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relegated to the wasteland of doxa, we are locked in dialogue
O, intractable Other, endowed with such fantasies!
Entity gliding alone/along the purely senseless stratum!
At the center of image cleft from eye, there is that alien kernel of beyond-wordness,
when, reduced to its minimal features, yields a leftover; the voice—ultimate matrix of
Q: Why is voice the outcome and what is found in the remainder?
A: Woman/dollbaby spectre/junction of elation & folly instrument
jeune fille(t) gamine as in game as in hunt as in whoso list to bloodrush
Q: O, woman, ruinous voice! What is an antidote to voice?
[the hitherto most consistent]
A: [the melodrama knows the pattern all too well] Decay
woman’s body is always open for discussion because it is always open
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Dossier: A Syntax for Temporal Passage
We bent to drink from the fountain of the haute phoneme pastoral, but it was dry.
I miss this landscape, the dead empty.
Please do not think me an occupied new-time extravagance.
Yet anything can be colonized, even pleasure. Pleasure, this archival city.
Such are the principles of The Designer: a new origin myth that correlates fully with
goodness and a hand outstretched into the Real.
Nothing about currently popular approaches to edge or arc or surface of a word have
been shown to be either necessary or inevitable.
The claims represented by such data sets lead us to
traces of the otherwise, unintended for handling
but before I discuss them, know that they are mere autopsies,
moments continually redividing themselves.
To assign adjective means to add to, to furnish with extras.
To furnish something means that to begin with, it was a lack.
Decay begins obliquely and often occurs in tandem with utterance.
Even that is a gilded assessment.
So we’ve come to the postverbal.
To exosk(elle), the last sugar.
to shhhhh shhhhhhhh shhhh shhhhh ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
all the whitewhite of hum
the blackbox recording is rife with error
against the rocks, dashed & anorexic
wolves are circling your softburnt neverminds
just come to some long-kindled realizations:
all that ivybrained mondo,
smoking thing by the wayside, left
your history has a scent
your history is small museums of lovers
doing their very best celestial fade
you are your own good graces
Carleen Tibbetts is the author of the e-chapbook a starving music will come to eat the body, (FiveQuarterly, 2014). Her work has appeared in Coconut, H_NGM_N, Sink, Jellyfish, inter|rupture, Dusie, Ilk, The Laurel Review, Powder Keg, Forklift OH, and elsewhere. She also writes for American Microreviews and Interviews.