Solid Quarter

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Sunday, November 08, 2015

[field map for a living specimen]

4.15.12-4.16.12 (Brooklyn, New York)

"He maps himself in it it? How? In so far as he isolates the function of the mask and plays with it. [Man] in effect, knows how to play with the mask as that beyond which there is the gaze." -Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis

one does not [  ] cease playing a role simply, because one has begun to understand it. - James Baldwin

object: central complex for the collision - to interpret alone or in a group at the rate at which outside of the mind determines & begins to order the external opinions/ cut down & formed by the first impression then whittled away by every further subsequent thought

body-in-pieces/ body without pieces

the internal rearrangement presupposed for external structure
dolled in extensions [multiple mimicry]
divided into quartered facial contortions
cracked reflected
vetted in the Artic colded hard
fronted as laughter's last result   last resort: retreat
vacation rental culled that spring
overt violence gives us the excuse
of not thinking too hard
or does it help encapsulate
what moves/ what helps keep the cage's bars holding --
attack-- resistance of normative playback [first break] from initial solid view
[who breaks rank]
contrast to what/  sonorous rhythm should do --absence of resolution

tangled in the trespass place/ a line not knotted/ studied as sinister/ studied as wood rot/ penciled in blue, not one but two/ & eyed up along avenues/ as if explanation in its winged deference/ give me a dressing down/ a measured glance I could copy/ out a faceless gutter/ gutter's great & plentiful/ sloppy catalogues/ of how to track a tortoise's back

terrible in our moments of most unabashed human/ trotted out show pony amid founts/ of breathing abyss: the colonade where peeked summer's crept up by degrees & we lay spent among asters & day lillies, mouth crammed with dandelion stems

crammed aghast in beauty's last footfall the drip drop my little bird's chatter it's the morning's swerve as it creaks its way downhill each crunchy step; to falter bunches of rammed revolvers each caliber is its shot face explosions of petals that are falling about, its existing & its absolute a(versions) / rounded about as invisible exotics roasted & crannied nooks brumbled/ broached in the vernal absolute -- oh hosta of exacting -- so clovered in the maw's juice/ junction
quartered in the rules/ ruling class that lined up like stacks of cards/ crossed hairs/ crosswise

 NOTE: Yogasana 118 3rd Ave at Wycoff/ St. Mark's 6PM 5:30 (aside: where I do yoga with Nicole Peyrafitte and Pierre Joris while in Brooklyn)

wandering about the frenetic runs to be a flattened response- face first in fist fulls- awash in the grumbling the season's laterst equation- I think that last bit has a falling off remembrance- the way a city is a bitten back, chomped sway
alerted to the block's exact dimensions how to cut about the corners sliced sliced spirals for an easy tabling    trapped in the imaginary mask that you walk about in if the reality is less than satisfying- less tan even in the adding up so over hours & afternoons the last bits became unglued -- prodded as the latest embers flamed up in their little red open mouths- shouting obscene & then fllickering each winking eye

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