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Snow Fountain

To last image remembered,
to be each other, as possible form,
each other undone like a season,
in possession of this tubular milk,
sleet in summer, all of a sudden, we
flock of starlings losing themselves,
capturing the fall, droplet, particulars
in the rapids, the stone gray silence
set in black violet, heavens privacy
everyone watches, our star wants
and wants again, our star disappears
into the big death repertoire, borders
of the world are pure imagination,
a prosaic science on the infinite arc
faith pours, immortal water to, made
known to eye, sweet bird of youth,
this moment erupts, chokes, drips
like inspiration air leaves, there
poised in ventilation, looking back
over letters next to each other,
spectacle of birth, gift of subject, 
waxing gibbous at noon, between
gold curtains, room full of purpose,
sky breaks, gasping in the split
everything earned then lost, as if
tuned right to balance whatever
will emerge without touch, a miracle,
an aerie above field, a crown of rain,
simple daylight, under length, turning
remnant, further into gaping source,
gift perceived, extremities to breach
upon launch, metropolis, earthskin
into sun company, lights off the
backhanded sweetness in corners,
scraped harmonies, lights on the
closeness, made from nothing
to prise, it insists, in our hands,
brood of all fear bottomless long
enough toward visual noise,
pushed silent movement easing
function, that forgetting to orient
the dark red absence beneath the
eyelids held shut, for seconds
then witness it breaking open,
or pull apart or fail specifics
in the edit between the neon.









Sometimes you think things are lost

Sometimes you think things are lost, and they are not, like the Japanese convertible, with a song on the radio. You can name the song. At the mention of its title you remember the smallest thing. Phoneutria startled by a sudden gust of wind. It is hard to be yourself, when the many subjects that build your skin fall apart under scrutiny. You stare off. If nature did it, or, you recall it raining, and the wafting smell of sky water softening the surface of a newly poured asphalt road. This disappears. The shirtless decorations of inexperience in past and future fill you. It is a cautious table. You should try to tell you this from the shadow of compromise, without rigor, talismans, or legal document. We could then be face full into a heaping plate of you to end, or, start with, before blaming lack of reference. You need an image, so you tell yourself. Without an image you will disappear, be lost, caught, on a whim circling, as if you never have before. What is it again, the ticket, the love life, the stellar novel, that you are beautiful, I can’t remember.










Christopher Stackhouse

Christopher Stackhouse is a Writing Faculty at Bloomfield College, Center for Technology+Creativity, MFA Program. He continues to work as a wine consultant while also writing about art and culture. His published books and essays include Plural (Counterpath Press), co-author with John Keene of Seismosis (1913 Press), contributor to Basquiat: The Unknown Notebooks (Skira Rizzoli). He is currently completing a monograph of the work of painter Stanley Whitney for the publisher Lund Humphries.


The Brooklyn Rail

MAR 2015

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