Mars in Todi

Delicate practitioner, giving his figures the best flesh to be found,
Defends the cold tones of his foliage, in whose hands the broken prey disappeared.
One feels roughly contemporary among showcased remnants of his spear.

Exercise 10...

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B3DfyJRIT4jyNEJUTUVxaEpoSnc/view?usp=sharing

Accent the ugly until it becomes gorgeous.

                                                                          I

"The only way he could possess her was in the most [     ] position of copulation: he reclining on cushions: she sitting in the fauteuil of his flesh with her back to him. The procedure--a few bounces over very small humps--meant nothing to her[.] She looked at the snow-scape on the footboard of the bed--at the [curtains]; and he holding her in front of him like a child being given a sleighride down a

                                                                          II
short slope by a kind stranger, he saw her back, her hip[s] between his hands.
     Like toads or tortoise neither saw each other's faces.
See animaux " (197, 199). 


"Jill through the succession of nights adjusts ... to hers. Small curdled puddles ... appear on her skin, and though easily wiped away leave in his imagination a mark like an acid-burn on her shoulders, her throat, the small of her back; he has the vision of her entire slender fair flexible body being eventually covered with these invisible burns, like a napalmed child in the newspapers. And he, on his side, attempting with hands or mouth to reciprocate, is politely dissuaded, pushed away, reassured she has already come, serving him, or merely asked for the mute pressure of a thigh between hers and, after some few minutes during which he can detect no spasm of relief, thanked.
...
Though he doesn't pursue this guilt he has startled from her, that night he does make her take him squarely, ... she offers her mouth and ...so tight it sears. She is frightened when he doesn't lose his hardness; he makes her sit up on him and pulls her easily torn satin hips down, the pelvis bones starved, and she sucks in breath sharply and out of pained astonishment pitched like delight utters ... He tried to picture it. A rosy-black floor in her somewhere, never knows where he is, in among kidneys, intestines, liver. His fair silver girl with flesh-colored hair and cloudy innards floats upon him, stings him, sucks him up like a cloud, falls, forgives him. Love of her, surprising him, coats him with distaste and confusion, so that he quickly sleeps, only his first dreams jostled when she gets from bed to go wash, check on Nelson, talk to God, take a pill, whatever else she needs to do to fill the wound where his seared ... was. How sad, how strange. We make companions our of air and hurt them, so they will defy us, completing creation" (157-164).

The last card of The Original Laura

Homemaking with Fossil Book

The house began making decisions, displacing its lineage 
Of concerned owners, just as the knowledge of them increases,
No trace of vertebral column has been found. Precepts without object.
Shaping the room with one renovation, where one prefers to live 


Free soul among imported plating. Folding wings one over this increase,
Forward through the mud where one found the rightful fit of this plumbing.
As soon as the house awakened to realities, rugs lined the floors, to live.
The room had always beckoned, bone bed, with all but invisible stitching 


Where a prehistoric sun scorched, sea level subsided or rose plumbing
All the while the house fossilized, a punctuated trail and back-borings.
Inhabitants baked on flats, their burrows dragged over by currents stitching
Together the scraps of an eminently erotic existence. Teeth set into 


Slender jaws, setting out for spaces less jarring, depicted with back-boring
Among address numbers, fence posts, slate walks with the slugs emerging,
Shelterings that bore absolutely no defense against savage relatives set onto
Entering to inspect the lovely scenic views of the golf course in their heat-


Gathering fancies borne on weak forelimbs, useless legs, and hoofs emerging 
Continuity over newness still seems to beat its wings in that history of nations,
Percolating out of the chalk age. There, Eurythion and lungfish fan their heat
So that it looks evolved over time, hidden in their flesh the whole organ of the house. 

Sex Isn't Quite the Same

Postmodern Ruins : Igor Mitoraj's Eros Bendato et alia, Patrick Blanc's les murs végétaux

Excavation: katadesmos at Pella

The hunters remarked that they had been careful, with a brush

To remove the dark, and took only sure shots when the monitors
Were watching. Joining ranks--vital questions subsumed a dull luster.
Like the ones before it. With curses to ensure that the stock will continue
Dwindling or a top floor go up contorted. Obvious abuses. To the bridegroom 
Whose linen canopy catches fire, all those matches are struck and lost.


This appeal to the old wisdom, betray us that the chaos might not be lost.
The buried scripture of some house girl, by the brisk strokes of a wire brush
Bore in us relation to our burdens, of which the number varies, as bridegrooms
Play themselves out. The feel of a thrown napkin gaining permanence--monitors
The master grid, or as some official commented, "a little kvetching continued
In the vein of the schoolchild's faint lead-pencil missive" underscores the luster


Of writing, deprivation, in each neither exist as a single voice. We sense a lackluster
Gaze, our own conserved honor set to Deianeira or Medea's careful instructions. Lost
Are the reputations of all his houses. Thus ends this segment of a program continued
Next week. On more recent surveys, beyond the game of dry numbers, is desire brushing
Against us. Only it could be dropped from air, landing in our beds, wounding none. Monitors
Expect that it would in the turnover unless she herself uncovers the scroll. The bridegroom,


Who stood by and said nothing, anyway decided on a future course. He is a bridegroom   
In our sketches, as it has always been a hunting culture. Recovery is disintegrating the luster, 
A tablet of the just-beyond. Her charm in the gray leached layer is unfolded, once monitoring
Such sunken hope, yet this antrum of dark blood and misery of its builders was feared lost.
For her sake these events did not go unwatched nor sheltered in the ear. For effigies to brush 
Against, vines and blackened tusks. Not far from tears. What is half-forgotten continued


On this low altar binding us with the animals. Insatiable night-callers outside our windows continue
Revising her fate. It never made into guidebooks what tenants started and gave up, a bridegroom's
Insistence to never honor any gods. Moved by the column but never the intertwined serpent brushing
Against the hemlines of widows and maidens taking cuttings from the garden. Their luster
Fades like the rest of their well-worn items, a beaded collar, a headrest, bedsheets lost
In their intended effects--nestled meek and faithful to one lady of the house, the monitor



And the hopes she has for herself. Aspirations consummately met. The message monitored
From the overlooking hillside, and emerging no easier from her resolve was the wish to continue
Living the lie for the retribution later. Was she lowborn, who wrote first in plaster, to be lost
On the accursed? Letting the sun stream on a particular line, before it was devoted to a bridegroom
Who lived with her? She committed it to lead on seeing her rival's beautiful bead work. Luster
Against her length in his bed, the author brings us one step closer to that--we brush her off


Whose lover is apparently about to marry, she monitored her, careful with the brush.
Sure that the stock will continue sure as curses, earthquake victims as bridegrooms 
Issue to lustrous, torch-lit bowers. Recovery disintegrates the hunters, her move in the dark.




  

  

Live laborious days.

When people wore the EAR

"The EAR yielded a wealth of interesting facts about the ways people live their lives. It showed that, despite the variety of things each of us do, we are unmistakably creatures of habit. When people wore the EAR for two days and then for two more days four weeks later, they were remarkably consistent in how they interacted with others, in the kinds of things they did, and in the places they frequented.
...
Swear words and fillers, and, in fact, all the words we use reflect our personalities. In another venture into personality snooping, James Pennebaker and Laura King used a computer program to dissect the elements of language in eight hundred people's writing samples. They found that extraverts tend to use language about social events and positive emotions and to avoid words that express negative emotions; they also tend to make distinctions through exclusive words (but, without, except), tentative words (perhaps, maybe), and negations (no, not, never). People high on openness tend to have a different pattern--they use fewer first-person singular pronouns (I, me, my) and more articles (a, an, the) and long words while avoiding verbs in the present tense than people lower on this trait. People high on neuroticism tend to use a lot of first-person singular pronouns, fewer articles, and fewer words expressing positive emotion than negative emotion. In fact, differences in the use of first-person singular pronouns show up in many of Pennebaker's findings. Who would you think uses I, me, my more often in the following groups: high- versus low-status people; suicidal vs. nonsuicidal poets; women or men; depressed or nondepressed people. Pennebaker uses I, me, my as a linguistic marker of self-focus and has found higher rates of usage in women (vs. men), low-status (vs. high-status) people, suicidal (vs. nonsuicidal) poets, and depressed (vs. nondepressed) people" (108-9).

Oratory

Today is displayed as a scene of a crime, each household 
Had its own version--go straight ahead down this street, 
Recessed between odd-count salt cellars and an oyster plate
Recipes of refugees, rendered one afternoon where we risked it.
Where, in the habit of a landscape painter, such aims to comfort,
By establishing a moonscape that leavened as you left, Eurydice


Where the paper is, begins to slide out. Curbside, she runs. Eurydice

The deepest failings of the race. Your ghostly picture of the household 
Rebels in thought, and the jar of the waning November moon comforts
As it empties, through dense green cover of your window facing the street.
So we lived within the thunderheads and dried into a salt flower, a risk  
So far from climbing. Not one peak. Hollowness stares up from the plate.


Imagine it beloved, through a fly-specked pane. A repast on unmatched plates   
An alternative to parting is dismembering it all the wrong way, forcing Eurydice
To figure that anyone finagled her fate, her anger a nest of snakes is risking
An inquisitive look.