Marina Adams, from New Alphabet, 2010, 12 × 12 inches, gouache on handmade Indian paper. All images courtesy of the artist.
THE DREAM I HAD ENDED
AND OF POSTERS”
going back to an absent source,
between object and score
brushing away flies with my thoughts
the size of postcards burning
“three beautiful women from Prague”—I thought he said “burning”
talking about the picture
realism:—war is kind is the title of a
poem the guy told me, a shell in the kernel,
those fluttering flags at the top of the tower, shadow of an arc
against the wall, sunspots on shadow wars
a woman looks at the toe of her boot inventing the present and presuming
a kind of accuracy or at least
theatricality, tensions between elements
almost implausible, a fugue, a kind of
authorial sampling, funnels
of forms of violence “evidence-based”—
“A GREEN WINE I LOVE”
Missing something? Twenty more years to see & smell the Mediterranean again (perhaps). White hair. Beautiful white heart on the froth in the bowl of café au lait this morning. C.C. in her vest and white shirt. I have just set my cigarette on fire. A book just flew over. Next time you are in town, we’ll meet. Did it say more oil or mere oil? Then it was too short. How could I have missed it?
“WE’RE ALL GUESTS OF EXPERIENCE”
says Pasternak. Step away when the song is about to fall into the air. Everything gets short like those old etchings. Complete in your mind the balcony of history. Her white blouse untucked in this heat, car keys glittering in his hand as he walks away. A man falls onto the deck, hit but not sunk. He sits on the chair, looking over at the other chair. When we consider history—be quiet! Redeemable, we will get you a new dream. My memories, I leave them to you.