memorial


residue

"All you really have in the end, ... are your stories."

- Burt Reynolds, playing an older spy, on Burn Notice.

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for Kathe Kollwitz

 

memorial for my father, day four*

sleep lock leave

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the house locking out, locking up,
memorials leave imprints like fossils.
1.shadows of the bed where i slept in my childhood,
2.shadow of the table at the corner of the bed:
the green table where i kept a photograph
of a hydrogen explosion,
of one of the eisenhowers,
of a united nations diplomat.

leaving, last words spoken.
i could walk this house with my eyes closed.
what's left is the phenomenology of space
and its corners eaten by mold.
untoward cocoons ravage the phenomenology.

mold corrals health, circumscribes breath.

 

memorial for my father, third day


the emptied house which is never empty
the scars sleeping for decades,
of literacy and legibility, i read
everything into signs, signs swallowed
signs, and

everything contained, was contained
mold and seepage made breathing difficult
the house lay in low iambic

the house flexed with flood and mining
with repairs curled round itself,
and so emptied, this annihilation will
never return, hurtful sensibilities
of fossils where sleeping and crawling down,
stairs returning and inscribing motion
which would be the telling of it, the framing,
some might say the last of it, some might say
framing unlasts

 


memorial for my father, second day

true to the image or true to the intention
images have no intention, true to the image
true to the mood of the image, has no mood
nor true to the mood of the intention,
nor intention of the mood, nor truth to the image
which is formed by mood and intention,
no intention of intention, and no framing,
but framing of intention and mood, no framing
of the image, but the image's framing, breaking
the mood, intention

every image is memorial of itself,
memorial of every image, and a god
might say, so much sight, so much sight

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