MG Roberts


3.  There is no there there.  “Here” is continually exponential to the collision of place, that which escapes existence, which we move toward, around.  Gravity takes hold thru its blackness— she’s falling.

Numbness as in the previous order of things, I can pretend as before: these events are merely pretending to happen.  The bloodstain on the blue flannel blanket does not belong to me.  #3 will call tomorrow.



4.  “Here”.  Arriving at the airport, overly lit, skylihted, and oval, a closed plane curve calls out architecture.  Generated by a point moving in such a way that the sum of its distances from two fixed points is a constant.  Back and forth, a plane section of a right circular cone that is a closed curve is arcing slow, cold, opaque.

If location makes the mistake of considering itself to be at a point of here, when it is not, or of being some constant before location arrives, where we can make the fortunate mistake of performing some constant continuance of local, as in there.  That is not a grass.  To operate on location’s terms, you are here.  It is spring; the oxalis is blooming without actually being located in terms that can only be explained by the taste now curdling the tongue.



5.  Separating mystery from night, her upturned legs meant for the weekend walk seeking elsewhere --sun dazed-- thru sex and language.
Separating reason from displacement, she realizes the light backtracking, curdling the skin.
Some thoughts curdle skin.

The process by which one sees, displaces the problem of its locating, observes shifts diurnally, reasserts itself, spills then travels like the vertical line of hair slowly altering this round, smooth, belly; searches for a more familiar version of self, gets nowhere, but slowly begins to resemble the multiple fractures of the old injury.   This time, there are no lockers to read today. No lepers today only visible lesions, which not everyone can see.


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