What makes you feel like doin’ stuff like that? (Quincy Jones). Dance wears
down messy stress. Exchange economy. Ink to paper.
Often a road is not a road when looked at up close. See dirt path underneath.
Ink and paper meet. Labor. Bare feet calloused.
Great hope is Spirit. Most frequent collaborator: dream bringer. Discourse of
hovering/hunkering down.
Bees in bonnets unabsent. And o deer on forested front lawn. And manner
of speaking in squirrely trees.
moon HERE is minus (isotope) plus light
Soul reconfiguration of field from cotton and tobacco into a Pacific open one. Now cage-less. Oppen’s “Psalm” on stereo — elegance, grace, precision. Tattooed islands (like a Black Hawk one in Wisconsin) born then human connected dots. Demarcated brown flesh. Essentially all in the hearing.
Wings battered for love of leaps. . .the elevation viewed most contemporarily in b&w. A writing through cheesecloth; rigorous passage through death. Standup the stereotype. Watermelon out with the bathwater. Let us rejoice and be clean. Clean. Clear. Unambiguous but not unanimous.
Gray space between like some menu options are gray out and not available unless some other action takes place or the scene is changed. There is shielding the stain offers. The stain grows, becomes nuanced as if to color. Stained is permeation. With the -ed added, momentum leans toward addition.
Stained glass. The color spreads and becomes a part of glass. If Union says “possible”.
Allowance. Mother and daughter and gray space occupies the space between. In between. From wings, it could favorably make a parachute. One with an imperceptible rip (or tear) in it. Faint sound of water flowing over rocks.
waning crescent. . .
The word “tower” is self-announcing stature I have an aversion to. Avert my eyes from a gaze that would stare. Ordinarily. But now it’s every mention renews my belief (and fear too perhaps a little) in destruction, in death. Maybe a conversion from “tower” to “butter” would be better, both getting to opposite endings naturally or the same unnaturally.
The me—, my—I—ism of the Magic Carpet ride. Appropriately, weighted subjectivity. Take my hand, Thomas A. Dorsey wrote and sang. The “I” leads the way by way of “my” and ever on and under it’s own direction. Degrees of difference as breath shields and shades. The only “story” is the one never told or sold out.
Every 24 hours, singularity refuses to yield wholeness unless the whole is specified and/or sanctified. A groundless ground. Sun Ra would be an example. There is baptism, the washing and emerging anew ink stained black and back again.
from AMERICAN LETTERS: works on paper Find more by giovanni singleton at the library
Copyright © 2018 giovanni singleton
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.