Issue 129

listen my body is a clayware jar

say the moon is high in the corner
and swerves as the moss deepens

we are points, less than, less than straight lines

Saint Peter, our hometown is freezing pigeons this December
when our region hasn’t had not one snow,

I am content to dwell in ambiguities and conflict, understanding, as I see it, that we are all caught in inescapable systems, systems of value or belief, linguistic systems, systems upon systems within systems, which permit or preclude, which shape and suggest and stifle our apprehension of reality.

…this sort of disease like a tide of death
carrying disaster

Back there somewhere the blood of christ
is my vaccination a sign on the window

Moods
are painted dark blue on the blue East River.

Tying my shoes thinking

I’m lucky I can tie my shoes,

Russell’s description of oblivion as a poison is clarifying. The book left me wondering what our modern oblivions are. Into what vaults do we deposit our lives, robbing ourselves of the tools to understand them?