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  • mono 7:33 am on October 20, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: epigram, Fragment, , , , , , ,   

    On the Margin of Our Graspable Self: Epigrams and Aphorisms 

    It is possible, that the gust of a new life bursts into your zone of the expected, thus tearing all of your fragmentary accomplishments to bits.

    At home, too long, with words and words, piling up like some kind of garbage heap – yet, you throw yourself all too willingly into the heap, hoping to irk out some kind of angle, some kind of chirping opinion.

    To those on the periphery, to those whose step-by-step leads them to trip over their own tail and lie down in early hours on a painful pillow.

    Waking up and opening the window to the sounds of the familiar. Having put oneself in this place, it is hard to shout obscenities at anyone but one’s yesterday-self.

    The silence of a room can draw us near to the decisions that we have made: the mistakes of yesterday, the hopes and how they transpired – how we have edited our choices.

    Where has my golden strength gone at this hour of the day? To what pleasure do I owe the arrival of this new friend: confusion.

    Seeing past this moment, we can see what we can see. But, what of what we can’t see? How will that affect us?

    A remainder of those whose words we read, trickle down inside us, to that invisible area on the margin of our graspable self.


  • mono 9:07 pm on October 17, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: broken smile, Fragment, , ,   

    Broken Smiles Stitched 

    -to glisten your shards, harden to
    do one thing only: flatten, deflate, exit, circumvent.

    A space of absence now alight, you walked among
    the traffic, whistled the thick black of exhaust fumes, as I collected
    the dirty floor-spots while drowning in soap.

    We’ll wash up on this – this doorstep, step back and re-enter
    again and again with white bags, sore arms, broken nails and,
    with my most sincere grin, broken smiles stitched back to a
    semblance of fragile empty happiness. Tonight, solemn.

  • mono 6:56 am on October 15, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: autumn, fall, Fragment, , morning, ,   

    The hole of this morning 

    Under white morning light
    obscured by a crisp yellow haze
    with toaster ticking in the background,
    train humming in the left-ground – only
    nothing to do but prepare, abulations.
    where we live now, but a room, but a hole.
    Tucked away, sticking out as a crow screams
    seemingly near the window sucking on smoke.
    A time of cool morning, a time of walking the
    daily dutiful path toward that hospitallike building.
    I passed by smiles, chaotic breaths and, oddly,
    murmuring imaginations. I try to forget these things
    washing over me in the hole of this morning.

  • mono 7:54 pm on October 8, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , Author, , , Fragment, , , , ,   

    A Book Before Bedtime (Six Aphorisms for Contemplation) 

    THE RABBIT HOLE: Reading is a collaboration between author and reader, the shared creation of another world – a world that could be, but isn’t.

    THE MELDING VOICE: The more time we spend with those authors, the more they penetrate us and we end up finding their voices among our own voice.

    INFILTRATION: Reading a book on a place I have never been while, simultaneously, fraught with the irrevocable influence that is occurring, with my permission.

    HAVEN’T WE MET?: With each page turned, I create a new and ever-evolving image of the author – a relationship with a ghost!

    MORPHOLOGY: Sometimes, I fail to envision the facial details of the main character, yet he spins around me with more reality than a “real” person. Then, suddenly, his face warps into a thousand faces, renewing themselves upon each new read.

    WHERE AM “I”?: Re-reading a book is necessary for me. Each time upon entering the text, without fail, a new thought emerges, a new reconfiguration of “me” takes form.

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  • mono 2:05 pm on May 21, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , Fragment, holga, , , , , ,   

    Encroach (1-3) 

    Stagger, sway only into the last haul.
    Jagged feet of my own that realize
    such a haunting dread of displacement.
    The self subsumed by currents, by the Bleak.
    A path through the dense green thickness
    and now an opening with branches like tendrils
    tendons tickling scraping the face gently.
    This, the first limping leg of the journey.

    And then, a gap, the pouring mist
    comforting and painful, swaying between the two
    Must seek some shelter, but the green now overgrown
    sticks the side with a glint of anticipation.
    The first to get soiled are the feet, damp feet, earthy.
    At last, the residence in its wholeness, yet the front visible
    wet wood alive absorbing the pouring mist.

    Laughter from the inside of the mouth (or is it a cry).
    It is difficult to decipher.
    The coded speech, the crackling glimmer of a smile, breaking and forming.
    He stumbles now, bumping into things and trees overwhelmed by the forgotten Bleak.
    Reels akimbo and slips into the overgrowth, its green mushiness comforts him.
    But, he has yet to reach the house, is it a house? Stands. Limps.
    This time it is his right leg, no knee, which cracks whenever he steps, so he drags.
    The door is close and the porch, of course, screeches as he applies pressure.
    Wet foot cracking knee slip and he recklessly smacks the wooden floor,
    a tooth loose upon impact.
    The door, a handle? No handle, of course it is an extension of the wall. Mirages appear
    from time to time, this time now a door and then a porch. Still, this must be the second
    leg of the journey, the limping creaking snapping whining journey.
    He manages up a bit, a wheeze. His long gray hair frazzled now, matted oddly damp.
    This is the rain soaked paradise, a house, the house
    he knows and has seen this residence. Turning head and
    glancing slowly back, a slight prickling pain in his side sees
    the yard, the overgrown green and across the wet bleak firmament,
    another residence, sparkling wood damp…all that dampness.

  • mono 9:56 pm on April 8, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , , , Fragment, , , , Nonhuman, , , Social Form, , , Tentacle   



    The body adorned, the body’s metamorphosis into a garmented state – the interactive process – elevated both physically and imaginatively; The fashioned body as locus of reciprocity and individuality. Layering as self-transformation, on the periphery of self-visualization, never fully able to realize this realization in its wholeness. The fashioned body: the sticky tentacle for the other’s gaze and for the imagined representation of one’s self. Fashion: the disappearing-blossoming flesh of creative infusion with the expression of the designer’s work, an assemblage of vortexes surrounding the body, imaginatively composing the social body…The crevice between body and garment, that nether world, the beginning of the body.

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