13 August 2020
The hapu`u fern’s sheath is dark, rooted toward the bottom of the photograph; at its edges a layer of yellow light blears through the fuzz. To the right a spider’s profile, outtake of the fern. Someone please tell her the difference between allegory and analogy. Here they might be fused at the fern’s hip, quality of light both retinal and conspiratorial. The perfect story is written by QAnon, because nothing deviates from the end. But the fern's not perfect, is story at the point of translucence; nothing to know, the beauty of that fact. It doesn’t matter that you’re not sincere desiring happiness for a difficult person; just keep doing it. One day you’ll walk out on the street and confront that person with your own nugget of gold immaterial. Hurricanes cross the central Pacific, only to be cut open by wind shear. Their eyes lose shape and orbit, swirl out into the circles Ninso’s brush makes. He pulls it from a Little Prince mug, then flicks his wrist. We get rain, but not the full gaze of it. After being hit (again) by a pitch, the hitter stepped out of the box and held out his right hand. His index and third finger held an imaginary baseball; he broke his wrist with it. This is how you throw a slider that breaks, he yelled. It will miss me. When you’re attacked, do not attack back. Except the hitting coach tackled him at first, when he got there. Was he angered by the batter’s condescension? Or was it that “everyone’s stressed out now,” falling like pins to the bowling ball you didn’t realize you’d become? I want to communicate with people somehow, she says, but everyone turns their heads away. She waves at her computer and we see her from our little boxes. Ticky tack. Suburban housewives live in scare quotes now; Trump confuses them with fear itself. White flight inverts itself like a cone. A tornado descends on Chicago, funnel cloud over the lake. If I were to paint that, it might resemble a transparent eyeball, nested in the backlit pulu.
--for Ninso
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