We see we did not arrive through the crocheting of sand through ancient footprints. Hyphenation is an earthquake of small caesuras; the exponential of the frozen caterpillar curling into its transitional zero; the object spinning its rocky-albatross atoll across wavelet gyres abounding Anthropocene oceans.
Can the glandless and paradoxical contingencies of electronics—the box whose contents are vouchsafed without direct observation—see past the eyepiece leather of a time before cameras? Its ring stretches into the translucency of overlapping feathers—the othering of silken tongued glossolalia, like cabinets of dark fish swimming through bodies disenfranchised from the moorings of their own inherent curiosities.
Who is the shepherd and who is the stone? Sticks are for leaning on things, even when it is understood that they will ineluctably confirm their mortality by gradual erosion into powder. We then are the large rooms and wooden shoes of self-submerged pylons, comprising the dock slats that open the cage of the sky, even if only for momentary contact with the ozone, breathing its own air for that slouching of compressed archives alluding to pointillist theories, tickling peripheral nebula that conceal the origins of space.
Physics is the secondary-gas created by the movements of the eloquent judo of gravity, sucking the marrow of its remembered mistakes; the impish mountain that transcends, reflects and surpasses itself as a kind of escape velocity. This, because we are only capable of seeing ourselves in mirrors, like aureoles of insubstantial arrows twisting into the wind’s shadow—opaque derailments of banana and poppy redolent ethers, their fermenting skype-tones dieting on a subtlety of facial expressions and shamanic divinations of the craft beer renaissance of television’s gradual disappearance into coded waves of refractory micro-chip numerologies.
An anticipated yearly fad of tenured worms, enchanted by good tether, bound like moons in archipelagos painted into small columns of exponential rotation. The cordon, the condor, the cardinal; its acquiescence to the watery nature of the moment, displaced by nostrils emerging through the pudding-skin of small cherry-pit irises, clarifying discrete recollections overlaid with the fat from their own overcoats; an extrasensory somnambulance—the externalities which flood washed out highways of politics: a book rack for the moss-tufted gaps between each letter comprising the parsed and bowdlerized parrot beak of the unsaid.
-J Zackary Rothstein 4/26/2017
Innumerable Stumble 