misspoken word, mistaken test. All error birthed inside though not self. Proxy to organ, kidney perhaps, filtering toxins. Often common on a bench, lattice worked wood, fingers laced.

 

 

 

Begin with cadence. The voice, stumbled or correct, is part cadence. The vice, mumbled or erect, and so on. Error and cadence aren’t totality, that requires kinesis, surplus turned diesel fuel, etc. Error ends outside the self, communal and counter, likely in another creature thought sometimes in the transferring medium.

 

 

 

Type begin
read benign

Type kinesis
read kindness

Type surplus
read supine

Type creature
read create
 

 

 

 

 

Restless becoming in the passage of time, excerpted from Debord who expected from Hegel. Debord changed it, the original mechanism closer to as a restless becoming it is not an element of a synthetic whole. Music in this way. A lilt of dead men speaking to each other, to export Spicer writing to Lorca, himself dead by then, and receipt letters back.

 

 

 

 

Restless becoming in the passage of time,
taken from a translation by Ken Knabb,
found online during wither. The original
taking, Debord’s moment of aperture,
of molded polymer and wire and, was
itself from a translation, though I can’t speak
to its quality, its who or where,
when was likely the early 1960s.

 

 

 

Error and time solvent. Some noble gas impaling itself, lacerations on a pink limbed evening. Error and time in this instance displaying similar properties. Not function, not siren. One stretched becomes [     ] while the other plied becomes [     ].

 

 

 

Another experience of time. Spit twice
on a mirror without looking. Move your eyes
once finished expelling water.
Do not under any circumstance pay
attention, under any circumstance, to the mirror,
its frame, under any, or anything,
circumstance, in the reflection, under.

 

 

 

 

Watch your spit, longing
again for the safety of a carcassed mouth,
slide lower and louder. Name the colors
scene in the mirror. Off white, bubble
of sliver, cream, pastel
trail along its surface.

 

 

 

You may be granted while washing your spit a moment out of time. Memory, that spiraling pleasure, knows neither time nor its passage, not even its halt. Memory is of curse error. Not much more needs to to be said on that subject.

 

 

 

 

Imprecise light of elementary school. Dirt outside worked over, a hallway of sorts. Smell of cheap acrylic paint dying in a classroom. Accumulated smell moving the afternoon’s equation.

 

 

 

 

The glut of paintings. The glut. The paintings.