FROM THE JOURNAL
Looking away, the man noticed an ant strolling along the large armchair in the corner. The ant reached the sudden edge of the backrest, lost its ground, and plummeted to the hardwood floor. For a moment it seemed to the man that the long fall had been lethal, but after a short while the ant began moving again, advancing slowly, though resolutely, toward the marvelous Persian carpet. “Where is it headed?” thought the man. “Does it have a destination or is the life of an ant nothing but a long promenade?” The man lingered over this soothing sight and melancholic thought until he could do so no longer, his mind and attention compelled to return to the matter at hand.
Printed Matter, Inc. Bookstore Hans-Peter Feldmann
On DeKalb Avenue a room is nowhere. The world is a bedroom full of vacant nightgowns. (I whisper and feel your arm against my forehead.) The color palette has been exiled. Only pink, gold, and white hover around like mating butterflies. (Your breath against the back of my neck…) Important distinctions have been eradicated. (The umbilical cord has been reattached.) I whisper: “Remember how I died for you in the crystal forest, between the candles and the sugar canes?” You answer: “I do. You were soft and beautiful as uninhibited love. But then you awoke and left me there, alone and without a past.” I whisper: “Please, let me be reborn. I want to die for you again.”
Wayfarers Gallery Melissa S. Armstrong