The Reading of
(Jan 28/06)
She sat, sitting, with her legs tucked into the hove of her shirts, corduroy, camel’s skin, some unidentifiable cotton serge, bought, most likely, at Zellers or Miracle Mart. A bevel, an edginess, that demanded attention. An anticipation that the Torah might be read, deconstructed, transubstantiated, retextualized, then signed by the messianic hand of reason. Acumen, perspicuity, an oblique anxiety, tome-mercantilism, sullying the horsehair cushion cushioning the cumber in the hollow bone-work of the buttocks. A coffee-tableau, architectonics, macramé, savant stitching and quiltwork. Waiting for the soothsayer to proffer a polite answer to question: question and answer, interpersonal depersonalization. Something’s should not be deconstruction, the mouth, the ear, the flocculent awl of the labrum. Best to leave some things as they are, or are wont to be are.
She sat, sitting, with her legs tucked into the hove of her shirts, corduroy, camel’s skin, some unidentifiable cotton serge, bought, most likely, at Zellers or Miracle Mart. A bevel, an edginess, that demanded attention. An anticipation that the Torah might be read, deconstructed, transubstantiated, retextualized, then signed by the messianic hand of reason. Acumen, perspicuity, an oblique anxiety, tome-mercantilism, sullying the horsehair cushion cushioning the cumber in the hollow bone-work of the buttocks. A coffee-tableau, architectonics, macramé, savant stitching and quiltwork. Waiting for the soothsayer to proffer a polite answer to question: question and answer, interpersonal depersonalization. Something’s should not be deconstruction, the mouth, the ear, the flocculent awl of the labrum. Best to leave some things as they are, or are wont to be are.
We, all of us, learned to make paper from scratch, with wet papyrus and cork-reed, and an offset-press that smoothed the paper to a fine sheet of writer’s mead. Not balled-up newsprint bartered and haggled for behind the Cantors, or in the back alleyway of the Steinberg’s, where one can purchase, at wholesale, bagel-thins and pumpernickel melbas. The creamery cheese, of course, is retail. We, all of us, saw the poster in the front window of the Cantor’s Bakery proclaiming, ‘You don’t have to be orthodox to eat bagels’, which to us, and perhaps we alone, meant Winnebegos. Seldom do I read what is fashionable, first person’s written in a schoolgirl’s vernacular, all that pubescent angst, caponized cocks, nervous ticking, youthful travelogues. I’d rather be interned, mortared, in Dante’s hell, eyes frozen wide open, Dis picking at my oculus’, than read about what you did, or didn’t do, on your summer vacation in Greece, or hell, for that matter.
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