Anonymous asked: Have you considered publishing "366 Skies" when it's completed? I would love to read it in print.
Oh, it’s in the works! It will be published in four volumes (one for each season), the images will be digitally printed, and the poems will be letterpress printed on 12x15” sheets. The prints will be placed in hand-made clamshell boxes, rather than bound.
#366 | December 31, 2012
It was all based on a paisley motif. Getting started, running along, scent was never questioned as particulate matter. Particles filled the air, and you took them in. A minute moth swirl. Exhalation from a million grinding machines.
#365 | December 30, 2012
What you know now is the dampness of caves, how yellow light tarnishes a memorable movement. If you hit your head on a low-hanging entryway, someone—someone you may not know—may take your head in their hands and rub away the bruise. Wondering over contact is the tragedy of oversight. So many nets, meanwhile, keep dragging in the ocean’s barage.
#364 | December 29, 2012
Spinning around the real estate development. Your bike was an imaginary taxi. Your taxi carried phantom passengers. At sunset, your fees and tips were tallied on a broken punch-card machine. This was the way time passed—in the absence of others or witnessed once and never explained.
#363 | December 28, 2012
Flocked. The uneven texture of broken stone under foot. Trains wail over crossroads so far from where you are that the thought of them feels thick. The need to toggle that thickness to this thin air is a symptom of febrile memory. How can one travel into strangeness and end up at the plainest sense? Napsacks and milkshakes; wall-to-wall carpeting. Without speaking, coloring piles of papers through the night.
#362 | December 27, 2012
Always wanting to ask the big dumb questions. But here, where streets and sidewalks for several miles are hollowed of people, what seems smart is very small. A way of licking stamps, stapling down rough edges. How unsealed brick sifts daily to the floor—a wan garbage pile of pale pink pigment. Where did all the sugar go? Why is the ringing phone so colorless?
#361 | December 26, 2012
You’d like to lay on blue carpet again, dance the Christmas dance with your father. A pain in the joints signals the need for higher market prices—browner drinks, clearer stones, purer metals. Get the whole motley group together again, and have them meet differently than they originally did: fast and with wit, checking each other’s credentials. You met in India, then Africa, then somewhere near the Illinois state line.
#359 | December 24, 2012
There can certainly be trouble with rising temperaments. The ssss sound of certain speeches makes a powerful impact—it links together such things as snakes and civic strife and sand. A growing menace is this jumble of days, their diminishing girth. Remember the rough crack in the canvas, the inner layers of blue to gray to red. That was something to see.
#360 | December 25, 2012
Whole biases can turn against you, as drones slice the night and uncertain forces establish shadowy bases. This news is happening at this point on the map. Tear off a notebook page. Remember all the pain you felt, stitching up moccasins from a kit. That sense of clarity in the small city square—fountain bubbling crystaline, men lunching in suits, large flowers blooming and unchanged since prehistory—it was a bargain. It was a way of imagining something for yourself, like a glossy frame around trivial memorabilia.
#358 | December 23, 2012
Dire consequences befall these little irritants. Crumbs in a borrowed book, the glaring streak of poorly wiped windows, the next Senate race. It’s a law of unforgiveness—the rapid flush of intentions gone to the clinic. You made that mark—swerving, unerasable. Everything sees through it.