GEOF HUTH 208.
Self-Portrait as a
Means of Misdirection
(to Jason John) You don’t know me,
which is good. It allows you the possibility of objectivity. Your view of me is not muddied by direct knowledge of who I am or what I do. Only in this way can you understand me.
We will move
through the progress of numbers to the summation of self.
in the case of the first
eventhough, the trough, by troth, I move through&through is tough to thought and oughs me naught but nought, the bough that bows beyond the brace of two, in heavyweight, a twelvemonth span expended, then snow will now impress the weight below the wait for now to make the winter bellow, in ice, like hollow echo’d hearts of men
after the fact of the second
a heart runs blood like water through the rusty pipes, in the sense that night is always blackened into worry, or ice in creeping crystals covers windows into foggy views
a heart could pause from feeling or from beating out its drops, the blood could stream like data, or stop and eddy in the chest, dream resembles sleep except it never leads to waking up
besides the reason for the third
something rises within irises, either color or the perception of color, a purple spiking, regal, raising its head, its eye, up
to send, to see, to gaze through whatever it is you are
beyond the tendency of the fourth
life is African more than otherwise, meaning western in continental sentiment, burgeon and surfeit beyond breaking belief:
a storm of termites battering out the sun, against the jalousies, a storm sung against the thought of daylight, and leaking through the slats, puddle, that a pair of insects could pair and burrow, to grow, eventually a mound, a hill, a termitary, a single organism, which, if wounded, would reveal the writhing white
blood cells of its still motionless body
birds in weaving music and of nest, of action in constant flow of song and flight, the thrumming movement as the trees sway in force of breeze and sunlight, dropsical nests building fledgling
balls of sound and certain flight
or through the fact of a step into a warm stream, how the fluttering swim of leeches, flattened forth, extends to each intended footstep, as an array of moving, to take the blood by drop, and leave a fluke to grow,
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