Progress. What is the shape of this idea, its space and outline. Where does it sit in the endless body we share? Cunningly, an edge. A forgotten stream, that howling dog. The sun behind a cloud, there. And that cloud again, the very same one. I told you about its minutes, every moment that pulled it into day. He said that this is an ineffable gesture, this art. I make invisible sand castles, I make invisible sand.
Forgive me my indiscretions. As a child, a something then and what was it, she. As such a child, I mentioned myself to you and moved gropingly across the floor. I pulled myself into a knot. The same one here, and here.
Strangers say you are beautiful. Strangers walk towards me on the street. I don’t have any money to give them, and they stay put. Somewhere in New Orleans I got lost and stayed. Indolent, of no matter. That city made me ultimately go forward they seem to think. A variety of upward velocities converging ==> a pulse. And what does that progress towards? Dear flat emergence. This is not an address. Not a call. Dear flat emergence. Dear renegade activism. Dear suffering shoe.
Whose endeavors call you there? My own. And the shape of your voice? A rock that was thrown. Where is it consequential? At the place where the sea divides. What time is it? You’ve already commanded it. It took place? Eventually. Without effort. Like a cry.
silentbroadcast 