The way ice can become a verdant spring. Horace, you know the way we stare through lenses; how we bathe the sky in radio waves. Do you understand what it means to listen to a body suspended in nothing? Neither do I, so we listen. Imagine a fountain becoming the water. At first we might pray with our arms tied to each other, but this is not a ruined church. Not a way to use our own possessions for attainment. Horace, my friend, do you understand why the sky burns but we do not die? Neither do I—I just slide like a body of ice skipping. They are more numerous than prayer—these icy satellites—and I do not know if the radio waves return to us, only that we send them. Horace, I am afraid because they surround us. Each a silent desire to come always closer. For what? To become the sky on fire? So what? We know the heavens spit out frozen chunks of stone that try to kill us. Sometimes they come close and we might pray for forgiveness. For what, Horace? Because we’re ants in a cosmic shooting gallery? No, that would be too easy. Horace, I mean the way ice can become a verdant spring. I mean this—that every body orbits something and we know it is not us. Remember that all of this is an accident. Minos and Troy and flying to the fucking moon. Human beings did these things: something about bullheads; a city razed to the ground; the beginning of how to understand what it means when we say “far away.” But still we’re surrounded by verdant icicles that keep trying to kill us. So Horace, what do you say?
Aubade but an Imperfect Recollection of Un Chien Andalou
like how I always forget how he is dragging two priests. I want this to be commendable but it is not. Instead you have blood seeping from a horse’s eye; two grand pianos; law draped like a shawl over his shoulders. How this will become a thing that we observe. Collect measurement or assess competency. I mean how the Greeks loved agapē —how they meant loving like God loves his creation. And this must be the way poets love: flooding what we have made to destroy what we have made. Bunuel says that it is moving and he is not wrong. Like how no one forgets the eyeball—but we forget the moon is sliced open as well. This is hope that is an illusion. No. That hope is an illusion we know is true. Listen to all the tiny cruelties. Attend the crowd in the street as well as the pavement beneath their feet.