Through Scrapes on the Math
Crisscrossing moonlit bellies, fractured suits built
up around what began as an ambulanche,
as a cinematic existence scrawled upon the wall.
The original gristle is now capable of writing
in everything, and the bright yellow murmuring
elevation of the studio
renders patterns obsolete between lip and cloud,
between thirst and flower, armor and cutting
flesh. Withdrawn from miscast and spiderwebbed
retreats, from plumes of smoke
hanging over a welded table, over a heightened
sense of a shared awareness brought on by the cold.
What is in itself an object split down the middle
of a newly reclusive Condylarth standing in the bones
of a gallery, of a presence? Figures in tufts of grass memorize
the spinning scene, the headlights and holograms, unstructured
though tidy and fast. The step-by-step melding of hatch marks
escape the brushstrokes of a new installation. The two or more
acceptable metal gates remain open to what’ll come through the door
next. A moment of celebration, of pages turning through the square
and distant form knitting in the welcome sleeve of the Greenland
shark. It’s the surge from a pair of dry leaves, from the restful
summing up of that red cord of chance, that rattle
of lip and cloud. The yard hidden behind the two
gates heals up in plumes of smoke incurring Jack
Skeleton on the trademarked chalkboard. Two crisscrossing moonlit
bellies and an older way taking off through separations of coast,
crash, and ambulanche. The ingredients rebound through scrapes
on the math in the leading of an innumerable stumble.
Innumerable Stumble 