1. Untitled, 2. Grace, 3. dead kennedys, 4. Insomnia
Hair, ear, forehead, eyebrow. Up to my hips in September, ankles numb, feet pebble battered. Sun rises out of the salty soup and sinks at the end of the arc behind shadow black trees. Each arc shorter than the last and incrementally colder, soundtrack muted horns and cymbals kissed by brushes. Small finger, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, thumb.
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What you have done with these words and sounds is very moving to me. You’ve got a wonderful ability to take these things and make them art.
Each arc shorter than the last. . .so poignant. Especially after the totally physical “up to my hips in September” — how it gets colder, the way the horns are muted, and all the different shades of blue in the tiles. . .every single one of those blues
has been touched by frost. Brilliantly beautiful.