Skip Fox
Whatever Thing Death Be

pillow of desiccated flies as an emblem of silence, echo-
less echoes of shadows tangled in shades gone down long
halls of dreamerless dreams, tireless, streets and visions
in a language of clouds, lost beyond founding?, or mind's
certain peace wherein the walls of all its senses fall back
and away, waking from fevered dreams, clear and weak,
stinking, but a shower and breakfast will begin to fix all
that, life stripped of itself like the past and morning so
sweet it could crack your nut? the shifting grammars of
oblivion, or mind's peace?, a mass of vowels, liturgy of
wordless worlds floating in sky's lost grammar, syntax as
slippage 'til friction itself, much less purchase, directive,
resolve, is figment of the imagination, all things passing
thru all things?, what of its manner that might be known?

Blood in Black and White

5:53 a.m with weather en francais (Channel 3) says
it's going to rain through the end of the week, five
days ringing the changes, wind in the rigging, my
operation always "incomplete," I walk away stunned,
amazed, while slashing the upper scenes, the movie runs,
masts in dismay. En francais, indeed. Fucking in a foreign
language for instance. I just want to see you again, says the blind
man. Plunging into horror of water falling. Days lost, nights beyond
intent. Arguments raking the sides of dolphins with toy-sized
spurs, yet sharp as ferrets' teeth. You can barely see them beneath
the many-sided darkness stuccoed with wraith light, rising
and falling from sight amid gusts as a ghastly strobe marks
their passing back into the storm-tosst seas as you approach, a lens,
thoughtless, yet pregnant with attention, a bell with fruit, you can
almost make out fine lines of blood that appear to be pulsing
from the multiple and intricate serrations along their sides, lightly
glazing their torsos until they plunge back into wave and foam,
disappearing all over again. An old movie, a scene from a recurrent
dream, or living the cinematic trope for an ancient and un-
considered insistence upon what does not exist in the face
of the booming rush of each day, hour. Blood becomes
us, the sea on which we bob, our season's flood, strands
of water falling from eave to trough beneath, ringing
with proto-syllables, plunging deeper each day.