BLAZEVOX[BOOKS] Buffalo, New York


DOMESTIC UNCERTAINTIES by Leah Umansky Copyright © 2013 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza Cover artwork: Behind the Curtain, by Leah Umansky; mixed newspaper and magazine sources —influenced by Emily Bronte's Penistone Crag in Wuthering Heights. First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-114-6 Library of Congress Control Number: 2012944195 BlazeVOX [books] 76 Inwood Place Buffalo, NY 14209

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We mostly understand ourselves through an endless series of stories told to ourselves by ourselves and others.


The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts; It is an entirely different way of seeing.

Jeanette Winterson ART OBJECTS



And Then It Came Upon Him That He Would Marry Her and She Would be His Life I. AND THEN IT CAME UPON HIM THAT HE WOULD MARRY HER AND SHE WOULD BE HIS LIFE The woman occupies the supreme position: a songstress; a slave; a harbinger. It always comes upon him. A slight wonder coming. A coming. A wondrous a-coming: that he would marry her. Her. “Marry” is so close to maritime; so close to maroon; so close to martyr. (the implications delicious) This was drowned. No flotsam or jetsam. It was meant to be murdered; marooned; dinghy-ed along. The larger vessel was love. The larger vessel was love. No wonder if carried or towed; towed or carried – I was the supreme one. I was the larger vessel. I controlled the wondering.





The doorway was the night falling. A slit or stirring.

Would you still have wondered all those abouts?

maybe a-slightened wonder;

a glorification; a plagiarizing.

Remember: I was the transfiguration.





I am still a romantic. I am still a romantic. What is not-done or not-doing is undone. What is not-romantic is just wrong. What is not-wondered is past.

The left past. The left stampede. …yes…

You were rabbeted. Burrowed. You do with the hind-legs something post-humanistic. You gnaw and gnaw and gnaw but lose your sense. There is no nomenclature for what is left, but the Left-Husband. The one who wants to do. Who wants to do. Who wants…

He was her ________________. He was her ________________. He was.



Story [1] This story is duty-bound or duly bound. Only too prone are the mean and narrow; the absurdities lie in the words. “damn. damn. damn. damn!!” An immediate outlet – no? Re-order damn and it is still a four-letter word. I want to describe this the way a spinning-top wounds down. Rewounds; unwounds. Fawn over it like one of Proust’s Madeline’s & wait for it it is still as sweet. Ahh – the subtext is duly noted. No emotional rendering or meandering. On with it.



[2] Let’s tell the story like Prendergast. Fleshed-out and flushed. Blushed. Raw Umber. Violet. All the faceless stares: the lipless. Now turn, let’s Renoir the story so it’s hazed or haloed: In each girl, in each eye: a spectre of the golden past. She has my blonde; my blonde, my blonde. Let the clock: break. And the catalog will read: 41609 And the subtext: cast-ironed and hinged; sailor-knotted in cord and framed in ladles. Yes, ladles. Let’s weird it all out like Barnes.



[3] It was all appositives. You never loved. Say it for me. Say it.



The Art of Unloving Unfolding is a lot like undressing which is a lot like unearthing something precious. It is the same as fire sparking red or blue. Red unfolds the blue at the bottom of the flame which unfolds the smell (of what – carbon?) into the air. Nevermind the definitions, the logic or schemas. Linguistically or not, the art of unfolding can be studied like prefixes and suffixes. Let us look at love. We humans, love other humans and sure, pets too, places even, but that emotion has a name and its name is love. We also unlove, the way we can unitalicize a word and what do you know, that word is unitalicized. It’s the same with indentation. We can unindent a word, so why not unemotionalize the word, or the whole story? If we came to love, we can surely come to unlove. It’s sort of the same as unfolding. When we fold we make something neat and compact, but we also close it down, don’t we? In the act of unfolding, we expand the thing, the truth, or the story of the thing. When I said, I loved you, folded in that love, in a small, parchmented tuft, was my ability to unlove. Like my ability to unclean this for you, uncover this for you, unlight this for you. Read the smoke signs. Decipher soot.



Contemporary Folklore Exaggerate the dimensions midlife See to this nuisance If only it meant mistress – or what was not fully dark. It might sicken every word. The wordless. Every singsong. (I let you dandle me) In plain sight - there is no question. No. No. No question. Now, sigh. Now, sleep. No billowing, now. I am just nostalgic for great secrets. All just a reminder of what is no longer. For what is no longer, functional. So, here: for glory, for beauty, thou shalt not speak of: Array yourself cast abroad the rage. Enquire, even. All beauty is departed. You set it in majesty – Lust, even.

beauty, the beauty.

I am making it, remaking it, gilding the gornisht. Now, only I shall be great.



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