Andy Frazee


A Room

The heart’s tympani tautness framed in a community of likeminded objects stolen from keepsake boxes and hidden what we call subjects. In the dispersion, one ignites, capsized, capital. In the synchrony of forces I came to be, the keys emitting a pattern traceable only in the dark, as if the mind itself were a collapse of consciousness—or, the joke goes, a lark. All systems tend toward decay. The lawnmower omission represents.

A gap in the foreground.

I am sheltered in your sentence the instruments knit from threat of freezing rain. Silence makes sense, even to the rutabaga crowd. To think of my voice lying there, waiting for someone to activate it. To ask how much of the room is performance is to place yourself outside the room, at the point Archimedes dreamed of, and measure the weather there through the apparatus of skin. To take the nose as evidence.

Of presence or intent.

I ignited the recipe and the music within became the room, its charming sleights of hand in the age of gold rush. There is no silence, only the music that remains. A room in which to hear you with, a mote in the prepared piano’s I. Hold the magnetoscope closer to the rain wire without the rain wire tearing your jacket to determine how we may use them as antennae for our signals, like a skin of distress. The body, too, is an instrument, conducted from place to place, and framed.

By nature as witness to its diversions, witness to its witness.

The child is so much nearness held loosely in the cataract of her body, as if ready to disable the duality with room. To find the halo in a tremor. My thoughts are lost in the lung-lengthened huff of the furnace from the registers, the refrigerator healing. Synchronized, the instruments replayed my birth. Logocentric mazes voice the interior furnace click into.

Tubular contraptions steam-punking my parasol/head.


A Room

Logocentric mazes voice the interior furnace click into tubular contraptions steam-punking my parasol/head. Another way is to think of the ceiling fan as an instrument or gear around which the world posits its theories. The sound vibrations even within the air of my eyes. A bird works to perch on the string of Christmas lights we twisted around nails in the house’s white wood, though all I see is a mate of wings in my eye, the string wavering in sine or cosine. Characteristic of these trains, the emotion called bliss ignites the frame in delicacy of perspective, of the grid dispersing perspective.

In nodes your/my eye rides to the inclusion of the whole, the chartered wall not condensing us but embracing its faults as its own.

The instruments tense against the wings, afraid that in their registration they disturb what they observe from “that” to “this,” and so lose everything. The child is so much nearness held loosely in the cataract of her body, as if ready to disable the duality with room. In the dispersion, one ignites, capsized, capital. I am someone else’s echo, someone’s sounding of the room; on my return I navigate the furnace kicking in, the chance operations gearing me to fiction. Thrown into, as they say, saying, the voice conducts the syllables.

From place to place, as on a leash or leashes.

The music pantomimes, loose accretion of self in orbit. That is what the voice is for, though the entrance is only to illuminate the immanence. Out of there, the room. Sound the canoe wood, pilot termites into the pulp, with their songs mapping rooms enough. The tympanic membrane held me tight within, as if I were an inner chamber.

The servants discover and withhold from the castle’s owner.

So too the room, in its capacities, welcomes our failings, like a gospel. I am within my hearing and my hearing’s hostile counterpoint, oh lonely. One shard of the moon holds the wall at bay. What compassion may be intermixed with endeavor? All systems tend.

Toward decay.


A Room

At place here in the multiverse, a point anterior to the window module grasps how pleasant a day in the fathomverse may be. The instruments register the variations in room temperature; now compare this with the mystery of hearing. To ask how much of the room is performance is to place yourself outside the room, at the point Archimedes dreamed of, and measure the weather there through the apparatus of skin. Another way is to think of the ceiling fan as an instrument or gear around which the world posits its theories. The landscape is a lab the ear evokes if not constructs from all that is not.

The case, as the skin is an inertia, as the sun scrapes through a metal sky.

The light meter registers night and I am its bureaucracy. Planets make me hungry and the instruments, and the noose is too much gear. To balance these things with skill, that is, precariously, inviting every catastrophe the dictionary has invented, typewriter clicks shuttered, muffled inside. Characteristic of these trains, the emotion called bliss ignites the frame in delicacy of perspective, of the grid dispersing perspective in nodes your/my eye rides to the inclusion of the whole, the chartered wall not condensing us but embracing its faults as its own. To listen is to orient the listening function among the others.

No sound an intrusion but inherent in the body’s medium.

So too the room, in its capacities, welcomes our failings, like a gospel. What I have made of the within is searches. As the instruments measure the height of a dog’s bite from its bark sending echoes to convey the circumstance. A music to reveal the room in which it is played. Sound wave transparency/ocular juncture of sound transmitter.

These ears in the turmoil of devices at the source of.

What makes me want to live here? Sound wave transparency/ocular juncture of sound transmitter/these ears in the turmoil of devices at the source of. Partially due. We set up three instruments to capture. I will be.

Alive.


A Room

Harriet, the barber is here to see you. This description need not start from me, as the ocean does not need me for someone else to see it. The music itself attends to the room; we may record ourselves watching and know we leave such continuance. The clasp door in my skin opened and out came a voice and in came a language stripped of all category. The sentence in stasis/turbulence, as just below the skin at a scale many million times magnified.

Molecules share themselves and sound twists cadavers into living voiceless thought.

Fusing with your apple, the lawnmower retracts its distance, and the world it holds, this self, glosses over all confinement. The instruments tense against the wings, afraid that in their registration they disturb what they observe from “that” to “this,” and so lose everything. I am refracted into the open window, the wind a hyacinth, the carefully structured piano an allotment for our time. The room abhors its emptiness, the spinal lack. As my hearing grants sound, so.

Too the room grants me music.

Listening is a giving-over. The piano as ethnography extends its frame around my sweater ribs and my hands that put the adjective “soft” to the lie. The instruments tense against the wings, afraid that in their registration they disturb what they observe from “that” to “this,” and so lose everything. In next assuming weather, twin the heartbeat in industrial noise, the encomia factory adjusting my labor against demand. Accost me in the echo hours, rooms of moons on mobile wires tempting.

The collapse of the cut-out sun industry and sisters.

The body synchronous where my voice resides, the trees stand. Against the weight of sunlight thought seems a scoreboard the instruments do not detect except through my rodent-like scratching. The wound of flesh the I is here to clot, to bind. I wanted to mainstream the collapse industry. The kind is clandestine.

Within her.


A Room

In the dispersion, one ignites, capsized, capital. That the weather has always been music, and our efforts to match it have only resulted in blame. As the machine registers without consideration. I am within the books that on shelves line the wall, in some contamination of words among/congruent to a million monkeys typing. Make room for the new voices within the room.

Which is this me enfleshed as song.

I am sheltered in your sentence the instruments knit from threat of freezing rain. The dishwasher weather is there too, within the music where rhizome is illusion. A holy ghost in this voice box carriage. The instruments register the variations in room temperature; now compare this with the mystery of hearing. To think of my voice lying there, waiting.

For someone to activate it.

In the synchrony of forces I came to be, the keys emitting a pattern traceable only in the dark, as if the mind itself were a collapse of consciousness—or, the joke goes, a lark. All information a potential aspect of my skin and its secrets. Each part of the room so gear-enmeshed we must keep moving. Is the music within me or without me, as is the room: this I asked myself, mistaking leisure for the way an artist works, and an artist for any kind of human being. Another way is to think of the ceiling fan as an instrument.

Or gear around which the world posits its theories.

That such a semiotics may be found among my cold knees and the furnace kicking in room by room, the thermostat clicked. Where the music intersected the blind-bisected shaft of sun, a pale box bleeding transmissions. Tired, abrupt, I do not mention the trees outside, blatant in their longing for description; it is not that the echo does not reach them, even envelop them, but that the counsel comes too early for ears. I give to the room all of my cavities. A screech alit the bird within the silence’s unfolding cadence, its map enjambed.

Into the apparatus bearing gravity between voice box and dissonant air.

Andy Frazee's first book, The Body, The Rooms, was recently published by Subito Press, and his chapbook That the World Should Never Again Be Destroyed By Flood appeared in 2010 from New American Press. He lives in Athens, GA, and teaches in the Writing and Communication Program at Georgia Tech.
 
 
previous page     contents     next page