Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Lisa Robertson

or Soft Architects

(a didactic)
(because the present is not articulate)
Sit us on Lucite gently and we will tell you how knowledge came to us.
First the dull mud softened resulting in putrefaction, lust and intelligence, pearl globs, jeweled stuff like ferrets, little theatres of mica, a purse containing all the evil smells of daily life. Then just the one vowel, iterate and buttressed and expiring; leaning, embracing, gazing. It devised with our claw identity for the sake of food. Selves, it says, feeding us, I adore you, you know. Like a boy blowing from a tree, we decided, we were paid, we were free. We incessantly prepared for the future. On the title page, two angels blowing on the trumpets of fame held up a globe decorated with three fleur-de-lys and topped with a crown. We learned habits and tricks; we faked happiness and relief. We were a single grin with lips pasted back. We said we saw Europes of hallucination, fatty broths sprinkled with deer, stenciled eagles, serpents and lurid rags. That was a format of saying, a frayed ligature. We were fading into the presence or absence of food, of sleep, of doubt. more...


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