a dialogue with a friend

A Collaboration with George Angel 

his words, my image

Heap Is the Punctuation of Tumbling

"Ask a drum to expectorate.

Hammering has made me

As stupid as a reflex.

Dust is the grey matter

I am left with.

Blockages of breath,

The debris of honking,

Make radios almost pastoral.

Leaps to connect minutes.

Like voices calling out to each other,

Across mounds of shoveled noise,

They stutter and fall short

Into rubble.

Trembling, muted by syllables,

Spaces drilled into

What is opened out of, rubbish."

--George Angel

my image, his words

"I carry the street in the rain in my hands.

The sun had fallen out like an unspun bulb,

Like butter icarussed down into my bowl.

The valley in autumn another nestle just,

Glistens the shatter of a frame, shadowed

My brow, the falling away of the street

In the rain, the facades thicken my fingers,

Seal me away beneath a silent gaze,

Its pane of milky light between us.

To balance a membrane mesmer,

Meander your attention over the motif

Light curdles out of the surface

Of the air spilling between houses

Where I carry the street in the rain."

    --George Angel