Veils of code

Veils of code

Hint of aftermath—along the route. To claim damage potential as an act. From a safe position, film every action-reaction as a neat package. Best to leave part to the imagination. Best to write loose across a wide page. Precision will come later. The route widens with so many people and people in cars. Routine movements within, and stop, and go. A loaf of bread, espresso. There is nothing to complain about, so sigh. A thin residue on the glass is not bipolar in/of itself. The bird highway baffles as always. One in the front, and a view from the back.

It appears we’ve lost the route; rain in veils. What’s left out in the rain? (It never rains). Without the sky, we’re aimless. Pulse of blood in finger tips. A leaf fell from a full tree in the rain. It never pays to be at the front where the action grows. A stunt to find another route. Let the words trail off the page. Only the birds are certain of their actions. The phone in my pocket breeds code as a desperate stunt to find a new route.




Blurred total,

absent the blind area,

out of reach of the pendula,

the bird arc.


An unseen violence

must be undone to complete

the image,


origin, Ur,

of urge,


reciprocate habit

of looking through and past, but only

a half-look, like a move

through the half open door.


Better to not look on the hour.

Better wait longer, to note changes,

otherwise feel a fool to the primal




Elements are around you—no use

gathering them,

or they overwhelm.


Multiple avenues just out of view

must converge

as all things do,

but the unifier is missing.







Dark matter

Dark matter


Revert to entry: handmade holes

knit together homely hours.


Turn back—repetition

masks there is nothing, no

thing where the spirit apparently



Rounded out,

a shape  —  threaded

feathers, filtered sunlight,

excrement, and sweetgrass.


Constant variable, an entry.


An inevitable unknown.

Fingers unfold, light

formed only. A lie unwinds

in the eye, of lines and texture.

The hard surface of a window.


Directive to move through glass.

Will the body unfold further? Breath-

fog, matter to live on,

maintains the tethers;


the spider’s

web, canopy bird,

garden cataract, crumbs,

film on the table

of spilled coffee,


no explanation given.





index iv.

index iv.


relationship of two

vanishing points when a person looks

directly toward the center of a room


location and characters



when two persons look directly

toward the center of a room

may be unified in scale

and hour


but not to endure, a location

where imitable habits of grandparents

that to live, are no longer


the new picture requires

rearrangement of vanishing points

minus a referent


requires a diet

of the next

favorite show

of salt, newsprint,

apple juice, a slice of Wonder


time passes quickly, for an eternity


on its side, a shelter can be decorated

with bricks for furniture, inside, strings for a guitar,

a table with removable segments,

a partial collection of puzzles and card games


layers of carpet and red brick,

formica, hand sewn fabrics,

wires behind drywall, and a roof

joins the house

to the sky


the area outside the frame

viewed with the so-called corner of the eye,

as an entity in itself








index iii.

index iii.


high mountain lake

more air

than earth


at surface, bright edges


continual rhythm


stand still, adjust

the rhythm



in elevated states




dark matter

is not dark,





window to invisible



sky inverse


a dream where weightless

matter trickles

through cupped hands

index ii.

index ii.


weighted clouds

intersect morning


the will

weights them


abrupt relation

between earth’s


and the willpower

contained in a house


the day continues

to root


a corrugated

metal sheet

functions as barrier

and mirror between



at the edge of



the neighbor’s

pallet collection

tidy and tethered


infinite layers

of projects and insects


all possible projects

dream in the sun

at this new hour


an infinite wellspring

of property and projects

of metal mirror walls

of pallets, weeds and chickens

of neighbors with projects


a pile of car parts

a metal container

“this end up”


whether to believe—an old house

accumulates debris


walls form voices

finger prints

cloud weight


to believe


the attractive substance

of a house




index i.

index i.


to lay claim



one thousand entrance points

to the honeycombed wood

upright, in the sand, now

that the green rind

has died




a hallowed question—

what keeps us here?

flat roots



build a fence to mitigate

extreme area



even one millimeter of movement

the sand grains


over time, the foothold






through latillas–

face to the gap

air pushes through


of a secret



the barrier eternal

with an open place


remember this











a new house, empty

a dry willow



(it was days ago, I think—


five coyotes








we may take our relationships

too seriously—


a jet flies overhead,


detached, landless.



a whirling


air through the honeycomb,


or voices,

of thousands

who were here and wait.





cholla remnant

pulled from a trail

at high elevation, black

and wet with snow.


bones’ latent vigor–

decoration, an oddity





Note: latillas—are what we call fencing which are cut from young trees, here in New Mexico, with the bark left on the pole. They provide a textured fence line with an uneven skyline.They are all different heights and not perfectly straight. But, they are truly enjoyable to poets and New Mexicans.

A cholla is an upright, narrow cactus that grows throughout New Mexico and produces beautiful waxy flowers (cacti throw forth waxy, bright yellow or fuscia flowers). When the cholla cactus dessicates, the remaining material is woody, and hollow, with a honeycombed pattern.





on the southside

of the road,

butterflies breed


risk whether,

or not


parallel to breathing


the same force

within the mountain

pushes out a wild



molecules glide

around one another


an indistinct breeze


ribs expand


the moment

is an open figure

that repeats


(a horse tosses its head,

kicks into the air,

the thread continues

to unwind




A Mind

Jack Bennett

Gelli Arts® Printing Projects

Simple DIY Printing Projects

Wolfgang Paalen

Painter, Surrealist and Philosopher of Contingency