andrew zawacki blue hour press 2009
Blue Hour Press • 1709 8th St • Tuscaloosa, AL 35401 www.bluehourpress.com • email@example.com © 2009 Andrew Zawacki. All rights reserved.
The vista comes back back -ward, minus words or weather outside the display: edges toward the present as the pause is cancelled, crenellated reels releasing the icons & their cryptic, posthumous code, a linear of dull dimension choreographed to laughter & to lifelikenesslessness
Unconcern with everything but
care for every thing: digraph & lesion, a hy -phen of ivory stone, spanning the mirrored, the memoir canal, the wind & where it would come from, warm where it once awayed, & waiting at the vaporetto & turning in tune with a turbulent world: left is right, right left â€”as in: how little footage, lesser future is
By this rakish twilight, with its xeroxed veneer, a closeup veers & loses its locale: to focus is locus -lapsed needlework, the fogged & weft-knit knot & null, a piece of floe in the Genovese gray & gravel -level undertow : the way shorebirds at a distance lease their color before their shape & then are lostâ€”accents from a province out of colloquy & sunlit corners & the cold
Thru weathered glass & firebreak, like a Lego-brick heart with an artery blocked, the halyard of rerecording is severed again: a voiceover over -dubbed, weirding the airwaves with warble & offal: -ish, -esque, -y, -ic
A still shot soaked in a vascular lake, a tectonic x-ray of I without I: be grass that bristles, thistles to thresh, a thresh -old of hunger & linger & thirst, or a powhite blur off center, off camera, verging on Renaissance, portraiture red : to rewind the living daylights, & the dead
Viewfinder in the vehicle— motion picture, moving car—turning thru a tunnel thru a tunnel, as a sadness is drawn with the tide’s drawl, peregrine & pebble s’ ebb, thrawn by the weight of so much water thrashing —how many throes— & whispers at you to swear it until, worn, it wear -s you -r inside -s inside out—
What rough-cut lumièresthétique, what merry-goround of the camcorder’s gaze: subfusc & wrought by the image, fumed by a flashcube burnt by the view : klieg lights thru a window write a window on the wall
The sun a disco ball, a bulb, clouds a lean-to with least to lean against: Aleppo pine & olive groves in a passage of helical scan, cypresses ranging a craggy cliff as if butcherâ€™s twine were all that held them back: a swimmer caught on handheld, her body beneath the surface writhes to learn: water, like her, goes counter to the currentâ€™s pull & in conjunction with
The radiosilent, kinescope eye, at large in some Uffizi of the laddered, folding heart: a love erased on vhs, the flecks still flicker decay, on a vdt with a tube blown, black inside the box â€”each shadow throws a shadow of its own
Black ice seared to the corduroy road â€”vincadyed by a solstice moon made aphrodisiacâ€” ace coming down the river down below
Luster across the floorboards, on the other side of the cloister door—turn the flood, the spot light on: you can’t see it because it ’s there
Clips from this project have previously appeared in Bombay Gin, Cannot Exist, Eleven Eleven, and Ping â€˘ Pong, as well as in the limited-edition letterpress pamphlet Videotape, designed and printed by Particular Press. Screen captures are from The City, a 1939 documentary by Ralph Steiner and Willard Van Dyke.