dub for cascadia
Returning to a place after a long absence, we are often shocked by both the small and the vast changes, effectively alerting us to the radical indifference places have to the sentiment we apply to them. Here, our own selves can become the site of an internal quarrel as to how a place once was; by claiming to cognitively remember the feel of a place, our bodies can provide a different history of the past. The result is that a place can take on a life of its own, quite apart from the way it is experienced or remembered.
Dylan Trigg, from The Memory of Place
there was no day before it was a dream mother and daughter
unable to live at this age together even for a summer
evergreen eye movies boxes packed up nowhere to go
sun settling over peaks not long enough for shock at vast changes
sideways rain running just move the heart
4pm dark finch songs varying temperaments
fly back only for the place's radical indifference
a box with message inside the nightmare lacks presence
old lover the married one this body a different back story
flutter on life's surface rift with ambient breath of its own
the sun the man the smoke the run bundle of different sensations
perpetuated flux and movement the sun the man the smoke the run
i am another yourself
the cliffs cut between two countries
displace agitation between two hemispheres
such mountainous territories of mind
there is luxury to write this
(the baking, the sleeping, the shooting)
by the time you've read this, quadrillions of signals fire
there's no soul, no twenty one grams
what's left? brain, two percent of the body's weight,
seizes a chunk of the body's oxygen and bolts
at a museum, the Ferrari's plaque
reads aluminum and titanium
not watercolor, acrylic, or oil
the nervous system trajects information
like heart circulates your blood
nerves, bone, and steel—objects we have in common
below the bridge (which could always be blown up)—
in the last few seconds what you and I remember
relies on synapses, mental acts, artifacts
fresh tortillas, front yard, the writing on the wall.
give small flashes
of light when stroked
with a metal point
the glow of the ocean
also catches fire
spontaneously in air
calcium phosphate is a glow
of living structure and bone.
when grandfather dies, you make him a box
not as voyeur—there is no glass—
but glue on rusted electrical switch
outside you count the number of buttons same
as the number of his children, their children, his wife
you believe the number was 33 so choose the same number of rocks
before delivering the sculpture to Mason cemetary
a blue parakeet will sit beside it—a jewelry blue
you'd little imagine in reddirt windmill town
the bird will land tickling shoulder to arm
before flight towards your grandfather's shop
you will follow it with your eyes
into purple thistle tree
alighting next to metal ladders
the short man who looks like the circus
drives up dust in the city caged truck
he helps you lean ladder to roof—
where there is nothing but asphalt and field
you wanted to touch all this white paint
wondering how it could be
held in such a small blue can
you reached to touch the closet but
the tall man in the boat hat exhaled
you mustn't the white is titanium
he drew the chalk
circle around you painting
countertops tables and chairs
he painted the closet white
then finally erased you free
dead at the foot of the door
rests your blue apparition—
bury it in newspaper sound
emeraude what eden between congregation?
paille why titanium in lieu of hay?
spiral becomes bird tourist
what white eye splash of blue?
mais why does the word but commit violence?
an hourglass is not made of corks
napolean why encryption in wooden box?
mode what melody will it sing?
pensée when thought-flock constellations
ciel what is a box with sky?
In the morning the sound of streets goes with the cars. Tip of the dream phenomenon. There is a CD of scientists I am supposed to have listened to but haven't. It's called Artichoke. Rubbing my eyes, a genie appears. She takes a monkey's paw, rubs it against the side of my face and says "Different, I'm both scientist and artist. This isn't simply magic." I think, I like where this is headed. She tips her head to the side in just such a way as to make her seem otherworldly, I mean alien. I say "how many?" She answers "as many lifetime allow." She adjusts her cape and grips the bullwhip kelp strand tighter. I notice she holds it left handed. "Breathe," she says, "you're not breathing." I cough and then grit my teeth. I have seen no bottles in our yard; I saw none yesterday on the beach. In the tide pools only mediaster aequalis, fransiscanus. I'd read a story before. As for wishes, I wouldn't wish anyone dead back alive. One could never be sure with genies in what condition wished for things would arrive.