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Lady M & The Patterned Distribution of Domesticated Tumbleweeds

Takeki Ishihara 2013


Contents 1. Survey of Mirrored Methodologies 2. Classification of Symphonic Climate Variance in Regions Surrounding Waxahachie, Tx 3. Shadow Structures, Coordinates of Sleep 4. Cross-sectional Study of Oriental Rugs & Their Biodiversity Among Extra-terrestrial Life Forms 5. Charting Channels of Disorientation


Survey of Mirrored Methodologies Assemblage of particle precipice of collarbone cliff/ we fall towards reflected sky in waning glass-eye/ arrangement of shuffled silence within/ architect of composition of misplaced paths of forked memory/ the musicality of spiderwebs on violin strings// We canceled dream to sleep in each other's absence. Circumnavigating the constructed paths of a fingerprint procession. Though the wind blew towards us it felt like something was pressing us from behind. Through cracked lips, mascara memory coating unblinked glimpse, you whistled near-silent interludes of a wind brushing against tired skin. I was there to witness Sound, your voice muffled through hotel pillows and half-closed doors and repainted drywall separating strangers in sleep. Swampy afterthoughts clogging pores of constellations, we looked up at unlit sky and prayed for the rivaling realities of fictional ideations.


Classification of Symphonic Climate Variance in Regions Surrounding Waxahachie, Tx This comes first. Sleeves caught in windmill embrace of irrelevant abridgment of dream synopsis on winding/windy Thursday while diminishing perspective of stress-induced landscape landslips towards emptiness named in sequence postdeparture of residents in diaphanous shell cubicle dwelling. Wait. Wait here while I go get some water, she said. Here. I have a compendium of your sighs in unwrit manuscript hoarded in memory's discourse fragmented conscience spellchecked sleep-talk prognosis rattling on tail end of. In addition but we cast credit to call upon unknowns unmanaged sequence of even-numbered narratives towards ruptured ambulance tire. We tried to swim, we did. Brief, the end, of all ending in hieroglyphic resemblance to momentary sleep, the undying forces culminating towards nothingness outlined by shadow glimpse of water-washed chalk. (Don't erase this one, no, not yet). Mylar-coating spreads lucid tapestry over, and also over the entirety of a field the residue of stain-glass polluted city light amber dissolution degrading into one. (One was the number of which your numerical dyslexia always caused you to forget. Please, don't forget). Humid undiscovered sea-cavern climate collapsed onto. Still, seething reverberation of uncalled frequency of vocal relapse. (The part where you were always out of tune). Throat song dialect redeemed in mistranslation thrice incarnated dialect of weeping willow breast. While cough condensed into precipitation of night sky droning dark tablets of indistinct irrelevance apertured and from. All the while we unrain augmented wave of bathtub bowl holding recollections of every memory of which associations eventually draw lines back to name x. The answer is yes, we tried.


Shadow Structures, Coordinates of Sleep Your whisper bit off piece of moon, the taste of word, new context of brittle sky. Cloud mountain disassembled into pyramid shaped monsoon. My waterproof sneakers squeaked as we crossed over to the other side. I liked the shape of your shadow yesterday, but today it is not the same. There is a resemblance between the darkness that follows us and the light whose source we can not determine. Minutes passed horizontal onto the surface of unpaved farm roads, laying flat and undecided, as if waiting tire tracks to resume its destined course. The shape was as sound as geometric diagrams drawn with chalk and the powdery residue of a word you once said in your sleep. It must have been a French word, for I did not recognize it. Your pronunciation was immaculate even in sleep. And every syllable was a hand held far in front of a body too tired to stand, until sentence guided us back to dream.


Cross-sectional Study of Oriental Rugs & Their Biodiversity Among Extra-terrestrial Life Forms Methamphetamine hummingbird eyelash spinnerets/ production of Bavarian crochet web of dragonfly wing/ I am celtic panic thrice knotted artery/ descending vessel of hairball pillow/ caught in ruptured spleen of moon/ between the space where constellations do not touch// [And I waited for beginning of song, the part where fingernail meets skin. To unravel my hair in sleep. To tease the end of split-end ties, wavering into Waxahachie wind. Your grandmother was still in the bathroom. She left letters underneath your door. She said I was such a gentlemen. "He has such a sense of humor for an oriental guy."] The wind could not move/ clatter of porcelain pineneedle statuette/ darkness of shadowed ground/ we held hands and moved to the kitchen/ co-evolution of temporally removed formations of fate/ climbing the height of stucco wall caverns/ irregularity of blinking light forcing june bug patterns of alighted simulations//


Charting channels of Disorientation Dream drove reverse, stick shift melody. Image sculpted eyesight into off-center frame. We were constantly in a state of leaving. This shape is different from the others. By the time it changes we will be back in our hotel room. Following emptiness led by a voice that once was. He or she spoke here once. And that voice has stayed, the memory of that voice, and it resonates within the air, within the part of space that refuses to move. A barricade of silence. Electricity flowing through the particles of a path: the path of a bee, the cicada with one wing, the dragonfly whose torn cellophane body crinkled night in the dim hallways. Arrival was a mirror, blanket covered and shimmering with its inadequacy. The kind we find in the aisles of grocery stores, the dirt of a neighboring zip code, caught in the threads of our trailing lines. There was never enough space for the composition of a whole. We cropped the negative space which foregrounded the terrain. Reality and scissors fighting to claim their cause.


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Lady M and The Patterned Distribution of Domesticated Tumbleweeds  

Mini poetry chapbook by Takeki Ishihara

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