A fire here you cannot see.

A burning and yet something forever without
taking flame. Poignant grace, a spinning process. Silent posture and quiet voices.
A soft floating, in stationary flight. Pointing a passive face, and all but in spirit,
lifeless. Power gained from something powerless and which is only on the
surface and seemingly, dead.
Rust and gold together. An almost best and at the same time worst.
Animal, not animal. Alive and aware of us. Long dead or unborn, uncaring,
nonplussed. Statue and not statue and when strung together or assembled, in a
sense. A collected connection both among their numbers and also outward to
others. A steady grace. A composure, folded into place. A calm to these soft and
sharp angles. A clarity, even when here, essentially stripped of a face.

Feathers and wings and the grit of living all upon them. Colors and
somehow even the dullness itself shining through. Clear and even dirty, clean and
forever grimy. Beautiful and bold and subdued and understated. Piercing through
even though the life essence of what or who was on the other side of the shell is
gone. Having an effect on anyone that sees it, despite the life within the body
having moved on. A shine toward those who watch it no matter that its owner’s
days have slowed to a stop.
The detail to highlight. Magnified focus and depth, height. Maintained,
disheveled dignity, deep and bright. And which shows more each time than had
been seen before, and might even eventually reveal what all these particulars are
It only probably would be best to see such things from the distance of
daily sight, before they become thus passively displayed. To watch and
experience them before they lose the ability to have a say in the matter, for
instance to crawl or slither away from you. To catch sight of in their element, if
one is fortunate enough to have such fragile things to witness. What aspects of
the natural world which can flutter above and away from you as easily as they
can do anything else. Creatures that only come into your direct and daily
awareness and vision, in a way, if they want to.
And that even here is already a type of darkness behind or in a sense co-
existing with and around, a space and maybe without limit. And that depth into
which the living energy of what’s now the husk, has fallen. A lack of
illumination and which at all times quietly threatens to surround and suffocate
and envelope even these remaining things and which exist now the only way they
know how, their backs turned on what’s at all times following and eager to flow
straight into and pull back, drag down, drown out. That death is part of life, and
that things live on after diminishing in a shaky or maybe unshakeable truce with
a further disintegration from even the memory of those still living, if arranged a
certain way. Like any memory of a person held onto and even honored by any
form of art.

The face of a clock, its gears. Wheels-within-wheels which go on in the
mind. The reason for such symmetry the imitation in general, its the proximity, of
what's thought about all this to what's actually inside our skulls, performing the
thinking. We feel something. We long for someone. We sit alone and spin around
and are as far as that remembered person is concerned, if not already dead, then
certainly at least motionless.
Finding peace in grids. The centering and equalized setup and squared,
circled arrangements of materials. Done by your own hand or that of another. Just
happening upon it outside in the world or within. Alone, in silence, discovered.
To exist, things you'd never have known you could remember if not having found
the right format or form to see and find it through.
The way people find each other, connect so intensely they become one.
And then, by something, by time, by circumstances tragic or cruel (or appropriate
and benevolent), are slit apart by a blade either dull or sharp, clean. Or killed and
contaminated, corrupted or otherwise covered.

Creases, that a human hand and its intent releases. Or helps to. Or hardly
knows how to and is ever only helped along. And that creation some blank square
already knows it wants to become. The figure a flat scrap of paper longs to be
turned into. The combination of images to create another one. And broken
jewelry is the body, breathing and hoping, you-and-me. The meaning in the
meaning. What’s meant with spoken dreaming. The appropriation of such things.
Take one image and give another. Taken visuals and altered other, new or rather,
immature or clever, (or both.) Something small, made to be taller. A thing once
wide, maneuvered to be slim.
A simple juxtaposition. Similar in scope and simplicity; repetition. The
repeat of designs, a somewhat-diagram which sets up, arranges, or allows to be
put in place whatever instruments this time around have come to use at the hands
of who's arranged them. And regardless of what they themselves might think of
such; time spent, effort made, and any immediate and during and afterwards
significance applied to or explained or found out about and discovered even for
themselves, that creator, as time passes and the image in a way both increases by
size in terms of space taken up as with that of understanding, and also in terms of
possible reproduction, for instance with that of a book.

And front and back for the same reason. To see what's seen by all, or to
some degree the same, and by most. One's first, face, front side and uncovered by
convention as they move around within their life, interact with others and wear
the expressions and say the words and give out the sentiments they become
known for. While all of this time there is another, not completely dissimilar, not
entirely different and yet changed, just the same or similar but charged. And
hidden and not hiding, shielded and only partially sheltered. The things you'd say
to others if ever you did. The way you'd act around another if ever you would.
And for good or bad that certain aspects of this are kept behind the locked door
of personality, flimsy though as the latch on the door might be. This being for the
best or something less than that and probably back and forth, off again and then
on again. And all the things you'd love to say and all the things you're scared to
say and all the people or right one person you might never find to feel right
enough to speak it all to.
This mirror and not mirror. Quicksilver backed with solid black, major
and not minor or is it ever really either. The bleak back to all dealings where it
was another thing that you wanted to have, or to have represent you, and what
you really were thinking but for some reason couldn't get across. And all of these
things within us that shine and glimmer which or, kept within for whatever
endless list of reasons, do not.


The darkness here simply isn't. Or a heaviness which can be seen
through, or viewed as the thing that it is and appears the opposite of, at first. Or
even after. As with an opinion not let go of. A manner of communicating or
stand, a method of categorizing what's seen. And which may or may not have
anything to do with what's there, and much more than merely any one item to
judge, and instead many, awaiting discovery and to have human eyes upon it or
even for those eyes and equally important the mind behind them, to love what it
is they have in their hands. (Or on a screen, one lit-up from behind or one with an
illuminated image projected upon it.)
Something more than a book, more than an image. Somehow always
and already a part of the experience of the viewer, and so always different and
always just the same. Full, wide spaces to step into. Spare, empty regions to walk
towards, and possibly come to know. Filled, blank. Filthy, spotless. Found and
lost again. Searching, regardless.

A dark that's determined but not quite developed. And the soft and sharp
edges of what images holding their corners and cracks and around which that
light had immediately and permanently fled.
Like a well gone down, and even as the page is there, arguing against
that idea. Also more than likely places on a surface and facing up as if it's
something looking back at who's looking at it. And from the deeps that maybe are
only as thick as the thinness of the saturated but dry paper, it thinks its own
private thoughts about this silent conversation with this new (or returning)
person, turning the pages.
This is light. And even if it's wrong, in a way, it's still in some form, and
to someone, right.


These are circles within squares and form within shapelessness. Precise
imperfections that follow one another towards meaning. Or mean a thing to start
and so speak it only gradually into the ears of the body giving it any time at all.
The hands prying it open and the heart praying for exposure to that light.

And that this moves without seeming to. That there is pulsing within
what's printed. There is process within what only seems permanent and
unmoving. If things happen when those two sides meet, and if even the equal
pressure of other objects stacked upon it or the pressure itself of the years
between being opened and looked at cannot stop those things, that life within the
covers, than more certain are the things that occur when those edges are spread
apart, those two leaves of an identical size are stretched and the way they are
only made to, after all. More sure than anything else in the world is that an
interaction can be started, and between what's behind the simple and complex
features of the face and eyes situated across at that space of open air, and what
mind and waiting ideas exist in the darkness just behind the flattened paper and
in and within the likenesses of these chosen and random objects which make up
only the attitude that's visible, only the first impression of personality that
presents itself when a person turns a page, and only the initial of possible other
voiceless sentences to be uttered towards that person giving their time to the
discovering of it all, the both of them hoping as much as the other for all the
understanding and chance to explain and elaborate they know and feel
themselves to deserve.
Broken and shining. Understated and overstated. All the warm light
you've for all this time waited.


That wings, tucked in, can sing, and tune in. What wings, stretched-out,
are creating, and blooming within.
Teeth that bite into or have been torn from, the jawbone, the body, the
breathing or dead animal who either knew what was happening or did not.
Oftentimes still alive, walking around just slightly that much lighter. Or dead,
and anyway probably better off.
An interaction. That we open and shut on others or they, in turn or in an
offense unexpected and by degrees and subjectively anyway, unprovoked and
unnecessary, pull wide open and tear into us. Regardless of how deep they're able
to go or how far-in we for whatever reason both allow and can't stop them from
doing. Half the time even almost enjoying it.

The other side of dying isn't living, it's surviving. And on which much
of regret and worry is relying. (Another form of truth isn't lying, it's depriving.)
So celebrate death and not life. So celebrate life and not death.
Misunderstand one for a very long time, then misunderstand the other, forever.


Distance between. And the distance to being together or at the least
knowing there's one to go back to. Or that there even was, once. The possibility
proven real even if taken out of one's hands by any of the moving and ruthless
fingers and teeth of time, the brutal and uncaring particularities of life, yours or
mine. Or just the truth of the torture of never again, being able to touch.

Image upon image, interwoven, both the dead and the living. Pressed-
upon without pressure, pushed-into without measure. The clear and distorted
forms of pain, of pleasure. This itself is the skin of a body. And what can be read
upon its surface.
There is no tattered edge to truth. There are no worn corners to emotion.
This beat-up and torn sentiment, on a picked-up and touched piece of thick paper.
Knowing what's sent will sooner or later arrive. That They’ll-touch-what-I’m-
touching, and what's been written on. That they’ll read the words, and maybe
hold it up to their face, and simply breathe.
The visualized person as it's written. Imagined features as they go over
what's been said, or instead the way they look in that moment, wherever they are,
and the seconds in which the pen initially moves, in which the mind directs its
thoughts, the eyes look through the window and further than they could actually
ever physically see. Off into a distance that does not end. Face-to-face, or in a
separation that will never mend. The space, from these eyes to those. And the
union, that does not diminish, but grows.

Calm and crumbling, speaking clearly, mumbling. Just the hope that it
will reach them. Just the hope that it will reach them. And what flowers like
sentences themselves attempt to say. And often are able to. What limitations
both time and space and body and mind a person does their best to work with,
and through. (This is, page by page, all true.) (These are, on my word, not
through.) (These will be, believe it, never finished.)


Eyes that are not eyes. And wings that in all ways but one, are no longer.
New line of sight, when aligned with what, or who, is right.
Lines of speech that don't happen unless they do. Conversations that
either cut off or are unclear, and may never be seen all the way through. The
people involved and the problems no one could solve. Daily life and the clear and
murky burden and opportunity of all that goes into keeping someone in a certain
place, doing a certain thing. And any of which, for them, might unfortunately be
just as necessary as it is wrong for them.
The sentence, its length. The term of years or a lifetime, and its
unwavering strength. And is it true or is it false that no matter all of this, a time
and place and circumstance will present itself (or be worked towards), and into
which some not entire solution to all of life's problems, never fully an answer or
alleviation of all obstacles to dreams (not all at once, anyway) becoming real, but
at least the correct hand out of the millions surrounding any one of us, to be
standing near, and looking out at a shared future as surely entwined with the
other as our fingers, without thinking, become.
The eye sees and says. The mind sees and speaks. A mouth writes only
what it’s voice has always and forever known nothing but to seek. The truth not
always visible to any other. The visions never shared with anyone else. Or to take
in the works of others, which likewise stare back.

Layered. Filtered. Run through the sieve of all that weaves in and out of
the world and which in its invisible walls we are all trapped. And what you find
to be your way (out). The living or loving that turns the lock, and is the thing,
after everything else (or everyone else), that either finally opens or in a way
shuts, the door.
The trouble and terror in telling oneself that out there, somewhere, there
might be. And that a crossing of paths can create the thing which might otherwise
never have happened or is it that only things occur which are in some way meant
to. That one set of eyes finally sees the other. That one set of eyes finally sees the

Abstract Ideography
(A Visual Ideology)

an attack -it might get gory
(Violent and sensual -a likely story)

the blank fact -ideal geography
(Visible-Invisible reality/ illogically dreamy)

1/8/13 ISBN 978-0-9827866-7-3
All contents ® ‘d.
All related within really the rudest form of a
revelatory, rapturous yet restricting self-
(Ironically which ends up being the only thing
that allows any release, however rudimentary.)
(Ruinous, for the most part.
-Though often something comes of it.)
(Luminous, when it manages to be.
-Unrepentant, you could say, at least.)

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