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Dear Artaud

Photoshop is taking so long and I'm thinking of you. The remnants of a shattered weed on the road. I am a-thinking about the tassels' purl. What wrongs on the envelope of the mountain? Supine, prone,

the placemats.

Le Blitz

Hello Artaud.

I found you in my links and digress to put up this,
between what I started with you and how now,
without a word to register.

I walk into the room and the sweat. This is the suggestion,
overriding my concern for you, the angle of my jaw
in silence--how it hurts.

I think about who and they are attempting vibrate the silence.

I am not your children.

I don't even know your real name.

In the aerial

of snow in New England, I will sew together the dark trees, the lakes haywire. I have one picture of it hitting the clouds and then snow. The fish moon that you make with an airplane, out of paper.

It is a primer for the township the lights, things beside the church, hairline cullings and french door light that is suspension in a way.

La Maid and la

and la fort that das the job and la pushpin les penses los river of sleep that we are coming out of older, around out eyes,

—what a firm world we have (14)

clapping, and the radio. How I look to you, in the iron eye. The beginning of a thing is my eye signing, is like turning over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. But to look at you is just. I'm like someone else with my dress on and you are someone too tonight. Who says things. Who listens in.

He tells me to move (13)

in my sleep and I do. The better to hulk about in the snow, a small white dog drawing the leash. As long as moths fling at the fixtures, as with something starting to burn. A paperboy bangs his hat on the stoop. This dark under a dress. This.

He lies (12)

there and there are the roses, tongues of roses and bugs inside. The raised lace curtains pertaining to roses, winter placings to top off a rose. The snow that spreads like a plate on the grass, on it the roses there are are there.

Fiercely the little

weight of a meaty rose, stinking, beginning to flavor things for a second time, fuller now, more pressing. My mother is a rose. My face to the ground is its whiteness. It's white walls are my rose mother rising around me, holes in the wall, secrets.

A note on the continuing saga

that to perpetuate the "still" in this poem, to even end on it, takes a knife. You have to get there. "Still" is the string that suspends the epistles between the figures in the semi-narrative. It is also the way the speaker is becoming something. This is not apparent yet. That the speaker is becoming something.

still: does not invite time to take place, but rather suspends it. Therefore the moments in epistles actually last longer, duh, because little is being done to move them forward in time

still: while being a measurement of movement, the concept actually has more to do with not-meeting. being in two places. Living two lives. Still does this.