It wasn't done with mirrors it was done with books
There was talk of fireworks or lightning startling the birds en masse, causing them to flee, but to stay low -- thereby flying into houses and other obstructions --
There was rumor of an eternally regenerative universe
Back and forth, forth and back, was this love or a form of pacing where verbs give place to voices and act fiscal about it
wage, wage, whisper, from there
(the wages of war is either love or
The archives become bodies which the souls of sensations occupy to become visible to the inner eye from whose sight I write down my sensations
Why is the camera named Cannon
Cane break/ cane, don't break again
It is possible to experience relief at a time of sorrow
But why do you
dread the joy of falling into ready-mades, homes that rise like true bread and breeding,
And try hard not to see the same thing three moments running because that is bad aesthetic hygiene
Why do I care what wings are, compared to flying, if these are reciprocal experiences (form, function, invisibility
Why do you walk in and casually take your seat at the eager table, sensationalist, maybe you are the only sincere one left
with whom
to discuss blackness, there was talk of red wings, Sir Isaac Newton, Isaac Hayes, patience, dynamite, all the things you might have been, and are, approaching one another, practically enemies, practically needing the opposition to understand the need
night and day
night and day
day and night
