unblankening braid

the paper was thirsty and the printer promised quench. once, with an anatomist, i dissected an inkjet. take a blank sheet. press a pen tip to it gently, but with enough pressure to mark. licked on both sides is as wet as you can ask for. we rolled out the table, its metal sloping toward the drain hole. move your hand or the paper or both. to slide through and then to return again. reverse slither ending in the hot waft of toner. next came the blue cloth and the glinting tools, each with a name and a reason. the important, and yet almost-not-worth-mentioning, part is the change in relative position. nothing sexual, per se, but intimate. then, of course, the misfeeding machine itself. something like parallax, but less cosmic. or differently cosmic. a cousin. even a jam nudges toward extended interaction. we bobbed our heads above it. examined what was visible. opened new areas to the light. once you’ve marked, scan. turn physical to digital. examine the screen, the invitation for a third party to open up, the language we used remained tethered to the typical purposes of the lab, and yet it flexed almost without hesitation, making adjustments as needed or desired. initiate the router-mediated message for rephysicalization. investigate, to tent in the appliance and its interlocking parts. determine and then confirm the conditions in the dialog. send the signal. see the LED flash. hear the whir. pull against the rollers, a cadaver and a printer, watch the thing that was once a tree go through the thing that was once so many things, both ancient and new. set the choreography in motion. both marvels of interdependence. then the licking. the warm smell. again. only one, though, receptive to reanimation. the scrawl once more made corporal. a tongue and all that muscle.

***

THUNDERHEAD (or crying at 3ft)

***

after →  ← gone

                        i hear a

           voice.

           there,                           a

 voice.                      their

    breathing,

                                       soft.

                     they’re

 breathing.                    soft

                       here, my ear.       

                  hear                           their

       voice.     there,

                                  their voice:

                                          air.

***

Ryan Greene is a translator, book-farmer, and poet from Phoenix, Arizona. He’s a co-conspirator at F*%K IF I KNOW//BOOKS and a housemate at no.good.home. Like Collier, the ground he stands on is not his ground.