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Category: William Fuller


spiny paths once a hand

or cluster of them

how do they apply the

curve of the turnpike

the feeling of lace the

setting out of a caravan

not for us rapid motion

that come from worms

floating in lamplight

cold and clear

some few refuse to

jump all these geese

swimming in the

opposite direction

from WatchwordFind more by William Fuller at the library

Copyright © William Fuller
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.


This (historical) object has decided to exist obliquely and by virtue of its existence to become correlated with the approaches taken to it by diverse groups of object-beholders—constituents—who appear motivated in their actions by a hunger for possession, or by the opposite impulse to escape from themselves into what they see. Dredging up strange but deeply felt emotions, they apply them directly to the screen—which is gray and framed by burnt plastic. One pushes it aside like a shadow. Austere but fragrant (redolent)the object branches down stairways, through hallways, out doorways, along streets and rivers until, carried away by birds, it is allocated over numberless empty landscapes. Out of its dispersion new objects are confected, to be placed side by side, on a mountain meadow, while a backward-looking daylight wanes, and the hand recedes that grasps the string stretching away to the great dead images of the past. I reach toward them from the present. How is it thinking of them, transparent or ashen, implausible then and now, arranged in the casual order of assumed routines, unconsciously shuffling through the days that bore them and that they came to represent as signs conceived to recoup an intensity and splendor that defined some prior synthesis—how is it by occult operation ordinary things occur? Whose present with its ‘here’ is here? Who drinks nectar through a nail?

from HallucinationFind more by William Fuller at the library

Copyright © 2011 William Fuller
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.


The chances are good you were built from kings like these,
whoever you are, so it’s no wonder they’re inside you banging
to get out and then regretting it immediately when they do—and
I’ve come up from the basement with a stack of leaves and a bent
candle, intending to set new rules for accepting appointments,
although not today as I fall back on absolutely no resources, and
even the kings are sleeping or at most paying attention to nothing but the garden’s gradual self-augmentation. Over time they
grow old, die, are buried, to rise again with green eyes, plant
flowers, negotiate contracts, advocate secular liberation, seek
repeal of Section 2 (a), and become comfortable with activities
that are increasingly hard to define.

from PlaytimeFind more by William Fuller at the library

Copyright © 2015 William Fuller
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.