"All you really have in the end, ... are your stories."

- Burt Reynolds, playing an older spy, on Burn Notice. morial026.jpg morial025.jpg morial042.jpg

for Kathe Kollwitz



meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
of pebble movement who is counting here who knows the names,
house around the corner, talked, read. beyond that, quiet, quietude.
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings,
meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings
of the language of words and their talisman and of death, quietude and
hearth of quietude, silence to place

exuding infinite quietude. all silence, words are not better

for i am speaking of quietude, the grace of being, contemplation,
the quietude of familiality, the space where everything is


memorial for my father, day four*

sleep lock leave

the house locking out, locking up,
memorials leave imprints like fossils.
1.shadows of the bed where i slept in my childhood,
2.shadow of the table at the corner of the bed:
the green table where i kept a photograph
of a hydrogen explosion,
of one of the eisenhowers,
of a united nations diplomat.

leaving, last words spoken.
i could walk this house with my eyes closed.
what's left is the phenomenology of space
and its corners eaten by mold.
untoward cocoons ravage the phenomenology.

mold corrals health, circumscribes breath.


memorial for my father, third day

the emptied house which is never empty
the scars sleeping for decades,
of literacy and legibility, i read
everything into signs, signs swallowed
signs, and

everything contained, was contained
mold and seepage made breathing difficult
the house lay in low iambic

the house flexed with flood and mining
with repairs curled round itself,
and so emptied, this annihilation will
never return, hurtful sensibilities
of fossils where sleeping and crawling down,
stairs returning and inscribing motion
which would be the telling of it, the framing,
some might say the last of it, some might say
framing unlasts


memorial for my father, second day

true to the image or true to the intention
images have no intention, true to the image
true to the mood of the image, has no mood
nor true to the mood of the intention,
nor intention of the mood, nor truth to the image
which is formed by mood and intention,
no intention of intention, and no framing,
but framing of intention and mood, no framing
of the image, but the image's framing, breaking
the mood, intention

every image is memorial of itself,
memorial of every image, and a god
might say, so much sight, so much sight


Kittler just died, I remember Sartre going, my father at 97 was born in
1914, his mother died very shortly after, the world went into flames, has
continued along the same path. So everything, Derrida, Lacan, Jack Benny,
falls apart, falls out, I continue to work not with _those_ references,
but in new currents, until something withdraws, draws me back. It's too
simple to think of the past as stories, that what one ultimately offers is
stories, that these go the ways of mourning, lamentation, pain, death
itself. As if we're continuously walking wounded. I'm tired of this; I
want to work new for another twenty years at least. Memorials throw me
back into pasts that gnaw away at my soul, with the appetition of souls as
so many Barthian puncta, grasping away. It's all fiction. Tonight I was
given a sheaf of pages from a scrapbook or photobook of myself at ages



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is this it

where the sexual maps and taps saps and everything revolves
as if merrily, or happy, as if things burrowed in their own

as if they were buried, coming and singing and longing, then
leaving, leaving behind their own revolutions

certainly these aren't arousing so they're not it, or are
they arousing and is this it

is there a shattering of the woundatar

o forgotten deadatar, are you returning anytime soon?

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