Dear Vase Already Shattered Against the Fragile Floor:


How is your apology coming along? I had dozed-off, exhausted for a second by the external pattern of shimmering despair. The visual experience prevailed over the address itself, and the coincidence softly bumped into the yellow house of its stuttered occasion.


I have hoped that, by now, you would have heard the Roshi’s gentle answer, that you would have snapped out of your glazed and labored distraction. Why not own up to this intricate yet poor-quality fuse you have fashioned?


It is pointless to describe again the cause of the Japanese notebooks blotted with embellishment, as if you could direct yourself through clouds of remote memory in an undirected way. Fabrication is never peaceful by precept alone. Guided by those red carbon telephones of becoming, you turned from conscious actor to harbored visitor, from pretentious poet to convalescent samurai. Even startled-up into action, your body can take hours to taxi the freshness of the golden lecture across the tatami mats of your silent mind.


In the end, you know where you are going—a special place for impromptu screaming and erotic meditation. Request that the driver take you to the site of the original crash, where the monks installed a huge chamber-pot made out of Pachinko balls and various pieces of the perfectly eccentric sun.


Affectionately,

Some of the material in “Disorientations” was previously published in ARMED CELLARCADE: Literature, the Humanities, & the Worldpast simple; and Supplement, edited by Orchid Tierney and Ariel Resnikoff (The Center for Programs in Contemporary Writing/Materialist Press, 2016). 

 

The image is the authors collage: a photo copied from Barthes Empire of Signs (of the actor Funaki Kazuo) with a fragment of an apocryphal drawing (supposedly of Yasusada) pasted on top of it.

>>

<<