The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

Today. Nothing.
That webpage bought from under me. Space of no return. A granular space.
Someone has my name. My name points to someone else.
I stare and look beyond looking. What I see among the infinite is
elsewhere, before or after.
That name will haunt me. Change beginning with identity loss elsewhere.
My identity oozes out. My identity seeps.
If I am bound to my name, I am bound to nothing.
It is the name that scars, that wounds, blinds.
I know you, but I can't remember your name.
I remember your name, who are you.

Poetics has no name. Language corrodes, sounds absorb.
We want the presence of the sound. We want the language to go away.
That and the sharpness of steel, wood, or dull explosive force.
That force when air violates air. When everything is shoved or shoved
aside. What will remain is this nameless poetics. You are looking
into space. You are swallowing space.
Beyond the infinite, nothing is formed. After the infinite, nothing
as well.
Poetics is the silence of the wound, the scar.
Invisible poetics.
The blind.

If you search for me, asondheim, you will not find me.
If you search for alansondheim, a substitute. I will grow clothes.
I will grow something on this earth, this face, this wound.
Or I will be grown.

(Somewhat for Brian Massumi)

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.