LAURA HOHLWEIN | WRITING

Poem a day Poems in Progress Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
3 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
4 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
5 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
6 The Invention of the Eye I. It was dark for so longone year in the sea that was everything, everywherethat maybe was like the sky (no - there was not yet a sky) or like the space outside of whatever was outside if there was an outsidea year in the seatimes a million, times a million, times and timesIt wasn't even darkThere was no darkness to seeno sea to see though we were thereBlind, soft-bodieddividing to reproducethe blind, soft-bodiednot even invisiblenor visibleas there was no such thing as eitherand it happenedit had never been beforean eye grewit openedand an eye - the first - sawfirst to blinkfirst to see the seafirst to make the world visibleone supposes color,water, the dumb, blind soft-bodiedcreatures swallowed and swallowedand so we died over and over becoming part of a creaturea creature with an eyeor we learned to hideto look like exactly sand or look exactly like rocknow that sand and rock looked like they didwe learned to agresssee me, see thisi see you tooi am electric i am blue, now that there is blueand the tips of my undulating sides are brilliant orangeand spike with poisonous yellownow that there is orangenow that there is brillianceand yellowthere must be poisonand seductionbothi move through the water with filagreed partswith whirring motorstranslucent spines and dicing scales shells hardeningi will breatheI will go to the edge and find at the edgeanother space to move through - differentlynew worldi will move two eyes across its form find form, find morei will change before your very eyes. i'll grow fingers and, someday, touch your facethat i seeand see is so beautifulII.and now then what if insightgains sightthe blind, soft-bodied fearsthe gentle, self-dividing lovesthe strange formless ways of intuitionwe might grow a sense to sense itthe medium we have always been swimming in.you know what i mean.we just passed each other in our minds, in it.Soon we will know where we have been all this timeall this long, long time of trying.
7 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
9 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
10 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
11 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
Page 14 Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.
L A U R A H O H L W E I N

POETRY

BLOG

POETRY

THE INVENTION OF THE EYE

The Invention of the Eye The Invention of the Eye I. It was dark for so longone year in the sea that was everything, everywherethat maybe was like the sky (no - there was not yet a sky) or like the space outside of whatever was outside if there was an outsidea year in the seatimes a million, times a million, times and timesIt wasn't even darkThere was no darkness to seeno sea to see though we were thereBlind, soft-bodieddividing to reproducethe blind, soft-bodiednot even invisiblenor visibleas there was no such thing as eitherand it happenedit had never been beforean eye grewit openedand an eye - the first - sawfirst to blinkfirst to see the seafirst to make the world visibleone supposes color,water, the dumb, blind soft-bodiedcreatures swallowed and swallowedand so we died over and over becoming part of a creaturea creature with an eyeor we learned to hideto look like exactly sand or look exactly like rocknow that sand and rock looked like they didwe learned to agresssee me, see thisi see you tooi am electric i am blue, now that there is blueand the tips of my undulating sides are brilliant orangeand spike with poisonous yellownow that there is orangenow that there is brillianceand yellowthere must be poisonand seductionbothi move through the water with filagreed partswith whirring motorstranslucent spines and dicing scales shells hardeningi will breatheI will go to the edge and find at the edgeanother space to move through - differentlynew worldi will move two eyes across its form find form, find morei will change before your very eyes. i'll grow fingers and, someday, touch your facethat i seeand see is so beautifulII.and now then what if insightgains sightthe blind, soft-bodied fearsthe gentle, self-dividing lovesthe strange formless ways of intuitionwe might grow a sense to sense itthe medium we have always been swimming in.you know what i mean.we just passed each other in our minds, in it.Soon we will know where we have been all this timeall this long, long time of trying.

Painter / Hunter Painter/HunterOur job was to separate the cuttlefish from the sharp rocks they clung to.They were visible just in front of us, but they clung fiercely.If you could just get your fingernails under their edges,it was told, you could detach themand, if you survived the wave and for a month said nothingthere would be food, somehow, then for everyone. The water was only two feet deep and more than perfectly clear:it magnified the fins, the veins, the insides of the fish,the fish inside that fish, and another, still, for later.When we came to the bay to work we stepped right on them.We cut our feet on their fins, on their veins, on the sharp toothed stones and we bled into the water for awhile.We settled into the water and floated above them, paddling our feet for balance in the current.The salt water healed our wounds and stopped our bleeding and the current cleared our vision.Our eyes were sharp, our nails long, our reflexes - quick.As the water drew back, if we could just get our fingernails underneath,then pull back, the sea could give us leverage - the cuttlefish would release in our hand and if we were not greedy but humble in our huntingthere would be food, somehow, then for everyoneand love and life and fishand love and fish inside of fish.The day I died I was punished.I had my fingernails - of both hands -well under the sharp, razor edge of a one.It held on tightly to the black and shiny rock.The regular current pulled back and me with it.The fish lifted half away and I heard one chord of 40,000 years of singing. I let go and stood and shouted out to anyone who could hear me"It's music! The fish - it's held by music!"and the sea sent a wave horizontally - right at me.faster than I've ever dreamt or seen or known ofand it obliterated me and so I died - learning then my work was just to hunt, just to paint of the hunt,to never stand and proudly shout,to never holler out the names and secretsof sacred things.

The Falconer The FalconerThey have kept me hungryso I'd come backThey took off my hood and I was blindedthen the airthe olive orchardsI rose highthere - my falconer,our glove,the donkeythe farmthe smell of the riverthe shake of the dogI circled out farther and below mejust thenthe olive orchards turned to stone, went flat, grew housesthe crickets stopped their singingand the creek had lost its frogsthe houses gathered in circles and moved closerthe houses moved tighterthe children grew tallerthe children grew widerand disappeared inside the houses that grew biggerthat grew widerthat stopped their musicand the creek had lost its tadpolesi was circlinganddriftingthe fog lifted forever the oats went dull and bent under pavement the pavement filled with metallight from it blinded methis high up and from it rose the soundof nothingI circled higherand could not seeand could not breatheI navigated by hungerI navigated by hill shapeI wanted returntowhere the persimmons werewere the peacock waswhere the donkey chewed the fencewhere the falconer had been waiting for mehis strong arm outstretched.but I foundno dirtno handno gloveno keeperno one waitingno trembling prey and vanishing tailno sweet barn and boardon whichto fold my wings,tuck my headand restno one who rememberedletting me go.

Weakness Weaknesswhen the neighbor boy, then my best friend,went down the creek road with me and took the quail's egg from the weeded nest we'd found togetherin the pearl evening the evening before (before our mother's leaned and called out from lighted doors..."Dinner!" as I have never heard a mother do since)he showed me the eggmottled blue with white - like clouds and black - like continents or distant sprays of unnamed islands so sweet, here hold it,touch it,it's okay.see?and smashed the shell against the hot sidewalkwith what new strength he'd woken withand chased me away with the wet, sticky, ruined thingI thoughtthere are things we doI will never- not ever -understand.I am not proud I can't get angryor stay angry long.I feel broken and ashamed and damned by all of it.The women, today, - murdered for being raped.We grow ourselves this way, augmenting ourselves by crippling,and crying without effect,justit seemsas birds were meant to fly.

New NewAt first it is like gauze over my eyesthen a sheet, something, over my facegrowing thicker, stickierHeavy, heavy the white light comes throughmore and more yellowshapes rounded, made indistinct.wrapped close my ears nowwrapped and my nameif that is what was said comes to me muffledimpossible to respond tosurelyi cannot push forward.i'm enveloped, bound close.did i make this thing?my patience twitchesand now, worse, with me here pressing against me like lovewith an urgency flickering like love i have these smalland bent-back velvet-edgedwings.

Line LineI tell my beginning drawing students there is no such thing as line. (though i love line and the week before told them to draw every kind of line they could possibly make).This week, there is no lineA line is just a concept.There is no such thing as a physical linejust value next to value.The birds I love again are backaligning on the straight length of wire that is not a line, as it was not last year,the starlings, their wire, their pause and direction, just deeper bluesin a field of blues in a field, deep field, of black, expandingThis is how painters see things. the space between the nucleus and the path (not a line) of the electronprobably a color of some kindprobably very hard to get rightthe direction of gazenot a line with beginning or endbut a field in which one can suddenly lift in a startled movement of living.

According to the Moon According to the MoonAccording to the Moonone is alone in spacewithout visionor weatheror touch to the surfaceAccording to the Moon there is nothingnot even to benot even lonelinessOne could be like thisforeverfor trillions and trillionsof yearsWhat is a yearto the Moonthat does not knowits tiny crescent sidethat does not see its reflectionrise white into the high and glacial lakethat does not know it lights up preyand hides behind cloudsand for millenia has opened up one soul after anotheras if we were made of petalsgentlest of celestial keysperfect companionof goodbyeand so it is possibleto not know- not at all- how we arethe light we givewho looks for usin the darkand, finding us,- out there, somewhere -is, in that darkness, for that time,saved.

Starstuff StarstuffIt is a rip tideThe harder you swimthe further out you getThe longer you livethe more you don't knowThe finer the telescopethe more innumerable the innumerableWould it make you feel better to findonce and for all, the deep fieldwas just a dancing membrame,- film on some colassal eyeNo. Only animal to sleep on our backsto gaze into the speckled path of infinityand in that sure, ridiculous scale ofunquantifiable indifferencenote that seeingbreathing and seeinglaying and talking or silently seeing and breathingtouched by the windwe are promised, forever and ever,forever and ever,forever and ever,no answer- everand this is hope- which is also hard to understand.

The Invention of the Eye
Painter / Hunter
The Falconer
Weakness
New
Line
According to the Moon
Starstuff

THE CRYPTIC PLACEMENT OF THINGS

Inheritance InheritanceRomance perhaps was not yet conceived of, let alone myself, when my parents in hats and serious postures, afternooned on the cliffs of Santander, Spain, held fast in an independent light I equate, for some reason, with the fifties. My father was painting, my mother, holding her hat against a breeze,studying the separation of sky and sea.Years later and often I was told how the wave, already huge, seemed to mount over the horizon as over the edge of the earth and before they had a name for the size of it, it was on them and they were dragged under, skin and nails on rocks, dense water forcing over and over themuntil their bodies, each, apart, seemed to lose all form and distinction but that of the breaths held against the end. It happens again and again and again. I am on a beach. My dream's hand holds a shell: opalescent, cold. I study it carefully. I note its sweet size, its tender weight, each grain of sand lining its bumpy, lunar rim,each gradation of wet, pearl pink. It lets go a drop and I mention to myself how it looks, how it feels this cold tear tracing down my wrist as the beach below begins to rush sucked out from under me. I don't need to look up. I think, It will hit me before I turn the shell, before I can be sure there is nothing hiding inside.

Cryptic Placement The Cryptic Placement of ThingsLook, these seven purple petals,thin-veined, fallen to the black cobblestone.One half of one flutters under a pebble.Another cradles water.I swear, I don't want to be a child again,but I sympathize, for a rhythmhas been lost in this translation of form,a correspondence to order - abandoned. The petals have forgotten the laws that arranged themand cannot know where the flower has gone.It is Sunday and the city is empty.It is good to be alone, to sort through what's left.Pattern or chaos I do not know. Evidence only of windand gravity, still this slash, this curve, this violet Mread as hieroglyphic directions to some constructionof myself, referents to my dim tangleof roots. But that's not how I'd have it. I don't want to go over it again. I need this cold sun, this indifferent afternoon. I shift, take the sharp wind to my face. The sun strokes my back, my hair. It wants mebut it's late and I can't help it. I'm tucked in,tiny,lavender in the damp soil of dreaming.

Imaginary Child Advice for an Imaginary ChildHiding in a Tree in SuburbiaI admire your silhouette. Now at twilight you black and stiffenand look just like a branch. I miss being that well-hiddenmyself. I miss believing that one really could hide,that to perceive with green eyes from behind green leaveswas enough to grant dominion. I am older now and must ask you to come down.Trust me. Once I had a house with a donkeyand soft ground messed with persimmons and thorny oak leaves.In a week the trees were plucked and the birds scattered.The soft ground, cluttered, weedy and beloved, was flippedand patted clean. Now, a family walks the new floor,cemented level where the orchard once dippedinto our wet grove of vines. The wild peacock sometimes was there. It came out one night, near us in the dark,dragging one hundred eyes under the moon.I wish I could be you, simple as a silhouette. But I cannot. Light hits at me from all angles and I change. And so my advice to you is this:Come down from there and stay. Hide the tree inside youand will a fine angerto root where you stand.

The Sick Man The Sick ManI cannot go see the sick man. There is nothing one can do in a room full of that airbut look at his hands abandoned on the sheets,skin: white-blue and loose, stranger to knucklesand the instinct of touch or move. I cannot go see the sick man. I must go to the pharmacy and buy cigarettes.I'll hide behind a counter of creams and pills and smoke.And let it snow outside. And let them step over mefor lotions and solutions and dyes.Five houses up the hill. Six stairs up. Three doors in. The sick man has forgotten he is waiting. His body is becoming sand to him, particulate, indefinite.And the sheet licks around his neck like waves.And his hands lie presented before him like shells,magnificent. Maybe he doesn't think - they're what's left after the animal goes.Maybe he thinks they look soft as pearls. Maybe he already sees all colors in white.

Mexico: Double Exposure Mexico: Double ExposureThere at eight I found my niche, my quiet, too early. Playingmusic for myself, half-hidden under silver leaves, adoring donkeys,avoiding strangers, stock-piling stones. Evenings I ate my first clamswith the yet-to-be dead drunk and spit them up when he turned his head.Some appreciations come later.But I understood early the preference for black and whitewhen wanting to see the world as is later again. And so, his upsidedown lens squared on the Aztec sun dial and the donkey he took for meand the goats stilled in the market, the live next to the dead -both blurred by the steam of the flipped tortillas.Was there a picture of the cocoon? I saw it first. Worriedfor it, there by the laundry sink the size of my hand in the thin filmof transition, fluttering inverted. I rattled it once. ThoughtI killed it. But it came out regardless. It must have. It left a shell,left without waiting for me, my eyes, my young sense of import. One night,almost dreaming, I felt the chrysalis detach and go, colored, light,but I turned back wanting to remember what I was, had beenwrapped up, protected, developing in the dark.In my own skin I died and changed too - not then,but that was the lesson - sleep and dream he called it. Sweet dreams. But now I dream he is paper. Not the image. Just the paper. And I wonderat how I fight for the color, for the scent and the hair, for the sensationof rise, vanish, going, going.From frame to frame I lift my new eyes and still departfrom that cool tiled room, from my unchanged self. We said goodnight. The fire's glow was yellow. Our skin was orange, familiar but flickering. When there wasn't trouble we all slept together -sweet dreams -forgetting almost everything, dumb even then to the facts and footage. In his camera on the table, by the grapes, in the dark, there waited rolled upundeveloped shots of overexposed church gold. The photographer's shadowstaggered on the stone steps. Others, too dark, of the procession through the flood tunnel,mourners ankle deep. And the one I took: the young girl, my age,preserved in the armory. Still hair and teeth in tact.

Polaris PolarisBy now my father lies stripped of allbut the basic structure, in the cast of a cross,shoulder blades pointing north-south like the starfive measures from the side of the dipper.That's fine.But it's difficult in daylight to imagine no eyes -those that (struck by certain slants of light)filled up and overflowedas if spring was liquid,as if light on weeds was made of tears. Gone, the vagabond sight, that in sleep revolved and searched, gatheredand spilled. Going, at burial,the pupils, stones sinking in a bottomless lake.I feel awkward now, with sockets.I consider them, take one for an open door, travelthrough the body's architecture as if walking a nave.Outside there could be hot gravel and bees and brightnessbut inside the vertebrae arch above me, simple, cold.At once I am abandoned and absorbed.I float to the feet.Once soft, once standing, they curl in now,martyred, exhausted, touching each otheras carefully as hands.The bones always did love death more than daughters.Difficult white. Inviolate bones. I beg them to want me.I beg the bones to hurt me, to settle in a gesture I remember.From joint to knuckle I string tears like cranberries,like quarter notes. My prayers are tied and flap to dryon these bones I could strangle for information. I could kick them, spin in them, cast the parts in all directions like seedslike leaves, like I'd lost something underneath. Or -I could be reasonableget my knees wet on the body grass grown here, press my mouth to the earth and kiss.Or - should I curl my live bones into a knot and knockbone to dirt, bone to bone?Louder.lor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aenean condimentum, odio quis pharetra dignissim, diam nisl dignissim diam, eu interdum magna erat sit amet felis. Etiam non felis at urna tempus luctus. In ullamcorper nisl congue elit. In convallis nibh vitae justo. Quisque ac lectus vitae sem consequat sagittis. Donec turpis nisi, feugiat sollicitudin, fermentum vitae, volutpat sed, ligula.Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Fusce tempor arcu ac urna. Fusce congue eleifend mi. Pellentesque metus sem, elementum eu, rhoncus sed, gravida sit amet, nulla. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit.

Medium Medium What if my tongue were made of pink chalkand to describe for you how,just now behind your headthe blackbirds exploded off the wireand stuck for a moment in the sky like shrapnel,I'd have to kneel on the asphaltand with one sweep of the neck,in one long, raspy lickmark out the air thrown awayon the downbeat of wings?Wait. There are times when want goes down smooth,times when the French horn makes me rotate my shouldersand fire a look through this strange, buzzing air,choking back tears that climb on impatience,needing to know, to nameBeauty: so fine. And me: of fortune: of molecules: mute.

In Significance In SignificanceI am not large. I am a moth, small, gray, dusty with the company of space. I was born with this no-mouth, lifting my little seriousnessfrom dark to dark, alighting on silence after peaceful silencein the company of my precious dead. They say nothing, but speak to me in flickersin the candlelit language of memory,searching for its own clarity, its own illumination. They say, "Come and be warmed. Life is precious." They are repetitive, my precious dead,as if I couldn't get it. They want me to know that life is preciousand here in my sweet quiet it is, always is.I am not large.I am a moth, small, gray dusty with the company of space. Sometimes it feels good space receding and receding and black. Sometimes I turn frightened and wonder:how can I understand the true size of thingswhen I measure distance in heartbeatsand the blood is tiny and the heart beats fast?. How can I love when I am this afraid of fire, or -how accept solitude when instinctdrives me straight into flameand the flame is more flight than I am? I am all of this:this blind sensation of air, a fluttering of wants. In cool corners, my wings close, my false eyes touchand I reflect on this:my composition of ash. I know if someone found me, if someone touched me now,the fine powder of my vulnerability, my own most dangerous dust,would cling to moist fingers and be liftedperhaps to the lips in the sign of "shh",perhaps in a kiss,and I would be loved maybe. Or maybe lost.

Dark House Dark HouseIt is like polishing a shoe in the dark.It is like polishing a shoe in the darkto wear in a house that is darkIt is like polishing a shoe in the darkto wear in a house that is darkand has just one other room and in it a space of open dirtIt is like walking finally into the all black roomon dark and shiny shoesand digging in a heel to loosen up the dirtIt is like digging in a heel to loosen up the dirtwith dark and less than shiny shoesand dropping in perhaps a seedinto just tilled dirtin a just dark houseIt is like cupping black water then letting goand listeningas it should fall like rainIt is like listening in a dark houseand suspecting the water suspendednot like a cloud, not like a frozen lake, but still somehownot falling or not at all heard fallingIt is like kneeling in a dark houselike digging around and under a just-dropped seedto test if it has broken open, to see if it could growIt is like waiting like a child.It is like digging too soon.It is like opening your eyes undergroundor into a room that is blackIt is like listening to ones listening and hearingonly the self, the dark self, listening.It wants a way to listen no more.It is like this in a house that is dark.

Church of Reincarnation The Church of the ReincarnationThe angels are trying to escape.I see them out of the corner of my eyeinching up out of their wrought iron skirts,slowly, in secret, trying not to awaken the Father.I am not praying seriously. I am listening to the soundof their light-soaked wings being pulled feather by paintedfeather over the hard, black lines that hold them down to stone,their bodies broken into parts of glass.I know they want out. I know they are tired of holding still,tired of answering tears and fists with pure colors in straight beams.I know they are moving, but when I look full on them their look goes flatand reverent. They are masters of deception, imitating the inanimate, fakingecstasy, holding light in their folds as if pregnant with it.If I could I would take them down.They would be light in my arms, light as hope, light as the fingers of the near-deadwhose hands we hold, or inevitably will hold, living already in the future without them.Our beloved will die and are not coming back.We will die and are not coming back. No.Nor going elsewhere neither.I will tell these angels how the feel of fleshon flesh is as certain and unbelievable as infinite space.I will hang a clock on their weak necks each. Let them doublewith the weight. Let their sweet round eyes burn with tears as they learnthrough a body's pain, that fragility will not bear this pressure, nor purity of intentstill the tick and tick of the incessant precision of their passage.I will tell these angels that yet the finitude of a minute, then an hour,then a day, is the singular cause for joy. Look, there what you will never see again.You are not coming back, nor going elsewhere neither. But look.You are looking.Okay. I am taking them.I will wrap these angels in overcoats and sighs,let them leave through the door, let them loose on the world.Please. Give them time to see everything once,to wander the hot streets, doubting themselves,learning the pressure of shoes. Please. Give them time to feel love, to discover it is translucent. That it is like light and is cut like glass and is just art, just praise. Give them time. And nothing else.

Inheritance
Cryptic Placement
Imaginary Child
The Sick Man
Mexico: Double Exposure
Polaris
Medium
In Significance
Dark House
Church of Reincarnation

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Creative Phenomenological Inquiry: A Return to Poetic Language and the Experience of the Body in the Digital Age

He never supposed

That he might be truth, himself, or part of it,

That the things that he rejected might be part

And the irregular turquoise part, the perceptible blue

Grown dense, part, the eye so touched, so played

Upon by clouds, the ear so magnified

By thunder, parts, and all these things together,

Parts, and more things, parts. He never supposed divine

Things might not look divine, nor that if nothing

Was divine then all things were, the world itself,

And that if nothing was the truth, then all

Things were the truth, the world itself was the truth.

Excerpt from Landscape with Boat by Wallace Stevens

Introduction: What Might We Lose if We Transcend the Body The Phenomenology of Perception as Explored in the Work of Gary Hill and Bill ViolaThe Phenomenology of Unspoken Language: Descriptions Without Place in the works of Hiroshi Sugimoto, Bill Viola, Gary Hill and Shimon AttieThe Metaphor: Thinking Beyond the Limitations of Logic Denis JohnsonPhenomenological Considerations of Time in the Contemporary Art Works of Bill Viola, Atta Kim, and Char Davis

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THE INVENTION OF THE EYE