Laura Goldstein
Faking Up
Dear P, Love, W
Dear P,
The sound of paper ripping while sleeping I see 2 sheets of purple stationery and one purple envelope. I hear that you’re sick. Is that so? Is it all the soda or just the air. Here, we try to open our eyes and see ourselves but are addicted to sleeping and what we see there. When we wake up, there’s no we, just me. Back to basics. I see a mailbox and think of you but I can’t do anything more. When you go to bed, forget you ever had shoes but when you get up forget you ever had a bed. When I wake up I try to forget about you.
Love, W
Love, P
What will happen when you smoke 10 years of fights? You are shown
depictions of lungs with a sticky substance stuck in crevices and a throat all scratched up. I’m just looking out for you, I don’t want to fight. This is always what happens because we never turn out right. What about the chemicals that settle around us every day? You collect them and smoke them and get dizzy. The next day you feel sick—a small stone has solidified in your esophagus, halfway to your stomach. I spit, I swallow—Of course I have the same symptoms.
Love, W
Love, P
Premonitions yield a wild style of daytime payout. For instance, I woke up with the word “caldwell” in my mouth as a cold destination. Then I heard it later on—it’s somebody’s name. The whole notion of weather dripping the pre-existing from port to watchtower is out of control. I could never have foreseen what happened to us, but it was streaked on a window that never became a limit. Safe but uncomfortable we are pressed for time near a wharf where the water is only pretty—it doesn’t wash you off, it can’t pretend to be welcome.
Love, W
Love, P
It’s been a while. It’s been whiter, it’s been wider, it’s been whittled down. It’s been. It’s being, it’s best, it’s been bested dutifully. We’re making do here, we’ve been taken to there in the meantime with all the desks and their fullness. You never would have guessed what was in them to be put back in again. I’ve thought about you from time to time but you know how it is, it is that way that makes it for the taking and the dating, that’s what you’d expect in the least. We thought that you’d be happy that we found it, the way that you’ll find out what this is after a while.
Love, W
Love, P
Time, in its sure form, has that funny nature of collapsing, like most things, only when you notice. As far as the terms of our hammered-out back-and-forth without the forth, this end up with no down, etc. I cite railroads and other cargo-laden enterprises as my precedent for this kind of desire towards you, my acceptance of any foreknowledge of termination. You see, I see the kind of hearing that sentiments in the wrong context repel. I am glad that we did not live our lives this way, but only for one short correspondence.
Love, W
Wearing the Sea
For ten years a person is repeated as people met in context, in waves, “out of water”. In ten years I’ll meet you again then he said that that was when we met, ten years ago, on the street. “Finally you’re here! Quick, we need to invert all their words!” he said, gesturing towards the street and all the people there. It was all an invention of the evening he was quick to subvert.
So I was finally here. I could feel it. A tension that yields through a perforation of a rapture. The sun went and goes steadily downwards. I now see his eyes in photographs the way I see mine—completely transparent. His face breaks into fragments with my eyes squeezed shut.
I have had a million glasses of water and a thousand cups of tea and have started to see his prediction for me. Almost ten years later, layers of eyes that quiver in a sphere. Arrows of light that connect a person to what is in range. Other people. “Don’t say anything, just rattle the keys.” His wife was hearing voices that noise made by many others could drown out easily. Later, when that was all over, “Lay her down when it is time to sleep and she’ll know she’s supposed to be sleeping.” Leave the sun to its reflection, upside-down, out of context, bright projection inside others.
Inside me he saw a slavish will competing for complacency; outside, a new body. At the apex of a blink one choice was suddenly the most desirable, the flight of a dead lover into the form of a baby. All in how he argues it, buys me cigarettes and juice, but he’s not even around (I’m not around) to be arguing anymore. We’ve come to rest and I’m forcing the silence to feel good.
But can we stay here in the place where the eye doesn’t see but stays rested? A future flood will see itself the wrong way from the sea. I’ll feel as if the world’s array of productive gifts provides no choice but to give in and leave. Sleep over and over his body learning to cope in larger cycles farther away, he gives in to a gravity that locks into time. “Emergence is a sacrifice that performs into life”, he had said. He’ll find me and start the whole process over again.
Barricaded into bodies and bound to wearing the sea. We were discussing a performance that only confirmed the foreboding “wrong side of the tracks” was real, tempted slavery of the eye, teased and suggested nothing. “Nothing! Well, isn’t that exactly what we need the most right now!” He was on stage and then disappeared. What a trick. It’s as easy to the eye as dying.
previous page contents next page
Faking Up
Repeats, for instance, before sleep has a chance to occur, reoccurs upon waking. A change in occurrence that depletes the eye’s store of brought phrases, bought in phases even when closed for the night. A range of surges that emerges as a thought that repeats but changes, implored by-product of the day’s wake, that’s what they say, but I’m waiting for you to say something
My most gifted competition, my fought and won. You and your present, the creaking of the bed, the instant. Toast in a series of poses, snapshots of snacks, more leaps of logic beneath the sheath of sleep but helpings of butter turn fingers slick in the sheets. A favorite ending, the one you look forward to, an array of products, such as “spray spreads” phrased as savings then your famous saying about being saved. When we get to that ending is still pending. What you meant by check. The register, the list and the missing receipt
This time I’m being very, very careful. Only controlled risks, percentages, long-term borrowing that ends in a permanent home you claim to own. You are different in places as you walk in then walk out. The bread before its dough, the cellophane, the label. I guess I was just really, really hungry but didn’t doubt it until later. Sometime in the middle of the night when the crumbs were there collecting themselves on the floor in the kitchen, rubbing, itching
When you said it you were sleeping. Fast. Regulated breathing tell-tale register temperature perfect. You and your metered and sealed feeling, what you meant by check, the meter’s now running, the sold food, old, trailing the meals after they’re eaten, the depleted meaning
Bright water highways and mist lead us into the day. I turn to him and say, “I hope you’re the future”. You’re coming up to us fast and we don’t even have to lie if we just don’t say anything. Even amidst all this in another time he’s being enveloped by a gas fire. He described that he didn’t even have to close his eyes, the darkness and warmth all around made him so tired
The light travels back along the wall slowly so the room gets the full benefit at noon. A word that’s value is made up of the weight of each letter appears. Parts (people and also itself) question its pronunciation. A sensual propagation of the sometime leases on pieces of our sentences, a list that’s decreasing. Down a hill of stones to a den that’s lived in on the weekends, when we can swing some free time. The shape of this place is like one we’ve revisited but from which we were never released. Someone I’d always thought of as you but isn’t this time arrives from an old photograph. I don’t feel like wondering. Soaking one moment in the next, relinquishing portions of morning that had been marked as no longer of use.
My most gifted competition, my fought and won. You and your present, the creaking of the bed, the instant. Toast in a series of poses, snapshots of snacks, more leaps of logic beneath the sheath of sleep but helpings of butter turn fingers slick in the sheets. A favorite ending, the one you look forward to, an array of products, such as “spray spreads” phrased as savings then your famous saying about being saved. When we get to that ending is still pending. What you meant by check. The register, the list and the missing receipt
This time I’m being very, very careful. Only controlled risks, percentages, long-term borrowing that ends in a permanent home you claim to own. You are different in places as you walk in then walk out. The bread before its dough, the cellophane, the label. I guess I was just really, really hungry but didn’t doubt it until later. Sometime in the middle of the night when the crumbs were there collecting themselves on the floor in the kitchen, rubbing, itching
When you said it you were sleeping. Fast. Regulated breathing tell-tale register temperature perfect. You and your metered and sealed feeling, what you meant by check, the meter’s now running, the sold food, old, trailing the meals after they’re eaten, the depleted meaning
Bright water highways and mist lead us into the day. I turn to him and say, “I hope you’re the future”. You’re coming up to us fast and we don’t even have to lie if we just don’t say anything. Even amidst all this in another time he’s being enveloped by a gas fire. He described that he didn’t even have to close his eyes, the darkness and warmth all around made him so tired
The light travels back along the wall slowly so the room gets the full benefit at noon. A word that’s value is made up of the weight of each letter appears. Parts (people and also itself) question its pronunciation. A sensual propagation of the sometime leases on pieces of our sentences, a list that’s decreasing. Down a hill of stones to a den that’s lived in on the weekends, when we can swing some free time. The shape of this place is like one we’ve revisited but from which we were never released. Someone I’d always thought of as you but isn’t this time arrives from an old photograph. I don’t feel like wondering. Soaking one moment in the next, relinquishing portions of morning that had been marked as no longer of use.
Dear P, Love, W
Dear P,
The sound of paper ripping while sleeping I see 2 sheets of purple stationery and one purple envelope. I hear that you’re sick. Is that so? Is it all the soda or just the air. Here, we try to open our eyes and see ourselves but are addicted to sleeping and what we see there. When we wake up, there’s no we, just me. Back to basics. I see a mailbox and think of you but I can’t do anything more. When you go to bed, forget you ever had shoes but when you get up forget you ever had a bed. When I wake up I try to forget about you.
Love, W
Dear W,
1. worldmurmur
2. lifesyringe
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9. worldsyringe
10. lifemurmur
Love, P
Dear P,
What will happen when you smoke 10 years of fights? You are shown
depictions of lungs with a sticky substance stuck in crevices and a throat all scratched up. I’m just looking out for you, I don’t want to fight. This is always what happens because we never turn out right. What about the chemicals that settle around us every day? You collect them and smoke them and get dizzy. The next day you feel sick—a small stone has solidified in your esophagus, halfway to your stomach. I spit, I swallow—Of course I have the same symptoms.
Love, W
Dear W,
1. dreamcoffin
2. readylight
3. grouptrance
4. halfhiding
5. couchtrap
6. couchhiding
7. readytrance
8. groupcoffin
9. halflight
10. dreamtrap
Love, P
Dear P,
Premonitions yield a wild style of daytime payout. For instance, I woke up with the word “caldwell” in my mouth as a cold destination. Then I heard it later on—it’s somebody’s name. The whole notion of weather dripping the pre-existing from port to watchtower is out of control. I could never have foreseen what happened to us, but it was streaked on a window that never became a limit. Safe but uncomfortable we are pressed for time near a wharf where the water is only pretty—it doesn’t wash you off, it can’t pretend to be welcome.
Love, W
Dear W,
1. Plug
2. Walk
3. Pest
4. Work
5. Pillow
6. Wallop
7. Krow
8. Step
9. Klaw
10. Gulp
Love, P
Dear P,
It’s been a while. It’s been whiter, it’s been wider, it’s been whittled down. It’s been. It’s being, it’s best, it’s been bested dutifully. We’re making do here, we’ve been taken to there in the meantime with all the desks and their fullness. You never would have guessed what was in them to be put back in again. I’ve thought about you from time to time but you know how it is, it is that way that makes it for the taking and the dating, that’s what you’d expect in the least. We thought that you’d be happy that we found it, the way that you’ll find out what this is after a while.
Love, W
Dear W,
1. Secret
2.
3. Avoid
4. One
5. Other
6. Another
7. Two
8. A void
9.
10. Regret
Love, P
Dear P,
Time, in its sure form, has that funny nature of collapsing, like most things, only when you notice. As far as the terms of our hammered-out back-and-forth without the forth, this end up with no down, etc. I cite railroads and other cargo-laden enterprises as my precedent for this kind of desire towards you, my acceptance of any foreknowledge of termination. You see, I see the kind of hearing that sentiments in the wrong context repel. I am glad that we did not live our lives this way, but only for one short correspondence.
Love, W
Wearing the Sea
For ten years a person is repeated as people met in context, in waves, “out of water”. In ten years I’ll meet you again then he said that that was when we met, ten years ago, on the street. “Finally you’re here! Quick, we need to invert all their words!” he said, gesturing towards the street and all the people there. It was all an invention of the evening he was quick to subvert.
So I was finally here. I could feel it. A tension that yields through a perforation of a rapture. The sun went and goes steadily downwards. I now see his eyes in photographs the way I see mine—completely transparent. His face breaks into fragments with my eyes squeezed shut.
I have had a million glasses of water and a thousand cups of tea and have started to see his prediction for me. Almost ten years later, layers of eyes that quiver in a sphere. Arrows of light that connect a person to what is in range. Other people. “Don’t say anything, just rattle the keys.” His wife was hearing voices that noise made by many others could drown out easily. Later, when that was all over, “Lay her down when it is time to sleep and she’ll know she’s supposed to be sleeping.” Leave the sun to its reflection, upside-down, out of context, bright projection inside others.
Inside me he saw a slavish will competing for complacency; outside, a new body. At the apex of a blink one choice was suddenly the most desirable, the flight of a dead lover into the form of a baby. All in how he argues it, buys me cigarettes and juice, but he’s not even around (I’m not around) to be arguing anymore. We’ve come to rest and I’m forcing the silence to feel good.
But can we stay here in the place where the eye doesn’t see but stays rested? A future flood will see itself the wrong way from the sea. I’ll feel as if the world’s array of productive gifts provides no choice but to give in and leave. Sleep over and over his body learning to cope in larger cycles farther away, he gives in to a gravity that locks into time. “Emergence is a sacrifice that performs into life”, he had said. He’ll find me and start the whole process over again.
Barricaded into bodies and bound to wearing the sea. We were discussing a performance that only confirmed the foreboding “wrong side of the tracks” was real, tempted slavery of the eye, teased and suggested nothing. “Nothing! Well, isn’t that exactly what we need the most right now!” He was on stage and then disappeared. What a trick. It’s as easy to the eye as dying.
posted by mark young at 11:53 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home