“Villa Göth Interiör, övervåning”; September 22, 1952; Sune Sundahl
Half-listening is a skill
Half-listening is a cathedral
Half-listening is a virtue
Half-listening is a viscoelastic
Half-listening is a delight
Half-listening is a 15x
scale model of a tumid vulva
weighing in at 6,000 lbs.
Half-listening is a suffering
Half-listening is a dire
Half-listening is a patience
Half-listening is a burnt
Half-listening is a craft
Half-listening is a cathedral
“as the skull disengages / as as would comes out capital // volubly, an ambush of human devotion” Myung Mi Kim
falling off his cell he astounds six-lines ago his family his family his life his mind once in awhile his dog in touch with his wobbles this imagined audience of men he does not mine the black to while thoughts away of himself stocking the cell once is enough inside his mouth god like blood white astounding still falling for every shade from the audience god instructed to talk to bacteriophage in these last seconds he tells you towered torch with useful mines touch inside creation screen white god write one word for creation six-line family his family his mind the way snow desires its own melting and has it
3. Lot of dreams tonight. I curse myself for not waking to sketch them along the way. But last among them:
On the streets of NYC, with Andrew as sort of assistant, photographing the street. Lots of people. Smiles but also secret shooting of the homeless and glamorous at perfect unobserved rest. Anyway, at some vague point we encounter a group of 8 to 10 girls aged 16 to 22 (I intuitively know/guess) and they start to follow us. Flirting at the same time annoying and gadflying. We welcome the attention, the company, the shared energy, but they are a distraction, clogging the sidewalk as we try to navigate through without too much negative juju coming our psychic way.
Andy and I stop at some point to deal with an equipment issue and the sirens swarm, smoking, making my lens change more difficult than it needs to be. One of them, a young brunette all soft lines, most devious bodied, the youngest, most supple bodied, stands in front of me. Me, two feet from her burning Camel Light. The sweet smoke passing between us without burning my eyes. She won’t stop talking; so much more than talking: sexualizing forth, weaponizing, poking me with her untouchable womaness. Clouds me. And I’m trying to change that god damned lens, not let any of her smoke into the camera body. Fuddling with lens caps.
An ash, like a perfect snowflake (it had been snowing now IRL for two days), falls from her cigarette to her dimpled chin and, as if that ash were a universally understood cue, I kiss her lips with such quick aggression that she takes a step back. Unbalanced/shocked. Gives me a moment of much-needed distance.
The hip girls all snicker and chat, one says something to no one: “Oh my god, she’s only 15.” But no harm done. I lock in the wide angle lens and we all move on.