Friday, March 17, 2017

stripes on a trinitron

The secret life of a lexicographer.

Gray, sultry morning. As if about to rain: gusty, but not in our location, it is told. Anticipation, with cars rushing, to do things until no doing again. That light, half lost, but carrying sounds of what is on its way. And all our asking will not hold it back. This light blossoming into storm.


"Until sympoiesis with the dead could be acknowledged, sympoiesis with the living was radically incomplete." --Donna Haraway, Staying with the Trouble (2015)



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