The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

April 15, 2014

empty space shooting blanks

the blankness of white or silver, pregnant with possibility.
But there is no possibility without boundary!
there are no boundaries, i'm feeling sick, nauseous.
There's nowhere to stand, nothing to do, nothing to see!
at sea there are meaningless clouds and idiotic waters.
Nothing to hang onto, I'm drowning in tepid waters!
an edge would have amounted to something, or a corner.
No corners, floors, ceilings, balloons, chairs!
the blankness is the insufferability of warm spoiled milk.
There's nothing to drink, bellies are swollen and bursting!
solace is the memory of the signifier, truth is its erasure.
I remember some letters, wait, there must be more!
the clouds are like stones, waters like mountains.
Just a minute, I'll sit! I'll think this through! Survive!

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