(silk egg) and i cont’d.

Alright, an egg has a life of its own, and yet is food in that we are all food; as we consume others, various others snack on us, even as we head toward that final place-setting in the soil (pause to flick an invisible creature from my eyelash). Who isn’t “avaricious”?

Speaking of inevitabilities — I have a question for you: does the word “obviate” or “obviated” appear in all of Ms. Tabios’ books? Several times? What does the text obviate?

As a victim of “dry eye” syndrome, I know that a tear can ease the movement of, if not ward off, pain. Soften the skid.

Chapter I

Her lid fell like a wave. A tear obviated the wink.
Thus, did she become my horizon.

I think of the horizon of the poem, which is the horizon of breath and will–or accident. And the horizons of novels pretend to go on uninterrupted until reaching an “inevitable” conclusion; whole in themselves, supposedly.

"His cock was midnight."

Like that.

   The conclusion is a red skull and, Oh! How it lit up that
corner of the room!
   Where a staircase led up to a higher part of the wall and
it is a greedy disillusion that would sculpt that impassive
space into a Door.

And yet something so soft as a cloud will lead bone astray. When my cloud plant turned silver and died, I had to admit — I knew not the least bit about plants that live on air and steam alone. Does that compute?

On the other hand,

 Lindt, white chocolate truffles

and

skim milk

out of context still have their pull. Small offerings, as if to stave off anonymity or death.

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2 thoughts on “(silk egg) and i cont’d.

  1. Pingback: JOHN BLOOMBERG-RISSMAN: IN THE HOUSE OF THE HANGMAN 362 and A SHORT NOTE « VerySmallKitchen

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