Saturday, August 15, 2009

Thirteen Point Three Three

A cunning policy, the sunrise
announcing new and same with light,
its body east, shot as it was stalled
late west and, to broiling score, identifiably.
We knew there had come a night and gone.
We knew Cujo was under the engine,
as ever, as three into ten goes three, fucked
by dog on chance of sound in shade,
by sun on car far, God, from help.
All the while in the world,
empathy subsists on estimation.

Having, during any second, human
disbelief in perseverance to outrun,
thirteen and a third shots, stills as it were,
are needed to make what isn’t real. Or more, per.
The museum of the moving image is dark.
The medium is dark, dark as a decimal.

Numbers on residential Queens facades
rise or fall by twos indefatigably.
It scares me from the museum how far I go walking.

How do we go in the dark?
We come home, commonly. If we can’t cover it
with retained image more rapidly than
a thousand times a minute, the flick discovers us.

The movie says A you A1 you A2 you A3.
Host and hostage stir. We wish, to see.

Take away interruption and continuity
has no brink. Icemen dazzle as sons date.
Let’s go over interruption once more.

Continuity, but a policy through the boroughs
(how many stops between time and time2?)
is insistence there be a train, like Cornell’s el,
by bridge hoists and windows breaking light,
idling into the shock, yours, of a silhouette repairing.

The medium has one, me,
two, not minding going for it.

The car door cracks before it opens wide. It wavers,
catching dementia’s attention,
like a needle at the bottom of a pool.
Any dream we have is a far film come to this.
The eye, for a lapse a hilt of sword,
scan as anon what looms.

-Brian Blanchfield