Andrew Joron Unfall

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Mine to ask a mask to say, A is not A. After a face laced in lostness: a rigged signature, a game of chance.


No one—trickster & contrarian—is owner of all this moaning meaning. Speak thou, spook. To the count of the unaccounted, following what fails, thy track alone stirs stars.


A breath is a wind in front of time. From the night entire, one day is broken. Daybreak.


The ideal book is a forest fire. The letters looters of my memorious murmur: a boon to the bone, a moratorium upon purpose. Delete “ideal.”


Undulant old duel. Not night & day, a race to erase: fuse, don’t fuse, refuse.


In the mirror’s suspended space, time looks headless; cold holds its picture, the capture of heat. No fairer fear for form—


A law allows a lawless All to shame measure & mentation. Never & again, the given.


Die Welt ist alles, was der Unfall ist.


This spell mispelled is dispelled: EMIT TIME. I minus 1, a nude dune.


My father is an empty spacesuit. My feather, falling in a vacuum, disposes of a new tune, one maternal to the moon. Emit time, but in words without cover, white as the night of an unborn earth.


That coil of writing, this charcoal but the ancient residue of sun-filled flora, a mind-like residence once beset with insectoid wit, & the flurries of birds.


The book to be flayed, heroic. Reference as reverence: the first word is fled, the second calls for its return. The third is heard before the first, as a river without a mouth.


Dear destiny: no story can not be understood as a line of statistics. Evidence accumulates as the earth comes into view, its image again inverted in language.


The moon is both divided and multiplied by water: as chance, as the plural of chant. O diver, to be sea-surrounded by a thought bled white, a blankness as likely as blackness.


This thistle; that theater—what is the word for getting words & forgetting?


Might night right sight? He to whom the tomb is time may say, I see, but sight has lost its transparency. I, too late to relate I & I, trap light in sound, & sing no thing that breath can bring.


Still not still: the last subject glistens within glass, the lost object of angelic angles. Ash is what is, & flame its reflection.


Suppose next sentience exists in a machine-made sentence, a list that listens to the noise as news: art then is the whole part, the call indexical to X. Headfirst fall of a doll into the hole.


So apt, the unmapped point. See order die to dilate, pour its door into summer. That sum is taller than the sun.


To the eve, eye. To the wind, mind. Overt one to want want, now that one over one is no more.

This material is © Andrew Joron
www.alligatorzine.be | © alligator 2009