By Alice Notley
I'm calling out from pictures to your vision creating it
turn right, that dream building cutglass window in door.
Automatically inside their apartment, you don't have
to get there. This is before the lost sacred corpus vision,
someone says Look at my author photo. I
don't really want to I'm turning to defiant metal
not a dream part, can you see it where the movement of
images turns back towards me I want a
different, how I'm portrayed because you can't
see me, visage. Look at me please. The soul is so thick
larger than the portrait what you'd call madonnaesque,
and then there was more hoax a view as I am
the rose here. And you never wanted to be that, did I?
I was waiting to see what I would be. Blackness
eats you but your soul eats it without your knowing that
figure, because it is causing your appearance to the world.
They arrange me in clothes of Easter, or of
the first day of classes, but I'm projecting pigment
cracked gold on fire, thinking braver thoughts.
It takes courage to get to the ancient altar
of the moment where I create individual time.
The picture body untremblingly stares large-eyed
I also create the tablets of exponential seeing: it brightens
all around it, as I'm the apparatus of what there is to be;
and I am making it, my time visibly becoming me.
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I'm not in a happy place so I'm going to keep this short. We got a new toilet in the kids' bathroom installed in the morning; they've needed a new one for a while, but it started leaking the night before last, which was clearly a sign that it was time. Paul worked from home so we could discuss the water heater and kitchen faucet too. Adam was taking the delayed English AP exam (the school screwed up on administering it the day the rest of the country took it); Daniel went out to lunch with my father. Tomorrow Adam is going to a funeral instead of his morning classes.
I also had the great joy of folding Daniel's college laundry. Our cable has been flaky all afternoon and evening -- whether this is because of the storms that are on the way or because Comcast sucks, I can't say -- so the Nashville season finale cut out at several points, including the final seconds when I hear that Something Big Happened but I didn't actually witness it. It was a very soapy episode, but I am sure I will be watching next season for Connie Britton and the music if nothing else. Here are photos from the Morris Arboretum in Philadelphia, which had David Rogers' Big Bugs on display when we visited last month:
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