it's this film viewer's obsession, this film

viewer's established meditation--what

was captured before his birth.

when film entered into a covenant with

consciousness--the dream became lucid.

immortality is no longer a leap of faith,

corporeality is what makes cameos--not

the viewer.

I Am acutely drawn into footage

before my birth--i look for myself & am

everywhere.

somehow more familiar than myself,

then wonder if i was out there as

someone.

swept into colored footage of Manhattan's

bustle one hundred years ago, how its

pace bursts through slowed fluxes--where

all film is posthumous.

one would have to view nothing but one

frame lapsing into another, & still miss

its breadth.

how can one view film with

consciousness & not see through it all?

motion revisited a happening,

as it happened again--for the

first time.

the sun's scythe cut into view,

black came to black rest in the

space of its blade.

as the grainy wield of film had

Venus' head.

it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.

a ******* dog

locked out of a mirror--

let out a threshold's

whoof.

Manson's warlock

gobbledygook played

backwards--viscera's

whoof!

a neighborhood's

vacancy intruded--

drifted by like

lubracative film over

eyes.

winter cerulean

searching for blue.

mammalian cheese of subway system

heating--lysergic rails & drilled cavities

to gurgle-boings.

media frenzy lightning of boxcar

undertakers.

next stop.

where flouncy tiled walls are the

annihilatory scanners of a famed minute.

cleared for broken elevators that require

one to actively participate in what their

lonely height means.

then Canadian air fumigates the near

miss of a gigantor"s back door supper.

steaming creme of city beastliness,

right outside well-into-the-night's cave.

the snow we received seemed to put all

its effort into indenting an unfinished

paragraph.

something about depressed levity &

footprints.

which called for Chopin's: Nocturnes--

that flapped with yellow caution tape.

which sectioned off a massive burial

mound of Christmas trees, heaped

individualities brushed white in a

parking lot.

how memorably Chopin played to their

lying positions, clean cut stumps sticking

out from weighted litheness.

cut, dressed, posed & tossed--the

overstayed welcome of hysterical

merry making.

one could almost see every single pine

needle in the scent they parted with.

Chopin knew just how to reach them

with his sensitive phrasing, getting into

those frigid hollows awaiting pickup.

purgatory is going to be sick on its path,

unable to hold down being used.

they all end up there, where?

purgatory doesn't even know.

it's the heaviness of their visualizations,

the present's crushing half-light.

so purgatory is a banished overseer, that

has no substance save for their

visualizations.

black & white images struggling in

swampish murk--with brilliantly vivid

gasps.

people, places or things one thinks

they've committed to memory suffer

this--I myself get high off that spookiness.

spy purgatory stray from its path like a

doomed Romantic.

I visualize our back brick wall facing the

garden at night--with the certitude no one

is observing it.

the crept summonings that strain to see

as above ground, so below.

does the impish rush I get--lay into its

brick, alter its stalemated energy?

I know so.