don’t brown out

Your Head Can Be A Prison

Don’t Overthink It and Don’t Brown Out

“By the time we die, we know everything we need to know.”

— Victoria Chang / Dear Memory

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you flay me

images: risd museum

Ode to the Heat & the Hate of the Gorham Fish Fork, 1879

O O O O that Pincer-ean rag…
O, you striker of fish
Impaler of Ichthys
Hypocrite Lecteur, Mon semblable
You 3-tined piker!

You make rampikes of gills—
Disassembler and de-scalator of flesh—
Flake the filet of my so(u)le,
Flout your hegemonic “H”
Flank your ethnocentric “C”

You flay me
with your stained
stainless gilded gluttony.

O O O O how you fork
Flesh on its manifest destiny
To your Victorian pouch
full of bile.

“Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself in the end.”

— Samuel Beckett / The Unnamable

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please call often

Press the play button above to watch my short film “it’s my birthday, too, yeah!” (1:10)

Fugu-Flaker

The days whir and zone by—fast as light—light / dark, light / dark, light / dark (so mournfully dark), light/ dark, light … you see. The end of a month is here before you know it. Month / month / month / month … and here we are at the end of another year that has clamored by. Where did it go? When did that happen? Another year shot. So she places a gravid tambor in the freezer—she is known as the Puffer Fish Queen: a fugu-flaker, fast scene maker. She is trim and gelid. Chromium spangled, angular, sharp-edged taker of the fringe. Bleak is the channel of quiver / meek is the trammel of pain. Bring me bowers of mbu puffers. Saxitoxin. Call often. “Thee talent of ‘Mangacious!’” Towers of tetrodotoxin. Please, call often! Please, please, please call her with the edge of her cleaver—into actions she abhors. To the indiscriminate tang of desire. She’s paid her penance for the hour. Another anniversary of her birth come and gone. She gets on with her life.

“…the little candles poke
holes in the blackness.

A time to eat fat
and oil, a time to gamble
for pennies and gambol”

— Marge Piercy / “Season of Skinny Candles”

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fate was fatal

Press the play button above to watch my short film: doppelgänger (2:24).

Our Minute

I am the keeper of the Doomsday Clock.

I know what will happen to us.

I know how the world ends, but I don’t tell you.

I keep you in the dark.

I stopped the hands on the doomsday clock at 11:59.

When we met I thought I would turn back the hands on the clock—that I might set the pendulum in reverse.

But you said our fate was sealed and our fate was fatal.

I was smitten.

I’ve set the the works in motion once more—the cogs thunder.

I’ve chosen our minute.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 12/11/2021, at 11:02 am.

“She passed a sign:
‘YOU ARE NOW ENTERING HOPELESSNESS.
POPULATION: EVERYONE’”

— Garth Simmons / Hole Punch

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can of clouds (haiku)

“You write what you write, and then either it holds up or it doesn’t hold up. There are no rules or particular sensibilities. I don’t believe in that at all anymore.”

— Jamaica Kincaid

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in my neighborhood

At the end of the film I’m on my back staring at the night sky…

The man who helped me is lying nearby—his mouth bloody…

We’re lost in a thick fog of tear gas—the sky disappears above us—the occupation failed…

Lost without a clear linear narrative—upset by temporal disjunction—and chagrined at the jump cuts.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 12/09/2021, at 8:08 am.

“Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects and shimmering with an endless variety of movement and innumerable gradations of color. Imagine a world before the ‘beginning was the word.’”

— Stan Brakhage / Metaphors on Vision

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nothing in between

Once Blue

I was once blue
In my black converse

Isolate
Inchoate
And nothing in between

“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.”

— Virginia Woolf

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in my neighborhood

You wear your indecision well.

Your coterie of suitors vexed—

Working out your complex geometry.

Your heart a cipher—

Hermetic / unbreakable.

“I want to be free to try things that don’t make sense yet. I put materials together that maybe shouldn’t be and don’t follow hierarchies.”

— Sadie Benning

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in my neighborhood

A hiss marked the moment

Of the dissolution within

Blanched images of featureless heads

We breathed / we clawed / we panted

From the depths of unsung parameters
From the blue strictures of freedom

As we lost face

Mouth / eyes / nose—tenebrous—

Gone

The geographic contours on our heads

Hair / ears—crepuscular—
Vanished

Masks couldn’t hold us—
Our disappearance complete

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

— T. S. Eliot / “The Wasteland”

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in my neighborhood

Step into the Muse’s shoes—

What is this place?

What does it mean?

Work in your own small corner—

A better place in the midst of a slow apocalypse.

“All I remember is my mother’s tears and my empty stomach. The ketchup stain on the seat. The slaughterhouse in my throat.”
— Victoria Chang / Dear Memory

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