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BlazeVOX [books]
Cleaning the Mirror
by Joel Chace
(BlazeVOX , 2008)




Orphan laughs to the powder monkey boy They’d spot one (speaking is innervation?) in chador automatically—the woods poaching through which they’re riding closed but the little girl standing on a running horse spoke speaks still, the horse with no spokes whirrs when the night deflagated—as if a bassoon, both utter—fill with billion stars. They’ll sift the gold with their tiny hands, she ‘thinks’ (which is only out loud here there is no inside)s. At the age of pubescence she will be made to conceive. In the day she’s allowed only to walk the horses to the fat harnessed-in-knickers. So (causal pair outbreed:) Their not being, there are not comparisons. To the fat those riding narceine. The orphanage had assigned her the job at the track, watergirl and ‘fetch,’ many dead are collecting. The horse flying at night begins the quiescent day each dawn. So she can study the day. By beside itself the calm. The fat harnessed-on-horseback had before flipped invisibly from the thought of communal-only no distinction imbedded even though railing at the uninvited, to only hierarchical distinction as such. Forests. For everyone, the girl now loon with joy from riding another time getting up from a crouch to standing on the horse’s back at the moment peering from the high rearing horse have to on a great height since the Enforcer (Lana) is a giantess and the orphan girl only small sees through a half oval the giantess rigging herself in a girldle. Some of the orphan girls are given cards to work for nickels sesquioxide for the sort of Lana-Turner (now Dowager who stamps their cards), rearing the neighing of rearing horses is by her ear. Lana’s ear nightjar and Demihunter’s are alongside streaming sounds between. Wild suffering the orphans couldn’t figure out but going on ahead of then—in them. Because as infants they hadn’t been held or touched. At an earlier age, which now for any had vanished—all of their ages in period of time—and the reactive motions for some remained but were not the vile, cauterized pits after the chrysanthemum crashes while still in the midst of them lopped. Are being lobbed. Mere stimuli had been regarded as nothing, now opened. Too. Demihunter orphan drawn as if by a magnet and the powder monkey boy, buoyed beside her on the air their astride the rearing horses arching to stand in the stirrups, have come to see the other orphans except for the whinnying the silence of the moon wobbling enlarges an oval through this orphan peering as at her first conscious sight where looking down into the glass percolator the circling horses had seemed to tower whipping unchased a night heron. Not Rousseau plunging with them in the forest. Nor thinking things simply happen or nobiliary, the right arm cells relax. The rammed earth of the mountain range that is rubescent waves, the mountains don’t pause they move curdling near where another ruddy duck is flying just missing the clear oval. There’s no whiteness. Plumiary. Vive L’Algérie Libre. Many firemen descend trees cradling cats in their crooked arms then reseau in the sky semblably grass deflagates. As firemen with glinting red teeth aren’t speaking there in ruffling sky that blood red inflates through the leaves. The firemen will think There being no conflict is good!, hardened by the presence of chitin. Not the idea that dreams were behind anything. They can’t explain that being even. Added to our sense, the sort of Lana-Turner regarding and The Enforcer (also her) is not chased chaste except by her own demons seen-invisibly by us she’s dependent on function she’s installed in the Troubadour-anti-Troubadour his glowing sneering strict in her eye hindsight. Dawning baubles underneath which is a freak thus cauterized for it by them but critiqued also for dawning baubles, one drives past men ascended in buckets to poles they’re up everywhere along the streets working ludic. Not where the powder monkey begins to train Demi her-aborted to be a disguised jockey covered in chador in order not to be pulled from the track. It isn’t driven by fear or instigating fear for the orphan girls. For the powder monkey boy, not orphaned, it is since fear-driven is instigated now by anything seen (for everyone but aborted orphan girls left in the streets such as the Demihunter the rather than tactile which would be as if they were moving above the underground gold mines [girls mines minds] are seen-invisibly) which is to others. Plumiary of wasps nears the nightjar. A banshee wailing is a screamer banner-line of the thread of night and dawn or dusk even with it. As if coming to it oleo strut a meteor arching in the illumined dun is his the general batting eye that are then many bausond piebald meteorite blinks. Again, whizzing. That way they’ve installed Bayesian, Byzantine the same men inside who last month were killing them with snail-drummed Kalashnikovs and bombs corpses laid out on the bawn for that purpose which were the roads everywhere. Celebrating this new peace that is oligogene they’re simply arming the killing that works based on their having reconstructed infrastructure, where they haven’t that, that put up rotten deconstructed from the start by them-Halliburton (creature of the vice president who’s siphoning though its oar his silent lewd open thievery initial and systemic isn’t mentioned by description itself being complicit with his Halliburton’s banditry), the collapse of the sewage and all functions ascribed to the populace. I go the, the soldiers as well as the populace released into bombs. They are. Disallowing. Don’t exist even. [We [always silent] The majority of the new police had ‘simply’ planted bombs before, they say. Being made police they’re calming fighting the areas they’d fought before. They see now. Olpe. Someone pops digoxin in the new light a dogshore illumined holding the craft in place before they go boating. If the hippocampal brain, its function having thought to be the recent past, is injured, that one can’t imagine future, it’s found. Then it’s not your fixed construct separated from mind. Word seemed unrecognizable, yet dossil of printing dura matter one dreams, if the hippocampus were injured, one couldn’t be in either past or future? If an event is not in either past or future, where would a dream be in one? Is olpe. A dory skiff is brought out on a marine water. Just a doss instead of a racing fin. So mirror. They’re each other amongst them. Dur is Du Quoin as if place were moderate. Seen-invisibly one man sees so far away there aren’t reasons here motive or individual circumstances (as events anywhere) only the economic benefit later of gold mines-combed hives connected by dirt tiers, nets, and ladders below the curdling sky where ruddy ducks shift. Others simply acknowledging there’s no history at all by entirely reseeing ‘their life’ as being the collective sensorium at one, the anti-Troubadour at that one only romantic past, any being void in it. Is. Not working for a moment a puissant sees invisibly [cancelled by him] annulled in chitin in the meadow by moving. The president seeing pissants as working yet this one isn’t for a time red dress a pseudopod on organs of locomotion producing dysmetria there, the grasses leisure. The pissant is walking attachment that’s like stamens to her rustle the wet grass waves working the grass open, the machine of wind motoric as willed even spoken by anyone there can’t open, it’s opened. There isn’t present, they take the view. There’s no force, sensorium. After the death of the elderly mother one became unable to dream who’d [innervation] halve have beside one’d had rich instructing dreams before dazzling—so, do the elderly not dream? Young as (when) their small physical size is the solely qualitative. As if fiery wet arms. Meeting sclerotized the fat riding the horses wax them the people not just chitin so the fat fly in the grass mounted where in the woven swaying grass-haven the powder monkey and Demihunter hold the mounts when the men demount. Excoriating others when they stand, waxed smiles sound. Though I’d thought excoriating firmed, small physical size, when it is one young, is the sole qualitative element. The wind roars the grass when the horses move even standing shiver. They’re to walk the horses. She and the powder monkey boy would also be regarded as pissants in the motoric wind, are, but for holding the mounts. One commits suicide opening a bomb. Trolleys and buses. They are transient plumelet when raddlemen marking sheep on their backs with ruddle move while the sheep slip through the grass unseen. Rueful at this very young age—as physical, far receded and advanced both, as it is the tunnel itself—the young one’s small, delicate skeletal size [a man on the street looks down sees only [says] small] is their/other’s plumper, the ruddle-marked Demihunter but loon as rudderhead playing by following them through the tunnels of grass. We aren’t that, they’re plumule. .



From: Floats Horse-Floats or Horse-Flows


leslie scalapino