from Forced Drift, Section: Dawn

1 December 2014

Variable irradiance; variable background. A body in sun beyond the shadow of a doubt. Buoyant reflectance; bouillon carbon. Good soil lights up lit-up hands and carbon of so much work. Light, neither-here nor-there, wondering glow nestles liquid scree. Somewhere is a perfect heat; perfectly real and concrete; perfect soluble forms perfect no more. Shore heat; shored-up by eternities of faith, and crumble puffs of ice-dust come fair and sharing-off light and shade. Come here, fair bodies. Fair says the world to come, says displaced color starts here, one with another – first melt – then leak – first painting: “Say, look at that quivering landscape.” Of a body, the remarkableness of it all, displayed against all other bodies. Firm heat; infirm sun. Clarity comes after: “Say, see the moon in morning.” Dawn is the drawing of a line – one made with a finger across water, hands across the back of an animal, several fingers through a lover’s hair – see the anxious landscape; see light advance – error of pen marks from rib to ear. Who has faith in the arbitrary? But in our sun and what it covers. This loneliness. Remains. This country. I want the sun to cover everything. Nape itself; limbs hard-site; what wraps together as skin? My rock to your hard place. Then bit by bit, a touching of everything. Everything is interesting. A man against a tree, an obstacle in front of a lizard. An octopus draped atop a whale. A mountain and a glacier. Our simple heads, last drenched – last glow animal praxis; glow our path into solemn etcetra. It becomes bright. There is nothing more to do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ambrosian animal snout; sun receptacle passing species; simply living yet so taken by food; so taken with sweetness. All bees, you are, simply taken by food, and given subtle bodies, given subtle matter, who would not wonder at a chameleon in our midst? We have need of light that will bring fulfillment. Light our being, our matter, and mercy in shadow’s cold movements downwards, as in the case of water, as in what is visible, congealing as foam or phlegm – all sick – to learn, that is, to know, the gem hidden in the phenomena of color. Pink-purple green-yellow red-purple inches of tan-yellow pink-purple, with ½ inch pinkish-purple, dark purple partially red-purple, a red-purple arm, dark-purple patchy-red pink-purple dark-purple red-purple red-dark purple inch. What falls out when we shake a tree? Shake the tincture of scent? Nostrils, amniotic sacs – what bursts? It goes without saying that the ear is ever open; that little loops in front of mouth are attention encased bubbles; contained in breath like a purpose. Circles without circumferences; cartwheel galaxies. Full blown sun. Gently, we think in such substances, a breath from face to face; sun from peasant to field to bowl to body. Oral curves bear fruit. “Say, don’t speak with your mouth full.” Costume sun; drench and dry. I’ve given it up to you. Some hearts tell something good. Some hearts are together against seasons; some hearts are low hung fruit. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. A way to speak precise, quiet and with climate. A way to lounge in sun; flexible radiance, heat that’s nothing new to me. It is very bright in the sun. The birds wake us and I am gone from your belly to slowly rise. To set upon some truth in the day as not open, as not a yawning gap, but a mass; the massiveness of our bodies spooning together. Monstrous cuddled forms. Under light, we look silly. My tiny expenditure to your few grams. Under one body, cadence of another body. What a surprise. What unmanageable forms. Say, “the sun hunts us;” all this brightness, getting brighter. This almost very bright in which I’m all that I ever will be. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To wake up over and over again in this small movement universe. To sun myself. My voice of an angel. Before breakfast and the fall away from warmth.

The sun does not break into pieces.
The sun is constant weight.

My darling hard-site; my darling under hooks. We per the direction, per the other duties. I was faking it. I was a hidden treasure. I desired to be known in sweetness and in cavity; of hollow and of blood taken at fifty degrees Fahrenheit. The month we are in accumulates in the mouth. Shit breath. Shit for brains. We reach sweetness, my darling. Heart from a distance and the heart from up close. This is my body – this is my love – incurring tiny grams; lone presence in weighted jumpsuits. The clean heart within me. Water into me; a second flowing towards my body, a third towards my legs. Light bowels. Distance arteries. We move without any interlude, as it were, as it is now, from the womb into the house of language, or the hall of sounds into each bowel’s acoustic gesture. This is our glow together. Our blood and treasure. Renouncing innards.

Free of thrombi.

The lamp by the lips as before

a sunrise we are under

vision of someone talking.

My face again in the last rays. My face again looking directly into the sun.

Oh, that old routine

rung around

our bodies.

Dodecahedron humid forms sweating buckets; dodecahedron duodenums shitting bricks.

It’s bright

“it’s me, sugar”

It becomes brighter even still.

Over the sternum we gaze red and willing amniotic sacs; the color of red works the face – dark but shaved close – shadows without constructors and us with our colors’ mosaic branches.

A. body thin.

B. body cold.

C. skin moderately pigmented.

D. dark brown beard and moustache.

E. irides brown

F. cornea clear

G. scalp dark

H. shaved close

I. lips without

J. teeth good

K. chest is

L. fingernails short

M. torso note.

I’m putting myself to work. There’s so much more to do. Both things, flesh and fields, on horizons and waiting irradiation; plunked irrigation, the water mishappens.

Braille pasture, my rolled form.

We resuscitate haze soul. The heaven within that gives me life.

The body is the temperature of no more lambs.

Gulp form horizon.

I melt into paradise.

Swallowed bits, tiny grams.

Curvilinear desire, a boat in a ravine or a mountain in a valley.

The body is the temperature of a working hand.

Roundness lurks touch; everything is roundness. Solar valleys, waves kicked up by wind and our skin together in brightness; it becomes bright, it becomes bright more quickly still. And each phase of wave and of our skin, as if mercy were a skin of water. Say, in the hands of a man with his gloves off who works all day in pasture and who walks slowly between rows and dwindles until he vanishes; and then returns, or his shadow, attaining its maximum length and then decreasing; or the idea of him as interfering waves, and his skin, empty now of water, because he drank it all or used it for the avocados; and the skin is empty now; it’s a normal skin, or skin that is still under fabric, an empty skin; because after all, a skin swollen with water does not arouse fear, does not awaken it, much less isolate it; but the empty skin does, and this is what I saw in the angle of the hour: a-free-for-all and shadow lengths standing for the sun.

The temperature is that of the refrigeration unit.

It becomes bright. It is very bright.

Red-purple knees blue-purple. Black red-purple black; blue-purple crust; red knees; blue-purple 3 ¼ inches; intramuscular purple; head counting pre-purple dawn.

Pinpoint clouding; pinprick dippage.

Deep calf patterns on the lawn.

Just think of the things I’m becoming.

Clothing on a body

hanging like a bear, stretching like a bird.

Your jungle out there to my greener pastures

capture landscape; the whims we are

on cleft

palates cliffs.

The body is the temperature of clouds at dusk.

Of mild clouding; injury solstice.

Cut surfaces show the usual deep red; branch embolus. Pink-purple arteries in-situ froth clots in a mild nutmeg pattern as deep landmarks glisten green-yellow in mucosal lining. The thymus; the hymns blunt force. Lip cut sections; cut the red-purple cheek covering an area of 1 ½ inches and to the left of this is 3 ½ inches of tan-yellow parchment which appears as a stain on the chest, pink-purple, with ½ inch separation between the two nipples. This extends, curvilinear, to the left, along the costal margin across the left flank and mid left back. Brush burn patterns implode and make a color, pinkish-purple, under a growing light of dark purple averaging ½ in the greatest dimension which now covers an area of 2 ½ X ¾ on the right upper arms, partially red-purple, a red-purple arm, on the right lateral side, an elongated dark-purple arm, covering the back and front and patchy-red arms scattered over inner pink-purple upper arms to the elbow and dark-purple arms at the greatest dimension of oblique and elongated red-purple arms upwards and along the back of red-dark purple arms – linear and outstretched.

 


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