A draft of answers
How does a city grease its windows (stares) if across a continent we assume dual weathers?
Weather like a sphinx tells me how brown to howl, how far to cast rectangular sounds, how long to wait for the ripe sadness. Winter trickles in from the other side of the lake, however soft.
Where does song instigate childhood, and should the means be difficult, would you spill after, into it? Statue, plastic carnations smelling of water. This is my branch, my cleansing. Out of key. Even now, the basement is a brown recluse, dangling from his thread.
Are crosswinds from the mouth of a crowned katydid, she, you-- pacing in peril, horizoning a sea? My mother's knees are fat like oranges. She dives without splash, seaweed in her eyebrow. I keep falling out of her, head first, the cleanest way to arrive.
The rink of sky is pumice. How many rings have you forged from it, how long have you worn them? Around his neck, a cord. The sky erased. My fingers swollen towers and lamp posts. Rings only in the sinkhole of gutters, dustdevil in your wake.
Did you in Portland submerge, and by what pretext, under finish-line tears, ancestral as his (our) bottoming voice? Scraping salt-crystals from my hair, I was gathered and planted, cinched and tied in procession to the gallows. Tears and sweat were too close, too symbolic in their wetness. Decorated and ushered through.
Albumen, sulfur, peonies, peonies, why does it echo, bleach us to crystal? This is the the surface we thump through, palpitate by, play into like commands. Red rover, send over over. Skipping stones are flat and anxious, even as we fly.
I climb some dissected place where stones are entrances, how, how do you approach silence after these plates, skin-wells, ivories crumble? I am in trees, not stones. Even from the roots, it is a spreading, curving bark and knotted vertebrae. How can I be light and molecule. Opening out of tantara but through the branches. Branching syntax.
If lines in your hand trace trajectories, do they turn liquid in foglight (run parallel to an elsewhere)? I held him here into everywhere, dropped him but still threaded through fingers like cat's cradle. I trace you through the spaces, the fibers of locking strings and barracades. A levy is holding tight.
Were we to condense, jar loose, the octagonal and continguous dew, what prayer might you make from the phoenix's name? Always here in october windshift. Give me mountain and apple core. Give me serious lips and bread between teeth. Give me open and green, but on fire and carrying fast.
Weather like a sphinx tells me how brown to howl, how far to cast rectangular sounds, how long to wait for the ripe sadness. Winter trickles in from the other side of the lake, however soft.
Where does song instigate childhood, and should the means be difficult, would you spill after, into it? Statue, plastic carnations smelling of water. This is my branch, my cleansing. Out of key. Even now, the basement is a brown recluse, dangling from his thread.
Are crosswinds from the mouth of a crowned katydid, she, you-- pacing in peril, horizoning a sea? My mother's knees are fat like oranges. She dives without splash, seaweed in her eyebrow. I keep falling out of her, head first, the cleanest way to arrive.
The rink of sky is pumice. How many rings have you forged from it, how long have you worn them? Around his neck, a cord. The sky erased. My fingers swollen towers and lamp posts. Rings only in the sinkhole of gutters, dustdevil in your wake.
Did you in Portland submerge, and by what pretext, under finish-line tears, ancestral as his (our) bottoming voice? Scraping salt-crystals from my hair, I was gathered and planted, cinched and tied in procession to the gallows. Tears and sweat were too close, too symbolic in their wetness. Decorated and ushered through.
Albumen, sulfur, peonies, peonies, why does it echo, bleach us to crystal? This is the the surface we thump through, palpitate by, play into like commands. Red rover, send over over. Skipping stones are flat and anxious, even as we fly.
I climb some dissected place where stones are entrances, how, how do you approach silence after these plates, skin-wells, ivories crumble? I am in trees, not stones. Even from the roots, it is a spreading, curving bark and knotted vertebrae. How can I be light and molecule. Opening out of tantara but through the branches. Branching syntax.
If lines in your hand trace trajectories, do they turn liquid in foglight (run parallel to an elsewhere)? I held him here into everywhere, dropped him but still threaded through fingers like cat's cradle. I trace you through the spaces, the fibers of locking strings and barracades. A levy is holding tight.
Were we to condense, jar loose, the octagonal and continguous dew, what prayer might you make from the phoenix's name? Always here in october windshift. Give me mountain and apple core. Give me serious lips and bread between teeth. Give me open and green, but on fire and carrying fast.
posted by Unknown at 10:48 AM
3 Comments:
Here's what I could come up with as I sit in my terrible office at school while I should be reading and waxing philosophical about, well, the very thing we're doing. Anyway, I want a chance to go back through and change some stuff, espacially after I get some space and go back to it, and I also need to come up with your questions. I have a meeting with a professor right now but maybe when I get back. . .
This has a great feel to it. Please don't change your answers! (or if you make any modifications, keep them on the surface). This has the echo of a dream conversation. I love it!
-- ps- at least you have an office, i'm in cubicle land
Interesting. . .a dream conversation. I suppose that's right-- I'm afraid there's maybe too much hiding behind language, as you put it earlier, and not onough connection going on. I don't know- I do know I love the back and forth voices- it's amazing.
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