FANZINE

This sentence is mercurial. The point you see at the end is the finest tip of a flame. And now Walden is on fire. And now Walden is all wet with moss growing on it. And the roots of a narrative bloom and curl under what Walden is. Where there is stitch there is also under stitch. We ask how do I mark how this sings? This blank note in the throat which resonates. Phantasmagoria. The uvula. All uvula.

The animal that is my sex is not a novel. This is a novel. This is a rhizomatic membrane. I am faltering here. In the white snow of the white page. Yesterday I watched a Tarkovsky film in Russian. The translation was “look how peculiar the sky. The sky.” I meandered back inside the doorway just as it began to pour. All of the grain in the field writhing. I struck the yellow leaves with my fist.  I struck the grey sky and the mud beneath my feet. I don’t know what being human means. Is it to have eyes? Here is the ground, the field. The air around me a room. A room that pulses and heaves. The light is clear. The light is not yellow. My breath is not yellow or clear. The words are leaves upon my breath. The turning of the seasons fall off of my mouth. My mouth lingers. The sun sets. Some animal burrows its dark fur inside this sentence.