The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


Julu: I'm trying to tell you something, my gums
bleed, corrode, just like any others, in this stillness air,
in this absent air.
Nikuko: Wind blowing through you, around you, we
wait for those moments when sound will penetrate
bodies, resonate with dim and elder woods,
make noise and even music, among us, to our delight.
Julu: In these dark woods, lights are pasted
across our sheave-skin bodies, blinding us;
through pure absence, nothing happens, codes are processed,
roil within the distant machines, at times no further
than the kindly things at home.
Nikuko: Speculating beyond your means, but yet my powers
have grown into astonishing beliefs. I can move things
I no longer can caress; the real flees from me, I am left
distraught, along in spaces emptied of abstract surfaces.
Julu: At a distance, we touch, and no longer no closer;
our loneliness lies in our uselessness for approach, caress,
and love. We meld into each other sometimes bridged across
these spaces, leaving trails and vestiges of garnered
presence - notes across chasms, worlds tuned across voids
where we, alien and aligned, despair of ever talking.
Nikuko: Yet born of one another, borne among each other,
our love continues to build, tune and emulate, and emulate
again, until nothing of original remains, only physics
born of inconceivable signs 'raised to an incandescent power.'
Julu: What is cleared, of space and time, is always replete;
what is replete is always alone; our things are never
in-themselves, but among-others; our monads slur their
boundaries helplessly, we are at the mercy of things and gods,
machines far beyond control.
Nikuko: Our love is always memory, that is our love.
Julu: Our flights, our poise, our wandering ways.
Nikuko: Prayerful life is useless, only our deaths entwined
will save us. - tuning jpgs

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