Every spread of cards and symbols I can muster. A thought of the lady, of hanging scales, simple apposition. Atomic combinations. What you would do; worldwide Volkswagen, availment, omission of duty. Omission of the hot gap. A nimbus, color of Athens, bringing youth to the spire, skewering youth. Love, color of a choirboy.
Thèse: practice is more real than theory. We put our hopes into arrays of pins and chambers, or more like, sequences of printing blocks. And the orange dawn will pierce the mason's holy order, or the ugly sound will ring down from the fort, or something else. There was something soft and straight, a slug, moving like a bullet, rerouting nylon twine that cordoned off the beds.
Hare in a churchyard. Lovely freedom of disaster, lovely homebegone, empty hands, dementia, Dada, Webern, rotten Grande Ole Opry heirloom, seedy matter pushed thru chicken wire. Elopement. Failure like a trombone rattling with its fattest
Like a gunshot sounding with its spreadout patter.
Antithèse: The chickenwire becomes the film. Diptych, triptych. The choice of atoms substitutes the youthful nimbus, which was a foam of atoms, bearing me like Venus on the surf. I hope the first or second atom catch your eye, produce a word, in recognition of a Welsh valet who was far along the way to being knighted. I hope the arc will jump between the dots, l'antithèse—a cabinet of dots, grim, try to brew again the tincture in the gloom, knowing that a sharper word will build the base. The clock turns back to lay a brick. The brick is half as deep as long. So a choirboy in nylon sleeves can be left alone and build a word, receive, lose ground, and seek again to underpaint the image, repeat the workshop method, always starting over, always hoping the linework jogs—a rising breast, I dare, a sleeve, a skirt in pietà, une robe couleur du temps.
Synthèse: I'd given you my most important symbols and you blinked. My coinpurse filled with gems, my coins the weather struck at night and unimaginable at day. My coins the weeds I pulled out from the roots, the splinters slid in all their lengths out of my palm. Demonology, the orange truth, the theorem: I re-avow my war against memory.
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