Read Online Or to Begin Again by Ann Lauterbach - Free Book Online Page A

numbers in play.

ALONE IN OPEN (BILL VIOLA)
    Into the trees, over water saturated trellis the body midair catapulted beyond daily weather ethical event those villages a simple man of the people ordinary people the healings
    Â 
    dust and spit
the balm of storytelling
performing miracles
    Augustus and a Jewish peasant his teaching, agrarian loaves, fishes multiplication’s rustic enigma mustard kingdom of mustard the seed Rome or god or prophet or maybethousands the tokens of their deliverance everyone killed someone is going to kill this man looks for a target make edges treads, turrets, defines the features filter lenses filter this energy using this mask hot spot on a camera marked off with this cross the key high altitude loiter a strike element accuracy of the Patriot hard to stop merely or or 40 percent or conventional basically a failure Silkworms guided anchored off the coast
    Â 
    to the ship
a sea
    Â 
    to conduct
continuous
    Â 
    escape
after these whitewashed tombs
    after the war new narrative New
    Â 
    the trauma
hearts and minds
    Â 
    so different
to himself
    Â 
    up to the year
what does he say
    Â 
    and to whom
meet the women
    Â 
    go and tell
the last scene the story began I did not expect journalism very early the stories
    Â 
    six hundred troops
Agony in the Garden
    Â 
    exactly what
happened
    Â 
    on a different day
before the beginning
    Â 
    so here’s the scene
all the lambs slaughtered
    Â 
    and the Lamb.

UNTITLED (GEGO)
    Touch
were there any
was there a flotilla
or, arguably, was she
standing on nothing
untitled obviously
    Â 
    the drawn harpoon
the rigorous crowd
    Â 
    forms of sway
articulated stoppage
    Â 
    after the multiple descent
the Nude’s catastrophic joints
    Â 
    down down down
abysmal sight
    Â 
    the drag on her knees
the stiff drumbeat
    Â 
    nothing at which to point
arrest of the hovering craft
    Â 
    punctum abrasion silt
    Â 
    inexplicable gap
surprised to be standing
pinions of optical shift
what was said at passages.
    Â 
    Sometimes I think we will
perish just there
under that sign
at the appointed time
when nothing points back
so that what is held
is exactly not
between this that, that this
in the traffic of hours
the knotted cage
where nothing is kept
the hinges of hope
thin coordinates
matter as shadow
fossil imprint
untitled light.

CONSTELLATION in CHALK
    These ready-mixed colors are available only in
case of emergency, dial
power
with one arm showing
green, then orange flashing, then green.
An airplane? Plane of content—sleep’s sound
harvests twenty stamps, each with
floral arrangement, and poison
merit, ultra in the night,
the drawing on the left
a creature in want of wings.
    Â 
    Â 
    The Third New International
harbors a bug roving, its minor journey
neither in nor out, where the pointing is.
Sandpiper below Essex, Park,
their finish three stories above a hollow noise.
    Â 
    Â 
    Door hauling.
    Â 
    Â 
    I would like
    Â 
    Â 
    five red apples, please,
but omit the five and the apples.
    Â 
    Â 
    This was an episode in description.
    Â 
    Â 
    Morning’s adapter came without
messages from the near—far near, only
mobile structures, flanged and muddy,
mind spooled at the knot, counting without measuring,
a topography of cost scratched into the floor.
Rug slide. Box shapes, and moist smoke
leaning on the environment
    Â 
    Â 
    like an Idealist colony speaking in tongues,
climbing the hill in period costume,
bothers, sisters, before we hear what was said.
    Â 
    Â 
    Record of records, the paradoxical mouth.
    Â 
    Â 
    On that side of the river
a ghetto bus replaced the high orchestral cloud,
rose to ragweed, field with visual noise,
the elders’ parade
dragged toward the crows’ damaged carillon.
    Â 
    Â 
    There was a splinter, or leak, in the habitat of selves,
more names than things on the
stage. Only the recording had remembered
and it was shard. I paint what I paint
said Rivera . In a dusty