Ash Armor Beach

computer     christopher christopher
on view at   emerson college in boston
ash used giroux straus and marrow
of gesture the   house the sonnets  for beaches everywhere
used  giroux   as  ash   started   used  giroux
started used giroux  straus and marrow
of gesture of light of marrowbone of
the house  the   beachsonnets
marrow suck of   gesture the house  the house  the house
sonnets baked deeply on the beach as poetic     ash
started  using  giroux daily of  cheerleader
on view at emerson college in boston
of  gesture-light  and marrow-light
the house the house  the only   armor was
the northern-most computer
christopher on view  at emerson  college in   boston
ash started using  giroux for  gestures the house the   house the house
sonnets on the beachsculpture   light   and mighty marrow might of gesture
the   house the  house the house

A beautiful paragraph from Pynchon

“Sunrise was on the way, the bars were just closed or closing, out in front of Wavos everybody was either at the tables along the sidewalk, sleeping with their heads on Health Waffles or in bowls of vegetarian chili, or being sick in the street, causing small-motorcycle traffic to skid in the vomit and so forth. It was late winter in Gordita, though for sure not the usual weather. You heard people muttering to the effect that last summer the beach didn’t have summer till August, and now there probably wouldn’t be any winter till spring. Santa Anas had been blowing all the smog out of downtown L.A., funneling between the Hollywood and Puente Hills on westward through Gordita Beach and out to sea, and this had been going on for what seemed like weeks now. Offshore winds had been too strong to be doing the surf much good, but surfers found themselves getting up early anyway to watch the dawn weirdness, which seemed like a visible counterpart to the feeling in everybody’s skin of desert winds and heat and relentlessness, with the exhaust from millions of motor vehicles mixing with microfine Mojave sand to refract the light toward the bloody end of the spectrum, everything dim, lurid and biblical, sailor-take-warning skies. The state liquor stamps over the tops of tequila bottles in the stores were coming unstuck, is how dry the air was. Liquor-store owners could be filling those bottles with anything anymore. Jets were taking off the wrong way from the airport, the engine sounds were not passing across the sky where they should have, so everybody’s dreams got disarranged, when people could get to sleep at all. In the little apartment complexes the wind entered narrowing to whistle through the stairwells and ramps and catwalks, and the leaves of the palm trees outside rattled together with a liquid sound, so that from inside, in the darkened rooms, in louvered light, it sounded like a rainstorm, the wind raging in the concrete geometry, the palms beating together like the rush of a tropical downpour, enough to get you to open the door and look outside, and of course there’d only be the same hot cloudless depth of day, no rain in sight.”

Thomas Pynchon, from Inherent Vice

“The shore toward Popoyo”

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The shore toward Popoyo

The shore toward Popoyo nor unassuming nor curated nor charming its body absolute nor fickle nor bending nor concerned its character weathered nor portrayable nor vapid nor given to scale the severe meseta nor dead its cheekbone nor clamoring nor a field of ideas

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the details unremarkable 
but important everything visual
mostly but alkali when you kiss 
it isn’t her mouth you taste but your
listing now gently breath bowing out
there on the sea lost in labor

what sense what’s lost and begs no leaving  
but for it time gales and there on the sea
floor full of tidal sludge — green, gray
hammering out — a stony pitch:

details unremarkable
nothing visual, nothing reckoned
but halved and accounted.