Arguments for a Two-Dimensional Surface
(with Bill Kennedy)

Atmospheres of persecution. Directly overhead, the heavens form a two-dimensional surface. Tonight the weather is no longer a given.

You pose because you are exhausted. Allow for a temporal line-of-credit; physical death is the mother of privilege. The newspaper headlines are meaningless. Signs of conversation become leaden coded conspiracies.

Sometimes the scene under observation becomes a matter of animal grace, the polarized site of subvocalization. Well-organized delusional systems spin the openness of millenia. Wearing sunglasses, we flirt with the city, helplessly clairvoyant before the pronouncements of Christian silence.

Existence is slowly becoming. Coffee confirms connotations: conspiracies, parties, conventions, society--intermittent flashing cursors on the Benthamite prison of life. The general public disintegrates. Any monitored surface becomes an effective safeguard against feminism and Birkenstocks, the fleshy part of your painting after dangerous moments of conversation.

Its sickness relies on limitless vehicles. It is total, spiritual. It is the universal particular. It is the spine made malevolent. It twitters.

Even the philosophers unwittingly house parasitical fragments of words: alienation always remains. One they store within fibrous roots: the bioseduction of scepticism. No one is closing the dictionary.

Yet it finally gains in illegible strength: the numbers on the water dancer, the wheel or the documents needed for claims. Footnotes as alienated remains of superfluous Newtonian disappearings. Word prisms or prisons of words: the phonemes of rapture. All others suture the dismembered limbs of grace.

Sketching out the incident, you go inside with the precursor's map, and die from the accuracy it implies. The skull and the lake, and the tree of scientific investigation: quotidian imagery becomes terminal. A dead body broadcasts aphrodisiac hallucinations. Dawn becomes malevolent, but will depart eventually.

Detaching tiny pieces of fear, possibility soaks up the whispered fragments of existential concerns. Slowly, crowds gather around the lethal nodes of becoming. Full of pathological states, Toronto delivers the visionary. Disease distinguishes districts of nerve. Isaiah 63 verse 2: the backlash against materialism.

Twenty-one years of valid responses cannot be distinguished from wistful yearning, for everyone feeling less is more than this.

Remote annihilation. The object being mediated appears to be an intelligence.

Photocopied two page document: the ghosting of the participants full of artifical diction. These things mix with the trees which arise as the tape heads burn, out of the bones of a magazine. It is already our own reproduction: a depopulated congregation. You have, they have already finished, with charcoal, police, non-sequential thinking: the road, rolling under arctic skies. They have always already finished reading.