a collaboration between J. Zachary Rothstein and Hanz Olson
“We’ve created it and now are its martyrs; it comes, greeting any saint with new flame, any bird or flower, like a blinded thing” (Alice Notley, “The Black Trailer”).
Reawakened kraken ballast, hulls of brundilleum, fences are blinders of amphibian meshing, distilled into feathers, flighty ideas, and the mouth parts of early summer here where the sky pulls tarpward, contrails of dust and silver iodide in the nesting of premeditated demolitions.
How many worn-out windows have withstood drought after drought wandering under the same blue range? The vertical sleeve of an event points to its own wry energy, but fails to leave the testing ground with a real offer. The facts will locate the more remote range in the lobby of a river, in a tank from times the canoe out-whispered its own involution.
The vertical push of kangaroo crones, sealed aspics of vented apertures leading to insect windows of vegetable lust–a fruit rind of languors and soft Buddhas, of scallopshell and coptic impenetrabilities, pulled up by the foundation, trusses, girdles, floral and pantalooned, these magnanimous architectures of serendipitous islands in archipelagoed cross-shanties.
It’s building up as why I write dark scratches on the laboring through. I could spend a holiday mirror witness to the decrepitude. It’s how this interacts with what’s within, without. It’s the fire staring back on lines long since abandoned, my only tool a paperclip. The recitation’s a worn-out combo of feathers carried by the satisfied disarray.
Cement and factories close minds, unfurl rivers
memory-wilted antlers
darklift cardboard, refulgent specklings of shadowy
portholes
The greyer guyser of pencil strokes is the unmost carrot of love anyone could’ve foretold. To post on Tumblr the scaled images of a lion, its hot and yellow head resting on each of these rarer beaches. Pins in his ear, fig strip towns and space, aged refuse in the company of a blackberry. The itinerary is hidden within parceled seeds of an opening; the cracked sidewalk of first thoughts in wet stone, fruit of a warpalace ripened to ecstasy. News blows in from roof to foundation and our unpeelings ratchet down the airwell tight. Each interested branch negotiates a window; each feather-decked trail curves under our stilts.
Innumerable Stumble 