One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. I've written it before on countless scraps of paper. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. It is composed of a seemingly endless succession of beginnings. The original order of the words has been lost so I rely on you to supply the details. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. The original has been lost but I promise to stay true to its drift. That is not a matter of memory. It is a matter of being. One world at, one word at a time. Forgive me. The original version of this story does not exist. One word, one sentence at a time, this is its drift. This is the drift. The notes are scattered. No. Not scattered. The notes were never collected. Jotted. Scribbled. On scraps, in notebooks, on flaps. They have never been collected. They have seldom been re-read. Or read. The words, disjointed, have been set down and abandon. No, not abandon. There is much thinking between them, the phrases, the paragraph and elimination of words. And ideas. "Why?" I am telling a story. Build the house. Paint it later. And later still introduce the particulars. Each letter reverberates, twists but...
Theatre
[snipped]
in the distance
where the fire ran
across now unfamiliar hills
quietly
in the wind
ashes
transposed by waning light
lift into the air
and vanish
this is my world now
asha
2000
#32
If you want to know the truth about me, I have lived in the shadows all my life. I am a watcher. I hover in the current. I look like a reflection cast upon the water. Transparent. Your hand moves through me. I break into myriad pieces and only reassemble after you are gone. My substance, if can be called that, is ineffable, deduced but never certain. What I know and who I am is held apart from me in a vault to which I have no key.
If you want to know the truth about me, I have lived in the shadows all my life. I am a watcher. I hover in the current. I look like a reflection cast upon the water. Transparent. Your hand moves through me. I break into myriad pieces and only reassemble after you are gone. My substance, if can be called that, is ineffable, deduced but never certain. What I know and who I am is held apart from me in a vault to which I have no key.
Last zero
She has set bottle
upon the sea
and left the shore.
She has gone back
to the market place
and sits on a mat.
She waits
knowing
he will never come.
Bird as Pixel
bird n.
Ancient resident of earth. Descendant of the beast-footed dinosaur.
as n. Abbr. AS or a/s, air speed
The speed, especially of an aircraft, relative to the air.
pixel n.
Basic unit of composition for an image on a television screen, computer monitor, or similar display.
#13
Time—
measured by how long it takes the wound to heal
and day—
night's waiting room
I have forgotten everything
but the echo of your name
reverberating like a bell that has ceased to toll
Pixel death
The world is advancing on me. A fly is eating my sandwich. Black eggs embedded in the pale sage are sucking away its life. I am too weak to mount an offensive. My mind is spinning backwards, slowing coming apart like a nebula unraveling in catchless dark. I feel my face, pixel by pixel, being carried off in bloodless beaks. When I speak the world looks away.
asha
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