© Jimmy Lo 2011
LRL little red leaves textile editions www.textileseries.com
© Jimmy Lo 2011
LRL little red leaves textile editions www.textileseries.com
A Reduction Jimmy Lo
little red leaves 2011
A Reduction Jimmy Lo
little red leaves 2011
I wish to be microscopic. Not invisible, that, but microscopic—and anonymous, among the worms’ paths and their soft castings, to be heading into the mite, their kin, next of their kin miles no meaning. Two dimensions.
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I wish to be microscopic. Not invisible, that, but microscopic—and anonymous, among the worms’ paths and their soft castings, to be heading into the mite, their kin, next of their kin miles no meaning. Two dimensions.
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And among them, lesser and lesser of the self. Of even gravity that is no object, and surfaces according to other rules, where surfeit bodies tumble against the hard of earth, that unbearable distance to the cold sore of knowledge, where off and off I slant until I reach my subject, my sub-
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And among them, lesser and lesser of the self. Of even gravity that is no object, and surfaces according to other rules, where surfeit bodies tumble against the hard of earth, that unbearable distance to the cold sore of knowledge, where off and off I slant until I reach my subject, my sub-
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jectivity. Knowing by my step, which is a measure, that step wherein suddenly life is contained, within that other rule, which is not a rule, but a thin spectrum of right angles along my subatomic brain that answers just so, like darling baby instructions, whereupon the world is my step, and I upon it, being stepped upon, being a grain, a world.
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jectivity. Knowing by my step, which is a measure, that step wherein suddenly life is contained, within that other rule, which is not a rule, but a thin spectrum of right angles along my subatomic brain that answers just so, like darling baby instructions, whereupon the world is my step, and I upon it, being stepped upon, being a grain, a world.
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Say, the invisible forces that would work upon me then! —would that it be so strong, a religion without reason, a mute and blinded spirit sweeping me thither, wherein I would not think to question. The unknown, therefore, in its all-knowing density, soaking inwards
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Say, the invisible forces that would work upon me then! —would that it be so strong, a religion without reason, a mute and blinded spirit sweeping me thither, wherein I would not think to question. The unknown, therefore, in its all-knowing density, soaking inwards
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through everything. And at every level I would find friends, those hard of hearing, and a little dumb, dumb-struck, or just lined with latent potential, moving along in brevity to their own in-steps, dialed to such n’such a number.
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through everything. And at every level I would find friends, those hard of hearing, and a little dumb, dumb-struck, or just lined with latent potential, moving along in brevity to their own in-steps, dialed to such n’such a number.
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Yes, I would be okay in this world and the next, I mumbled.
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Yes, I would be okay in this world and the next, I mumbled.
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Wherever I am, I am comforted by the thought that there would always be a stable landing, —to rest is only human—settled against the last one, or built upon a different branch into an odd looking structure. At this given time:
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Wherever I am, I am comforted by the thought that there would always be a stable landing, —to rest is only human—settled against the last one, or built upon a different branch into an odd looking structure. At this given time:
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Only that which makes sense to me can be known, though the other parts are there too, equally working. Only that within reach of my feelers, I mumbled.
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Only that which makes sense to me can be known, though the other parts are there too, equally working. Only that within reach of my feelers, I mumbled.
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In that way limits are artificially placed like a fence around my consciousness, even if I were to be microscopic, which I am not, never will be. Or perhaps have always been?
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In that way limits are artificially placed like a fence around my consciousness, even if I were to be microscopic, which I am not, never will be. Or perhaps have always been?
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Here, I imagine a microscopic fence where no fence is needed, only the infinite circles of the mind boring tracks of minute significance, like delicately rendered designs upon the rim of my gilt teacup. The murkiness there—in the tea: amber shot through with morning light.
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Here, I imagine a microscopic fence where no fence is needed, only the infinite circles of the mind boring tracks of minute significance, like delicately rendered designs upon the rim of my gilt teacup. The murkiness there—in the tea: amber shot through with morning light.
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I am frozen inside of it, but all biology. Almost always biological is my being, supported by the surface like dust on dust. An imperceptible consciousness living in the hairs of my tea.
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I am frozen inside of it, but all biology. Almost always biological is my being, supported by the surface like dust on dust. An imperceptible consciousness living in the hairs of my tea.
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There I would wind down my days. Oh I would perish alright, I would look back on the seconds leading up to this second here. In the center of the tea my consciousness has found a home.
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There I would wind down my days. Oh I would perish alright, I would look back on the seconds leading up to this second here. In the center of the tea my consciousness has found a home.
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The politics of the body would sing its injustice. Though it would smile too, it would smile on the great verve of its invective.
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The politics of the body would sing its injustice. Though it would smile too, it would smile on the great verve of its invective.
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It would secretly be proud, so proud of its current form, so smug. Such imagination! What else would I know but the tea that is my tanned world, and the rest looking up through a lens’ magnified warp. I would sink into it like a plumb line, a squiggle in the eye of a calf, newly born, whose eyes are wet from the mere sight of this side’s admixture of green-and-blue.
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It would secretly be proud, so proud of its current form, so smug. Such imagination! What else would I know but the tea that is my tanned world, and the rest looking up through a lens’ magnified warp. I would sink into it like a plumb line, a squiggle in the eye of a calf, newly born, whose eyes are wet from the mere sight of this side’s admixture of green-and-blue.
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Jimmy Lo lives in Atlanta, Georgia, where he works for a public library. In 2010 he co-created Free Poems On Demand (freepoemsatl.org), a pop-up venue where passersby suggest poem topics and receive on-the-spot compositions. More of his writing can be found on his website (jimmylorunning.com). Thanks to Nisa Asokan for her help taking microscopic images of mustard seeds, onion skin, twigs, banana stalk, turmeric, wildflower, string, and other items. Special thanks also to Dawn Pendergast.
.................................................................... This little red leaves textile series chapbook was lovingly sewn with recycled bedsheets and shower curtains.
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Jimmy Lo lives in Atlanta, Georgia, where he works for a public library. In 2010 he co-created Free Poems On Demand (freepoemsatl.org), a pop-up venue where passersby suggest poem topics and receive on-the-spot compositions. More of his writing can be found on his website (jimmylorunning.com). Thanks to Nisa Asokan for her help taking microscopic images of mustard seeds, onion skin, twigs, banana stalk, turmeric, wildflower, string, and other items. Special thanks also to Dawn Pendergast.
.................................................................... This little red leaves textile series chapbook was lovingly sewn with recycled bedsheets and shower curtains.
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