“Half-listening is a skill”

“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 
    brutalist skull 

Half-listening is a patience
Half-listening is a burnt 
    altar, unattended

Half-listening is a craft
Half-listening is a cathedral 

Wikipedia Poem, No. 405

“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


Source: Myung Mi Kim from "Civil Bound", which appears in Best American Experimental Writing 2016.

Notes from a dream, 1215-172013

(over my shoulder/from a dream)

1. “Ashuver Sixlio”

2. “As I failed to shoot the dog”

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.