"Findspot Unknown" - Peter Gizzi
Thus far we have spoken only the codes, a litany of survival. Thus spoke the silvered asphodel next to the factory ruin. Sound carries on water. My subject is the wind. To take umbrage at what a tree can do, watching one single birch become lightning stunning the sky. Landscape is a made thing, to see the mind seeing itself. To see thought, a wing in night, the long brooding. Take it, listen, the night is orchestral when the power's on. Everything disporting. A furred wand upon nothingness. I get it, it was good to leave the world, to find myself in thou. There's a lot to be said for seeing in the dark, and more to the light when there's nothing to see. If I write about the moon, it's because it's there. I am landlocked, surrounded by rivers and lakes, pills and leaves. I saw a better life, it was far off, sun on moss next to a friend, the softening air, the dandelion fluff. It was kinda real, and kinda not. Can't see it today. And out of nothing, breath. A beast-like shadow in the glass. If I brought back every feeling I had where would I put them, what could they mean to this world on the floor? It was best to let the moon unravel and focus the truth of the music. It was best to let the music unravel and focus the truth of night. Like when I found you in the back of my mind. I am talking about people and the night. People inside the night. The night and what we are made of. The things and the people. The signal and its noise.