a stick into the silver screen. Crimson red trickled down her chin.

She ran across the wooded steps across the white black tiles. She loosens her grip on the knife with no blade the knife with no handle and let go of the toilet let go of the image. She raised her thick fist and pumped her broad hips against the manicured fixtures, statuettes. She wildly thrashed against their resistance and gushed out onto the floor not before she stabbed one drawing magenta red over the black white tiles.

The woman undresses before a silver pond a black swan. She whittles the edge of a spear a young girl rubs lotion over her round belly. The woman pushes forward with hands on her hips and whispers a story about Maxine to the young girl the young girl across the pond. Maxine she says ate a fish stuffed with poison and lost her mind. Her pretty face shrunk as did her body to the size of a needle and she perished. It was then that everybody called her beautiful.