2nd
letter to nicoloff
hey michael nicoloff,
i noted on your blog (http://nicoloff.blogspot.com/) what’s been said regarding your reading at the new series, and thought i’d tell you i thought it was a fucking brilliant reading, and i’ve been hearing your voice and cadences in my head ever since.
here’s something i wrote w/ those cadences running in mind, though of course our work cannot help but be much much different. still, i heard the
nicoloff sound in the lines, and it was real good, so thanks dude.
much love, sara
————————
it’s a long age, white, and
the covers cover it treeborn
in fugitive bark
turns the returning air
turns the boozy sky
from a hairdo of homeric allusion
high, the esprit misreads me
i am misread by his finger-blood
i am mycenaean
the copper dona feram
loveless by dictum of the governing heart
quantumly i heave up on the topaz palace
the sea is streaked red with adonis
when he licks my asshole it
is a meditation on grace
the cock that crowed in the morning
a radar in this furrowed
heliopolis
tamuz, the red flame, his name &
his song, turns the acumen of notes &
toads
that some custodian of
Love
ruptures his head
.
in this cave he is odysseus
the underwave gazing at mounts, behold
it rise, his native home
for thou must go the road, the contour plexis
of hell’s insistent retina, i open my pelvis under
the sign of fortuna, goddess of forsitan, in a matrix of
stone &
her eyes, her hair, black in the foam
turns the almond
turns the wild zephyr beasts
turns to an other
the acropolis top-heavy as the crown of the pope
.
what she loves shall not be reft
it plunders light & fires of hell, the purifications
are boughs, leaves, sea claw, prongs of
chthonic knees bent
to gather on the slope the green shoot
the cortex eaten in the smoky torch labyrinth
in this cave light enters so together they be,
he comes closer, his hands around her waist
the kitchen is white, contemporaneous with the
.
ass-fuck, the roots speak here to each other
the roots hang as banners of serpents, the breath
is radiant, the bud, HD asleep in the water,
the eyes of the dead lady speak, long dead they flicker
in jars, small stars plow through, more black than his
violet noir, the dark corona
—-
april 27, 2008
sara m. larsen
