Julian Schnabel, “Anh in a Spanish Landscape”, 1988. Source: thebroad.org
an authentic corruption
There is a corruption as old as being. We can see it in all things. Say, in language: each word a holed ship leaking meaning as it goes down. And in vision: between picturing and the picture a missing link continually dilating until it swallows both. There is an authentic corruption.
In fractal geometry we are able to measure. This is the miracle. Also, the impossibility of measuring. This is the catastrophe.
The great erasure which is happening now in the world is the work of souvenir collectors. The souvenir being the most valuable thing there is. It is the hardest currency. And the collectors think: it must not be left to the masses.
we are living the greatest loss
in history
a common loss
a common loss of memory
farahfaza for light hearts
I do not write in the day what I write in the night
because I am like the owl, I have
a slow wing clap and eyes
open to the blight.
Out of the caravan of things forgotten, the friend
shining,
his being
cleansed of lead.
He looks about himself.
The storms, my friend, the fire
is everywhere,
the dogs themselves they follow where we tread
and perhaps the time is right now to confess:
Returning from the company of the watchmen,
all alone, with heart light, heart of flame,
with a reed pipe that pours into my soul,
I am yearning for a gun.
You damned guard, you
who are broken now and forever,
are you content
with the earth
as it is
with games
and a handful of papers
and the nomad life that like the palm
protects the candle from the wind
that dresses me in sadness
that poured out milk into my skin
full of booze?
Me wake?
Why would I wake?
They will in any case collect us in the square
and with a single shell made from the bones of the poor
will blow our dreams to pieces.
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