amala somnographia 1:
I want to do what you want to do
a circumstantial collaboration
Marco Maisto – Caroline B. Devane
New York – Cambridge
Team exercises in the calamity arcades. Torsion in oh-shun.
Easy grace by hands, by all means, maiden. A seam, hairline, breaks with blessing, kissing.
ises new eye
s at the cro
ssroads. Lean in,
(SUPINE OUT OF DOORS)
Mala. Amala. Flower garland choke
hold. Soft petal thigh stroke.
Helicopter bud abrasion shower. Deep bathwater hurl and maddening erection pedal.
Skook. Chug. Soft subversion at 4 o'clock seaside. Poor you pelican; slapshot Polaroids from hollyfuck.
Wooden bell wake-up thump.
Eee. Zzz. Blessed fracture.
Kisses of your elbow.
This bell rings in you ends all time teems with worlds. Teems in you.
With worlds you hold in her.
s preceded by rupture: None but you in the street. As fish swim through bamboo, it isn’t fair to be a ghost, yet.
Ink of ten thousand bulls. Years in which you are missed from the beginning.
Splinter corsage for roses and Boom.
Sandpaper heart attack.
I emailed you a picture last. 33 of x.
OR DOORS AND MORE DOORS TO VERTIGOSKIP A SKETCHBOOK AND.
hand rising from those waves.
'my hand rarely but fully synthetic
on your face; I'm sleeping in.'
hand sinking after a wave up to
elbow; arm with a hand sinking
to touch the skein to wave
'1,000 happy goodbyes.'
500 handshakes. My calves in
my halves in- all these wasted pieces.
From those rising waves
I'm reaching in
1 of 100 analytic nonorganic subsumations of a once and former glory
Beneath the waves, salt in hand
(For today, there is no deciding for today for today only there’s just
this precious malady of twin machines)
Fixed and orderly broken open or just broken
Tensions court on high; deadly, one mustn't miss robed angels
Draping garlands around your neck,
Summoning spells. Epistolary epistemology. Minute correspondences.
Fatal brow sweat on a fatal synthesis
Intercourse on the tennis court; or hi, I miss you normal
If I had half the vim I do in your imagination I would, well.
Hand rhymes. Massive haecceities. Huge coincidences.
I have always wanted to
write about a definitive room;
a room in which there is a story about rooms that tells about doors.
You'd read it from this book, picking it up from placed on the green cardamom stasis table; you'd hold the book and balance the frame technique you've learned to call 'attention'
between the smoothness of lifting it and the excite of performing an action in a room that was moments ago an empty slate, now and rapidly being populated by the ornaments of your know-how now know how it got there.
One: a door leading to an unknown room known made know
able only by the virtues of its door, which it praises by telling the story of itself in a book because its partner cannot speak a story as it’s too busy being that story.
Rooms of books. Hi. A hi-liter is an instant forgetter. Highlite me. Photograph me on typing paper, tie me to the mom ument and let me tell you about moving and Thursday bench placement. I have always wanted to know a pure place aside from it’s the performances going on in it. Exstasis. Such untenable balance is
through a door.
There’re doors I am always desiring to stand in because we can meet on such a thresholds and just tell stories. On every street I walk through there are hundreds of doors I would give anything to burst through. How it came to be. How the aviary of your dome. How the dog of your torso. The alacrity by which one comes to unlimited space. Put a title on your day, title it the end of limits.
To smooth down the splinters on the table in this room find two pieces of pressed board, create a hinge, form a cavity. Into this well pour curative oils. Lavender. Linseed. Oil of Angelica root. Balsam and
bergamot. They soak through into the table so it can withstand a hand's rubbing over it 1000 goodbyes.
UNANSWERED RAFT ONE
Unanswered raft One
A story can only be told in the room if it is the subject and the frame for a story about the speechless frame by which the story to be written may be inaugurated into being. A door and its room are a black box in an empty parking lot
Augury can enter a room through the hearth, a frame for speech;
synchronic, the ghosts rush in to dry their coats on your torso.
Who has entered and left the room, Theriomorph? Don't stay too long in
the field riding to hounds: the fox is unfindable, frozen, locked away
in a black box imperceptible from this room.
ible at the hearth,
A final vision
woven from luminal states
in augur ated
An arc plots
and submersion into \ this bamboo forest of doors. Pure, unaccented gestures in this empire
Your empire teems
with open doors
and I cry into
Welcome the garlanded bulls, fully synthetic of gods at the hearth
of your mouth. Spit sacrificial knives
and twist the rope
Be the stampede on two feet, bow your head to summon the whispering blades.
How you can lose
what YOU CAN NEVR HVE: Its
neverhappening is happening now.
Disappearing birds, jocund
mur mu ration.
Wrap it hand it hang it up in the inscritable momens it of our trancing
it it it it it it it it it s it it it it it it it it it
sings sings is sits signst sigs
sins sings sinst