Photochemical Agrimony

A rose by any other name is a silver halide crystal excising itself from the emulsion in a photochemical bath — but what do we care?

Boldly proclaimed to be the last finery on a desolate earth, thermal imaging revealed a birthmark complete with its own legislature and a fine-tooth militancy at the loss of its night-light. 

Don’t complain to me, I’m dazed (and possibly moldering) in this modified ash tray that is my home. Predators and nocturnal emissions make themselves at home here — in the closets, in the cupboards, and on the always turning lazy Susans — condiments be damned. 

The birthmark turns out to be a henna tattoo of an ancient mariner who left the merchant marines for a part in the off-Broadway production of Godspell. Here, you are asked to visualize all the late night-light-fo’c’sle martini parties ad nauseum. And to at least hum the melody to “Day by Day.” Actually, instead, picture a windowsill full of vulnerable chocolate turkeys the morning of Thanksgiving . . . Ok, maybe not.

Imagine instead the ornithology papoose slung on a dodgy daybreak. Dozens of stubborn diabetes datasets smelling of molasses — and fugues signifying nothing.

Let’s agree to this: Edward Muybridge was on to something — some flickering indemnity for a late capitalist era politician — daybreak was fabricated out of imbricated memories (ghosts of images) of suborned perjuries. The penuries of big wisdoms sorely evaded and crudely denounced.

Let’s say we agree that strangeness and cupidity was cited as a common denominator in our extinction. 

There was merit in self-immolation.

Why make sense in a senseless world?

What I’m Reading:

It is said, Jesus killed fleas to save his dog.
Even a boy must perform acts of sadism.

— Brian Gyamfi / “Kingdom”