October 25th, 2016 / 1:43 pm

improvisatory text written on my phone during experimental sound concert

Here is a bird that flies south while singing a serenade. It passes laundry hanging on the line, and though it may just be a big misunderstanding, decides that life is utterly unfair, and isn’t sure what do, as it imagines an asteroid flattening all it sees in front of him, the laundry hanging on the line, a cauterized and flexible landscape. Fairly, he is fair. Fairly he flies due west and then starts to laugh because life is limited and the landscape is limited and because fragmentation is inevitable, he flies into a turbine.

Horses grazing on a field. Ice cream melting in a hot mess on the field. Just a big mess. The horses eat what they are permitted and they eat more than what they are permitted. Laugh, just keep laughing, one horse thinks to himself as there is a clear sky above him and a hot mess of ice cream on the field nearby. He has been composing a speech all morning on fairness and is trying to think of the right prefix to affix to a certain word and then becomes distracted by the boy taking out the garbage and then a small and brief shadow above him and then from the nearby turbine blood and ahhhh and it is clear how his speech must end.

The sound of a passing train. It hardly shakes the floor but the concierge can still feel it, especially in the cellar and especially on the old wooden steps. He goes down the wooden steps and the way is obscured with boxes and then a mouse crossing by the boxes and then another mouse and then surprise at what he sees. A mouse screams, or the concierge screams, and he makes a quick exit. Why? As he runs up the wooden stairs he is stopped and asked, what are you doing?! And magnetized by the passing train and suddenly having been faced with infinity and simultaneously the finitude of all the galaxies he only thought, I can’t articulate that, I can’t articulate, I can’t

Only the wasps are as sweet as the galaxy or no no no.  The wasps, too, just want to be special. They are sequestered perhaps and are looking inside themselves to feel their eyes touching their feet and up above they see a clear blue sky and can’t believe what they see. But wasps are skeptical and they scarcely believe and perhaps the passage through an airplane has made them hermetic and they hesitate with every move and they don’t believe anything and they feel the sun burning like an alchemical furnace and out on the street a stray mosquito that bites a woman and she cries out, ow I’ve been bitten by a mosquito and her companion squeals like a pig and the sounds are fluid and perfect and combative and the bees suspect the wasps and the wasps solve unsolved murders while at the moment of death, a bird flying somewhere a distance away is lonely and without regrets.

Demons or monkeys pressing against composed sermons. They drop the papers on the ground and it’s not certain. A fly is flying around the kitchen, a mere distraction, a mere fly, but the paradox occurs when the man denies the existence of the fly. But. But. Two more men approach. Two more men sit down on a couch. Two more men throw something in the trash. The trash needs to be taken out but the fly is content and though the fly does not know to question the morality of the men he understands the word “vicissitudes” and a dog is barking outside as two more men approach.

A physicist lives upstairs from a coffee shop where stale bagels are served. The physicist is an applied physicist but he has not applied himself to physics in many years and instead lives as in a shoebox, as if in a hermetically sealed space, and the food is brought to him and he wishes to extend his stay somehow but often can’t remember which shoes goes on which foot and becomes distracted by a sound he hears coming from outside and he does not know how to answer the question of whether he is happy or sad and he wants to be given a reason to not die but the couch is moldy and right now he wants to investigate the meaning of “divine” and continue a text be bad started but at the moment he can’t remember where the food came from and where his shoes are and what he is doing here with a pencil in his hand and the letters “Fnmmmm” written on a page in front of him.

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