your god in an oven untouched by human hands is dying. I cannot with my scar move the spot on the ceiling that we always mistake for a spider
Thomas M. Wright's The Stranger is a bewitchingly downbeat true crime thriller both anchored and spirited away by the eidolic performances of Joel Edgerton and Sean Harris, each of which use a resigned urgency to centralize the haunted hinterland of retroactive pursuit. Edgerton eats worry in his sleep, and Harris sees friendship as starvation. Evil here grows older by being younger than time. ~ Sissy, as directed by Hannah Barlow and Kane Senes, stops time long enough for its slasher sensibilities to overtake both homage and mantra with the faster sisters of fomo and isolation all while tracking the otherworldly un-mirrored performance of Aisha Dee as it duels for the same safe-space nostalgia and the right to say to everyone and to no one 'if it's not in the frame, it didn't happen yet'. Dee is exodus and revelation, and moves the end times back into the middle where belief must re-earn its brutal beginnings. Full of backhanded admittance and disappearing permissions, this movie is proudly and gloriously someone's fault. ~ An arrival numb to departure, Christian Tafdrup's Speak No Evil is an out-of-body duet unsung by people too close to partnership and camaraderie to see a single evil let alone name any tune not already on another's tongue. It is important that a film this alone remain within itself at length, or forever, and with performances and visuals that achieve both the hermetic and wild, it painfully and almost perfectly leaves itself an inheritance of inaction and etiquette enough to afford its callous but necessary payoff. ~ Anxious and dedicated, Ti West’s Pearl is a brutally loyal exploration of isolation and madness wherein genesis and exodus are unsure which started what. Mia Goth levels heaven and brings up the hell with a performance in so much local pain that what lands becomes less alien the more it invades. For all its blood and baptism, West is careful what is shown, and there is one scene so brave and so held by Goth that it unglues the eye and something in every body seems to rip on its own. Sickness is here, but has nothing on sadness. ~
Had the inner and outer honor of saying something toward Erin Wilson's 'Blue'. Inclusion is the fullest art. Lovely book. ~ Praise for Blue: Invigorating, inventive, and remarkably honest, Blue sparks from “only the suggestion of a few bones” “a strong urge to know / each magnificent unraveling spire in pure light.” These poems tell the story of a life at risk of spilling over the edge of the page, capturing the magnitude of a restless, relentless search for both wound and healing. These are poems born of a kind of wrought faith that, despite all the breaking, language still might bring us closer to each other, and closer to ourselves. Wilson has given us a heady, intoxicating experience, a fascinating collision of tradition and innovation, all exquisitely layered in self, art, tenderness, and a rich testament to the ever-present need for risk and empathy. — John Sibley…
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Anxious and dedicated, Ti West’s Pearl is a brutally loyal exploration of isolation and madness wherein genesis and exodus are unsure which started what. Mia Goth levels heaven and brings up the hell with a performance in so much local pain that what lands becomes less alien the more it invades. For all its blood and baptism, West is careful what is shown, and there is one scene so brave and so held by Goth that it unglues the eye and something in every body seems to rip on its own. Sickness is here, but has nothing on sadness.
Being a parent is terrifying. Always that hearing, plain and songless, some version of There were times I could've made your life easier, but didn't. I didn't have money. Someone was sick. I saw the least of those my age travel as the same fuck every time. I didn't want to. I loved you because I loved you too much. Angelic laziness. The blank immediacy of everything fathered. Touch died in my hands. I was a better person when I didn't try to get sleep. It might be true. Here is where I pretend to believe in god because I'm older, have pain that moves before I get there, and can't swallow at night. Here is where I say if your child's illness makes them rare Be terrified and sing near the ghost your terror prays to. Our sleep is lost to a finished nowhere.
I am late to knowing that if I write about sleep and teeth, I am in fact writing about sleep and teeth. Yesterday I described a knife going in and out of consciousness. Tomorrow an animal finds its own body beneath stars still growing the bones of god. When I tell my brothers, tell them there is nothing in the whale to read by.
Brother yanks my ear each time god's fingernail has a dream. We are using a handprint as an ashtray. I keep my baby teeth. They're older than snow.
Birth and time travel weigh the same. I can tell my brothers when, but not what, our home stopped eating. In hell we are sad three times: sleep, sheep, spider's knee. I want to be touched. Put absence in a bird that can swim.
2020, from (diets of the resurrected) Ohio introductions: A god finds its mother in a joke about the food chain and is no longer sad that human babies don’t walk right away Hunger remains your painting of the angel’s predicted appetite The wind gets that way by looking for its twin ~ Ohio alibis: Two sisters learn from the same angel how to use an insect bite as a fingerprint ~ Ohio postscripts: Shy, I could not collapse in front of mothers who were born on the moon. As for the children, they’ll die for baby. For any last fact that others exist. ~ Poverty is a town that’s killed everyone it’s named after. Also, it is a very maternal thing to say out loud that being born in Ohio just means that Ohio won’t discover breakfast foods for another eight years. Look, it’s not like the babies died because one or two of them couldn’t cry into a pillow. This is what I mean by plural. Most movies don’t make it to the death of my son. ~~~~~ from 2019 CARRIED ACHE I like to think of my grandmother as always on her way to an obstacle course for invisible children (as combing her hair in a spiderless wind ORIGINAL ACHE younger, I skin my knee in the museum of the dropped jaw. you say blue is a color and I say it’s a clock. god is there and is asking no one we know to leave space for a birthmark. we are somewhere between my grandmother dying and my grandmother dying. a noise outside could have come from this painting of three window-washers kissing the same egg or it could have come from outside RABBIT ACHE I can’t sit for very long without wanting to smoke. this is the flower I pick for my ghost. ~~~~~ from 2021 HALTMOST The babies came out silent Our talk was over It might still be meal two or three Meal one: the slow cry ing of having had a toothache on the moon
house 8 we use in this room slasher films as a cure for anxiety god is just a field touch its only crop
kingsoftrain 