Floats Horse-floats or Horse-flows
“Floats Horse-floats or Horse-flows” is based on the notion of “alexia,” word-blindness, but not arising as a nervous disorder, unknown words create a future.
Chapter 1, Becomes Floats
The green speechless and languageless fractionators and whirlabout but which appear transported not stationary anywhere are. Yet shimmying sieves vast on cobalt they roil audibly driven only—but uncontrolled where the cobalt is uncontrolled also but quiet. But the cobalt is their condition? Precluding blowholes without ground they are divided from action yet a dag is walking on the road alone. How can he be charming if he’s alone, he is still charming. Yet is future. A hastate is completely silent whereas the huge whirlabout has feathery entrails emerging from their bending poles daggling the cobalt by a leaping speechless hartebeest who is small by comparison. Though there can’t—one thinks—be comparisons because the dag doesn’t make any, doesn’t think of it, in not either seeing the hartebeest or hearing it? Guess. A hartel is occurring. Yes. The closing of the shops but the dag doesn’t work in the shops or anywhere, and since the workers there don’t come to work, the hartebeest wandering, the vast shimmying fractionation is heard from the cobalt. Four (acting as a verb, four shops aren’t passive resistance) I’m surprised. The people’s action is passive resistance having closed the shops. The green fractionate antimatter, the shadow stretched (outside is transient) not one and not passive or resistance then. Arms out the stretched flat tummies hit the water of swimming pools. Having closed the shops, yet they are without work at the same time. They halve the water everywhere at once. They have either and the fractionators grind the delicate cobalt future once. How can it (what) be the same as sound? They only remember the sound of the dew approaching almost at dawn, in that the dew is not there now. Before the two conceiving birds singing by the two bound people who’re also conceiving and speaking, paired in the condition of the quiet cobalt attacked by blasting motion, they’re hearing it.
Beside deduction the black guiltless cattle are like dogs in someone’s description, the uselessness of speaking, the same person says suddenly recognizing the one-box-fits-all words he’s used that act making even plants indistinguishable from people. The doctors could burst out start off in garveys on the waves. They hope. At night the doctors go on house calls and being targeted they’re being assassinated, many fleeing decimating, assassinated because they treat the people the assassination of the entire people is intended by “insurgents oar resistance” who are not centrally directed? The ‘insurgents’ oar’ is grinding the quiet cobalt. Asleep the dag appears walking a dog in the future it’s on a leash but very large, it’s from the herd of cattle and is bawling incipit walking with the dag because it is guiltless light its feet hardly touching. Seen. The cars fractionate or some decorticate a single blind area. The road is filled with apparent dogs bawling incipit in waves above the ground then. A worker in the shop district where there’s still grass is speaking to plants calling them Betty as he waters each one where the dag passes. It happens this was the single name given to the cattle who bark at night so they could be quieted by someone calling once. Betty. I hear rain. See. Inceptor, the dag has entered a single day on the basis of one incompliant silent word not named, not known by the dag subjectively, though it is only the dag’s basis, since there is no basis except inclinatory—so, T wakes and says Why is it raining? He addresses the air. Colorless cars waving, they’re impinging Rrr fractionators of the rain which only falls and waves distinguished from hearing dew a teal garganey flying. As sound travels clearer in rain the car motors incoherent dust there, is no dust anywhere in rain here, the wave lacking unity or harmony is. Caaah caaah. Above is the rain, it is waving on the street then the cattle halving the rain everywhere they puncture walls of the neighborhood. They are apart. Bawling since (oar after) the dag is silent. Calm, apparently mad (angry) at one (“the vast black cattle”), the two beings indistinguishable are there also. After the mother died. A corpse lightly grinds the motionless cobalt-fractionator of a deaf spot. One is heard thinking passing that day the dag who’s watering the cattle, now dogged, the water pouring from them. Above them the cobalt still motionless as (acting as a verb) their own fractionation (thinking), (of the cobalt oar grinding the quiet).
The powder monkey popping the air of the edge of forest’s flocculation but in his speed on the horse ship the forest-edge almost an osculation of him leaving it closes in its quiet. The bow of the horse as its ship’s poop in the wave is not even in the forest’s flocculation, where the cycle of the horse’s knees churn, the powder monkey boy is still, high on the galloping horse. Red chrysanthemum not having a realistic sense of time or mortality usurps it of others wasting them. With her gloating fanfaronade petals in the jelly-bulk open as if fan palms in water of day or night. Where her oculus is glaucoma apparently petals are oscillations on her issuing sides that are no sighted appearing to be receptors but which only emanate, either swelling or rage. The deep brown gentle horse’s eye, also in water of day or night, appears oculus on either side of its face on powdery muzzle but only because its single eye is quiet receptor of the pool-forests not on forest’s edge. A quiet ocelot emerges. So the pig jelly-bulk woman whips the object of anyone with her rage overlooks the act, then of the coursing horse. The powder monkey being popped by her may be floating blissfully but still can’t exist outside her rage. That is, simultaneously powder monkey boy separate high on the powdery muzzle of horse’s churning knees, a frontal row, yet insofar as the action of the chrysanthemum dementia boiled in rage exists at all, he’s within it too, terrain being proglottis silent throughout (yet then it would only be past, whereas up close it’s combustion only including her rage but blighted, still—when still). You mean get away from the chrysanthemum’s hammering cycle attached to proglottis pool not even her, her face floating in the air with her mouth? Their wallowing in the hammering (of the chrysanthemum) is the cycle on whose wave the powder monkey is seen ahead of the forests. Though the boy isn’t on their wave, the eye, oscillation, and glucose glaucomatous, is. Forest is glucose, it is bluish-green and whitish bloom. Even if the soldiers bring in prisoners, their captains say Don’t bring in any, just kill them, while on the prows of the Humvees naked corpses were strapped as if they were deer beings ridden through the populated streets with the increasing dead, one soldier says. He’d brought in a prisoner. Though he doesn’t say if he’d killed him then. Supposing he let him go like a tadpole. Released into the glucose forest of Euphrates River choked with corpses the tadpole becomes choked with corpses in an instance that is in the osmium clay water of a day later. This could be anything, flapping, depopulating the centers being oscillations which blinded now were no sighted already. Oscillation is site, thus silent. Allowed to be ridden. The corpses are to eat the tadpoles. And coming to the surface one day the tadpole enters the river of day, people walking on the street, as a man. Where the powder monkey high on the horse that thrashing in the helicopter blades then courses through them is carrying the message to Garcia.
With his own eyes a powder monkey (the boy) is walking in the gladiolus pop also without touching him. In that the Comanche is far overhead, the powder monkey’s action is hollow because retroactive but not muffled oar (his hearing) recessed, comprehending only by enclosing the whole present. The peppering has transformed in wounds simultaneously causing thick wound-cords of rain yet also sense of squeezed eyes crying heavily, in that invisible day clear is seen everywhere, so the felt eyes are only visualized from inside the edges pressed by the heavy sound without existing otherwise. The felt (moth) eyes attach to cattle after hearing crying, maybe theirs at once (“the vast black cattle”). Or that of a person pressed to a mirror sky then it has only the Comanche. Low tones still the boxes. A can the Comanche peppering without touching the peppering sound then reaching red powder puffs, formerly roses, that have burst in gullies already, pops heard from the nine-foot horns the air being filled with the Comanche, carry out one returning wave? That’s said (“one”), only to be stationary—_in order_. To be imagined in order: When Violet believes everything she says as soon as she says it whenever, her expressions are not synesthesia. Hers slipping a cog infinitely is are at once inner deliberation. Whatever ninny producing them (that’s optimistic). Whereas the powder monkey hears his own contractions, tongue-in-cheek speaking slurs carries out defacto synaeresis, maybe coughing or sarcasm. The hearer can’t tell. Puckered speaking, the boy is cognate with the machine—rather, as synastry the machine is cognate with the boy: Comanche isn’t a winking cogwheel in baby blue or black, fast ointment, ‘merely’ flies there as the boy walks, neither the flyers in it nor the plane, a shell, dual joints of future. Thinking there is single cogwheel yet in multiples here and there that being one joint ‘there’ or two far away produce time and also the actions in it, killing and missing both produced by speaking after (‘here’), oar before. The field is missing, green shattered later dreamed. Though we’d thrown dirt on her before leaving her. Speaking to no one, to himself as language hasn’t the same sounds in it, as even by being retroactive and at whatever volume of vellum animal skin speaking—he only speaks through his skin—the powder monkey is a circumfused physical tie, as walking, to the flying Comanche the ground cognate with its motor, the field motors as an oar moved by beside the boy—_d_ his dual synaxary—at (the) night continuing. A naked pink mole rat motors the same hours physically apparently tied to stars puling.
Chapter 4, Anti Fontcuberta
After the person is flattened (eliminated by some events), offed, they’re standing on the trees-shaken (trees’ shaking) road in a dim deep dusk-yellow sun that’s from behind, ripped out is as being dead except still afraid of death. One is skin, organs, but a thin skein. My flat, stretched shadow visible before me, was active yet unaffected by either me or the wind. Activity’s only the shadow existing on the dirt road. The road is the shaking silent trees’ aftermath separating, wind’s loud. The shadow isn’t decorticating it or the shaking silent trees’ aftermath decorticating the shadow. Only active (so not mirroring), my flat shadow is not even ‘pushed out’ from me and has no relation to me. Apparently mine, is, the shadow is a flat action that is neither me nor outside alone, where the shadow’s lively (though not alive), with or without the wind. Where there’s activity—‘their’ (person’s and shadow’s) acts are flattened there. ‘Outside.’ Felt bliss (as of the material, clothe called ‘felt’) in that activity, of this individual’s flat shadow with the wind and yellow field (shadow and these frontlit) having or being the only existing actions there, and her seeing it on the solitary road, every thing’s solitary. Any thing.
The flattened space of the five hundred corpses found in the thin light night plateau, skinned there, maintains itself. Mind or the outside, both there is a bliss—without affect, which is the appearance of emotional state and behavior; none (of oneself) existing there. Or anywhere.
A woman whorled in a black robe—so not at present a girl, the latter wouldn’t have any memories, but that wouldn’t be any less mechanical in that Grace doesn’t have memories either, or insofar as these occur appear always the same ones—her memories at first seeming infinite, future, now are contained and they appear mechanical. Supposing one uses alexia to see, the subjectile can be imposed by one person. Nothing derived from physical nervous disorder (nor is our quivering hamster’s? our president), rather imposed by the outside and the inside as one; in alexia one’s observations arise. Making a separation between thinking and being, M (another woman) cites in Grace, and maybe anyone, physical nervous disorder only, as if that were single, though everything is physical (M’s comment is a non sequitur) and any as ‘physical’ is disorder. At a present always, an action or being has no half life as observation—there can’t be time. The younger woman would say. Practically, however, ‘present’ or ‘continuous’ can’t be disorder, in that it resets itself to that level, spirals. So, even being still then is fractionation. When? The drones while cruising and killing citizens née insurgents/resistance ‘have’ sounds they halve the people running. Yet then M only says Their sounds of the drones are unrelated to their actions (in killing while cruising as both are separate also), killing and cruising. There’s no beginning. Death occurring was obviously unavoidable because the person’s dead, a shadow, M ‘has’ reasoned. Alexia, perception inlaid or imposed as common ground, is acts, those between say soldiers walking and those hearing. A subjectile isn’t there to one who is speaking. Anyone speaking being deaf then. In the present. The subjectile could be any words or any acting together. Such as the hartel where the workers hit their tummies on the swimming pool. Bud sticks, presenting the blooming dogwoods will cover the grass that is a swaying emerald green then under the cobalt fractionator motionless silent, where the killing is going on in its one wave.
Yet a few people walk there seeing elodea outside water. In the rain, appearing to be heard—in order to—the cattle synonymous with dogs are bawling. The cattle remaining. It is open at the base ruffling. In the city single doctors, targeted, are being shot in the streets taking others with them beside exploded car bombs. What the young doctor careening in flight, the car crashes into a pole does. He waits in the car for the assassin or assassinators but then he decides to get out of the car seeing the fragile shadow bobbing in front of him. That’s his skin. Then he limps across the night city, his skin sky. Unable to reach his patient. The night is so clear the city and him mirrored in the floating sewage. Earlier in the black, if there weren’t actual others right there, shadow is outside one separate yet existing only from one—animate in black while the source oneself is empty amidst the yellow field and forest that’s flowing. While he’d been seen outside driving. There’s a lash in my eye. His car was not making a shadow as he’d whirled it around corners hearing its screech, car’s disembodied screechings of brakes oar the tires in the slurred street. In floating sewage the young doctor thinks. Thinking crosses out his thought while he’s floating in the car. Wading plays the pools of sewage that’s the city, the sewage a harp lapping in the huge moon. In it, people are in narrow cracks. They aren’t fleeing in these lit bombed strands, further above teal garganeys coming in flying so they touch. Is silence a single day, that a random whole? Crossing the rungs that float blossoms on sewage, the dag enters that single day that lightly grinds the cobalt. Though then, when he’s there, it is the tundra dropping motionless. Baseless night, to be a cheetah with the present would be the intention? Not windows, cheetahs chute-the-chute during chrysanthemum dementia with the trembling mouth at night.
The cake of bullying had imbibed smarmy manner that seemed not so much to charm others, technical assistants, nurses, social workers, but to enforce her steely will laced as swine jelly with them, who may be innocent and kind or smarmy sourpusses too, both in an aspic of what’s expected by a ‘society’ apparently, though the Chrysanthemum never imagines anything outside. City, harp of sewage by those running in it or driving, horses at the same time, the cough of engines echoing on the rippling pool, is in the midst of the hartel so workers walk stagnant. This outside present is invisible to Violet Chrysanthemum, as a cheetah with the present. She makes no presentation except her facial moods. Words can just be substituted. Outside is ignorant in her, then hers is violent, her saying any cruel thing that comes into her mouth is stagnancy of a smile or chrysanthemum, any negative motives of hers being opened outward as others doing something. Sherri’s face is always winking with hatred screwed up in a ball uttering vicious, neglectful, and lazy remarks, they’re violent, a friend of Violet’s she’s always there to help bully. Without there being any alteration of the individuals or the circumstance of that time, nothing forgotten, the wound heals, it closes up. The lips disappear sucked from inside into that inside.
The Chrysanthemum’s change is a harp in the seemingly limitless range but rose circular petals of the chrysanthemum, not remembering what she’s said even as she’s speaking. But Petals replaces everything objects people silent with savaging. Mirrors for gold, they’re barely reflected in her rage oar not even reflected to her. Globate roses bob in the sea of rain on boughs. The rain hangs on women who out wearing folds that expanding are black velvet rain then. Neither forest or air are fractionation: The forest and long grass being silent, the fractionation, that isn’t the baby blue air either which quiet is later cobalt, is an oar in it. Same as the insurgents’ oar? Resistance. A factor of Violet née Chrysanthemum being sightless is her pretending sightless? The passersby can’t tell if she’s pretending, supposing they thought of it, and were asked. They’re mute. Because Violet’s mouth is a raging maw—unlike violet flowers that are glinting—similar to the Cheshire cat chewing. Sound apparently only floating mouth as autosuggestion. Her disembodied: then cleistogamous smile hovering in the air, seen: red chrysanthemum trembling (seen by the fleeing doctor’s ear as he swims in the filthy street), moves on over sewage or dewage, since these are the same translated in the process of alexia imposed onto people who may even be written / writing chatter-boxes reading at three—they begin choosing words—which they compare in the air, appearance and disappearance in sound.
Four hundred corpses once had run shot from racing jeeps in the silver beams at night. Exposed in the soft beams at night the black jeeps are the source of the silver air there. Either. Running small antelopes in the eye of the Tibetan patrolman who is tied—from the barreling jeep—he’s in the barreling jeep—the poachers then, after skinning the corpses in the silver light, shoot him tied. Zoom bucking on their black jeeps.
The police inspector even (Grace Abe), can’t arrest for killing—either—only for selling the skins—comes by train through the passes, the eye of the Tibetan patrolman who’s tied with the silver antelope running amidst (one eye) before the jeeps in it has ceased but is the silver soft beamed high plain only a tunnel at night—which comes to the bucking black jeep. Meets it in the black night finally first the night, not the bucking black jeeps rushing the plain. They go.
The two jeeps of the mountain patrol shooting on a white-patched Himalayan desert veer. Jettisoning themselves they come upon four or five hundred corpses in a pool of white Himalayan light beneath the black night or dusk. The snowy slopes and peaks rise above the corpses; where it’s later snowing, spine responding carried by a jeep’s crashing and veering on the rock-bed floor, there is no lid or limit on sensation. Pain is an invention we’re making as sensation is limitless and open, in blackness or pool of white light also.
The four or five hundred corpses on the floor of night desert are skinned, their rib cages illumined in the pool amidst feeding buzzards. Their limit (in dying) is also an invention, of sensation’s? Their acts are flattened then. The corpses are of Tibetan antelopes whose skins are taken in the tens of thousands yearly, killed for their fur by poachers.
They’re lives being slaughtered to extinction. The patrolmen are Tibetan banded without pay or livelihood to hunt the poachers. They are to prevent the killing but they come on fields of corpses and shoot on riding the jeeps to pursue the poachers.
A Tibetan patrolman is murdered by the gang of poachers who first tie him up and while he watches shoot the running night-antelopes from the sides of their veering jeeps, spotting them with beams, the men murmuring and grappling. The poachers skin the corpses cutting them open in the pool of white Himalayan light, then shoot the tied Tibetan patrolman as he’s in the arms of one poacher who at that instant is cutting the Tibetan patrolman’s ropes to let him go. The young poacher had assumed letting the patrolman go.
The blood-spattered face of the one poacher holding him looks at the others. Their limit (in dying) is also an invention, of sensation’s? Their acts are flattened then. Will be. Retrieved by his comrades, after the patrolman’s funeral, his corpse chopped and then being eaten by buzzards as his friends and family look at him. The Tibetan patrolmen start out on the high altitude—one then gets a lung embolism—Himalayan desert in the thin white light and dust. There is no outside law apparent. Except it is illegal to sell skins.
They have to make that. Law. As lives.
Though there is no other law, besides that applying to skins, the minor bureaucratic office of the police for outlying regions, that’s in the cities, sends the one inspector. She has no backup but can arrest for taking and selling skins though not for murder. The patrolmen cannot arrest. Coming by night train the still pale silver plains shining intersected sometimes by dark shapes, Grace sees a head and eyes go by the door frame of the train compartment. Another silver head and eyes half in the door frame goes by on the white plain that appears in the hall of the train, dark flat mirror except for the white thin pale night desert outside their metal shell.
Standing in a yellow field, Grace’d now filling a void had once the intention of voiding individual events as if making a hole by the events first each being a configuration and by her making or having a shape of these at once. Then, she spoke an event, and even silently to herself, the way it was spoken gave it a shape. Then her thinking any event (thinking with this intention, of the event as a shape). Ultimately one would then, she figured, (in voiding these as re-configurating them) have no memories; no memory, a state which would be ‘free’ by there being only future. Joy’d be in not being memory already defined. Immense future in space. Now, given the experience of death, that it’s happened being in attention, the intention to void every memory is altered by there not being future here. No future anywhere. Grace’s intention of voiding a memory at that earlier time was not simply to be removing a painful memory. Yet it did that sometimes, by making the memory be a shape which is a sound repeated so all the events are that same sound, which as such then is ‘punched out’ leaving a hole in the ‘history’ reality. All events were ‘punched out,’ including painful ones. No repression.
Nor the sublime, which is Fontcuberta’s intention. That’s not Grace’s. In hers the configuring of one’s mind-storms is only as one mind making configurations of whatever real events, shape as sound of these at once (in that time, of the events). She didn’t want the ‘sublime.’ Anyway Fontcuberta has a reverse (the reverse) definition or view as of ‘the’ ‘sublime.’ It makes one’s mind-shape as if that is the other side. (As if anyone’s mind-shape is the other side of the sublime.)
His is not viewing the equinox itself and where there are warm nights black liquid with no birds beside, the gelid frozen, thus double, yet glass days, their equal duration at once.
Rather, Fontcuberta, summarizing the information of a landscape by computer, using ideal models of landscape, such as Yosemite’s snowy peaks and meadows or a Turner painting—thus his chosen landscapes are with memory—makes the computer generate photographs that are “Orogenesis:” As the information of the original landscape, the photographs seem to be the origin of Yosemite or of Turner’s vision. The engine generates a landscape which is without a memory, the landscape never having existed before, since it is an abstract or an average of the original sight, yet as such appears to the viewer to be the origin or basis of the sight. His images are apparently the theory or place of the places or sights. As if the origin of the known by being its essential information can generate the sublime; yet as that is a summary, the information of the landscape is generalized. The viewer is the subject also. Though the second sight (the computer’s landscape) is the illusion of the origin, Fontcuberta’s images are boring as if the person were that, while the world and the person now are not. Yellow field that has wind roaring and blasting, though it only sometimes shakes slightly beside it is now.
Lyotard says the sublime is “privation and frustration of expression…The sublime is the gap between desire and experience.” The gap or summaries are ‘the only existing’ for us, he means? A critic summarizes Fontcuberta’s activity: “These photographic landscapes induce terror through their relentless, banal, undemanding repetition of pictorial clichés” construed by the critic to be “as if giving themselves up so easily to the demands of communal taste;” construed ‘as if’ that were our taste. Communal. Like military drones, there is supplanted behavior.
Anything has once been memory and can be placed beside anything. But Fontcuberta has a machine take the average of any scene (any thing seen) akin to, as opposite of, a Chinese artist who made a reverse language whose characters seemed to the public at his opening show to mirror their Chinese language, crowds peering trying to decipher the language imitation he’s taken three years to make and which he’d bound in formal books—outraging the officials. The author was deported and is now here. There he’d made an exact replica of language—as if any or all language, and senseless. Implying all language is senseless seemed to take everything apart. Or seemed to see it is constructed. Outraged the officials. Fontcuberta takes nothing apart, as if celebrating official theory? Fascinated by the idea of his landscapes (that they are the original), yet then anything seen is closed?
Without sublimity, however, is at night? Chrysanthemum (someone Grace knows in the city which Grace has just left) is red lidded blue in the smirking quivering array—as at once jettisoning themselves on the silver skinned corpses there in jeeps leaping on the mooned and starred Himalayan desert. During the night the smile hangs in the quivering array. And army. Her red thousand lips tremble altering, even the smile lying, above a man in the street that swims and changes in sewage. Doctors being targeted for assassination, to kill the people, who are silver curled? The young man, a doctor leaving the hospital at night, attacked, his car flown on its side in being overturned in the rain, bullets from the air where the car leaves the man? Having fallen from the car, he limps and wades. The man walking in sewage, the sewage system not having been repaired by Halliburton in Inspector Grace Abe’s memory at once—who doesn’t put them together but the surface memories of them as if at random without their content concur there. One can see events outside. Above Grace’s head, earlier looking out the night train window as the train rises to the thin white, celestial sphere, imaginary sphere where all celestial bodies appear to be projected. The Comanche flying punctures it at night though the body of the Comanche jets blue at once coursing seen. They’re at the equinoctial point. Grace in her train compartment had put her hand into transparent blue air night equipollent and, seated, she drinks a sip of Nescafé in the morning. The day is excoriated, gelid and transparent, yet night is liquid with no birds.
Becomes floats. Horse-floats in the capital. Women’s skirts billow. The belly of a horse launched into the air, its huge haunches separated, the long yellow tail flows on the jetting clouds-sky roofs. Paws the air. Nicker of the whinnying launched belly the separated haunches on the flashing huge jet black tail as the powder monkey on it is still eye raised above the flowing tail. On it that gambols to the side, then to the left side, back on his reined slowly staggering huge haunches where the powder monkey rears seeing. On hills above cities horses float. The engine of the forest ruffles the blind cattle. Oar where there isn’t forest. A steaming race track outside a city, horses also race on the pale high desert plain also in the blowing wind. Synchronicity as determining characteristic doesn’t exist in that all actions are random as synchronous anyway. Always. Cliffs. Horses are in the city now. Fairs. For demonstrations. The train carrying Grace comes from the city at night. To the pale desert plain. Staggered parades. Horse-floats. On dry huge gorges. Stand. Curbs of streets also. City crowds peer quietly at the horses. Flairs.
Leslie Scalapino is the author of over thirty books of poetry and fiction. Day Ocean State of Stars' Night is forthcoming this year from Green Integer.
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