For Word # 2
Noah E. Gordon
Cloudless sky, a tendril root, a chord begun
gathers its discourse--the flow from content
the passing energy, cell, motion, inevitability;
Tethered to conviction, one says moon; one, emotion
of sight with speech, awoken not by voice
Felt as a mistake in translation, leave for leaf,
a symmetry in the spectrum & the stasis
from moment. Recasting the body in sound.
lost in the margins. Another X filling its box.
or spun to refraction. Webs, cross-stitched in the corners
of sight--a soaking-in. The absence of song
on ears, roots or dying limbs. It's impenetrable.
the first pencil was hollow
each stone was dropped successively
a chain pulled / a reading light
needle, needle, sew me in,
in the display window
on the deck & rain fell
they took in the rigging with the bath water
there was, of course, a scurrying of hooves
the book wasn't opened so much as it fell open
the mitten tangled / then a voice rose
then a rose rose
the rocking made them queasy
another said nothing, & another, &. . .
needle, needle, sew me through
To map the wearing away of things, we're limited by the all or nothing of a naught as an aught & I'd change my shirt to say "story of the day." Separate from the work of boundaries though I begin as your idea of stranger. The public they, gloved in expectancy. If a film based on the real were a play or the century like a coin that previously fit the slot no longer deserving its music, then one event collapses into another's unsaid.
Performance, more a question remanded to the silence cast around shifting bodies than a clap to indicate approval or preceding a strike. It may have been raining. All day the sky a leaden weight. Gone unnoticed, the inevitable protagonists accrue. & our collection of years carries innumerable triggers as a memorized chorus in the shape of one's thumb.
All that I saw from the balcony, an evening's warranted fiction yoked to the eternal. Music angles mood by the limbs' orchestration when right negates left. To reveal the audience's each other, a whisper shall mean much of it. Here, we'd watch her unfold an envelope to the voice-over of an older woman if our desire for narrative outweighed our unwillingness to concede an end.
Decision then pivots from a window painted shut to a woodcut of the player's fingers nailed to the flute. Landscape were less an art of becoming, less paramount between glass & currency than that of the real. Is approach an end, our inclination to trail the supposed mother toward the concrete. I'd call you uncomfortable in dress shoes while the night comes undone in waiting.
How to say I saw it collapse, 0 sweet Rashomon. It is thick & manageable & perpetual. By now we're alone with our wallets, beautiful as laugh tracks, scaled from sovereignty to ethos by the logic of a button worn from overuse. Simple as a wall painted blue.