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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

from Novel Pictorial Noise
COMES a nightlight's landing beacon leads me to pick villainy from a bouquet of the places I'd left to yesterday's map of the future, rubbernecking unintentionally oblique articulation. Loosen a rivet from the lapsed mind and out pours the obvious like thick rain. A sterile neighborhood, a standing ovation, centuries of labor congealing into the desk lamp that lets me mold my own two cents from this paperclip panopticon. I'm not pushing anything here. Power's got a fulcrum that's half self-portrait, part handicraft. The lever will pivot regardless of where it's placed down. It's the primacy of motion drafts sound.

STRIKING AN OCULAR NOTE to flush out the lazy assumptions lodged within one's skull won't offer comment on some recurrent aspect of life, as the world's not weirder than we think, but weirder than we can think. For example, a yellow moth appears to pass through a blue tire in the painting above my understanding of geometry. The question arises: is this a picture of the distance between yellow and blue, or is it merely a means to ground the figures, a maxim bled of its proverbial exigencies, such that the only relevant plane remaining is constituted entirely by the hue of the grass—the ground over which anyone wishing to approach must pass.

SOMEWHERE, a garage door goes down. Thus, a fiction begins. Clouds gather, disperse. Let this suffice as a working formula for working a formula: what I'm coming to terms with—repetition's liberating constraint. What occurs in the courtly world has little currency to those taking up arms against it. What I'm coming to terms with builds that which contains the components to construct an evolving sense of entropy. The grand narrative the end of narratives had had had had no grandiose ending.  It is as though in removing its mask the landscape shows on its face an expression one recognizes but is unable to immediately place.

ALREADY the metaphors seem stale, having stalled in their attempt to carry us over, attention drawn to axle instead of wheel, hinge instead of door, to the slope of an animal's vertebrae over the phylum under which it's calcified, cracked into place, in essence, a privileging of anonymity, of unlikeness as a focal point, as though a bridge were to appear suddenly before us, crossing neither treacherous body of water nor maze of roadway, simply offering one another way of going on, an obligatory amazement with the plentitude of defenses guarding all of our senses.