Thursday, June 18, 2015

I’m Talking About a Cheap Paperback Which Fans and Slips to the Floor with a Shush

Fleabus and me last night. I've been manic of late, I know. Barking has peaked this cycle (I know when these cycles peak, there's a bark I want back, yesterday this time, I...). Descent to dark was apace already, but today my goddamn eye this, my fucking job that, and then I click on Washington Post article on shooting in Charlestown church, it's white on black so it's a deranged loner, not an entire religion or race or civilization (as when visa versa). I click on the photos slideshow option, Washington Post demands I watch a 30 second commercial for big screen TVs before showing the photos, and fuck that... The variety of flavors of rage coursing through me - and at me via me - tell me it's time to shut the fuck up, at least for today.

[It was Jessica Grim the American poet]

Lisa Robertson

It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from the daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions —
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,