The horses stand in dreamy sleep.

The horses stand in dreamy sleep.

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

Nouveau riche, I'd cycle on my way.

Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way.




Lo dice el medio, el lenguaje. Pero

no solo el lenguaje. Menos

lenguaje del medio: este

jueves 13, a las 18.30 hrs.

el fundador del grupo de los

LANGUAGE poets, Charles

Bernstein, realizará la conferencia

“El campo expandido del

L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E” [sic]. Previa

a cargo del traductor Enrique

Winter. (Azar de fronteras des-

tinaciones suscribe, subraya, inter-

viene mismo día, misma hora, bailando

Waylla Wisa en ferias libres de Arica).


El campo expandido del L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E

traduce como intraduce (ex-

pande) The Expanded Field of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

arqueo donde Bernstein se las ha

con el ¿inesquivable? fantasma

de la deconstrucción in itself – fuera

lo que fuera. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

parche antes de la herida, previendo

a la susodicha, deniega a ratos y estratos, en-

simisma. À la lettre: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

not        deconstruction as

and end in itself [¿…?] but

reconstruction, emplacement, ex-

p-a-n-s-i-o-n & Ach die Kunst. Sino

e indicio, dicha, cómo (como) no, de Erín

Moure, de lo inmemncioable (G. O’Brien):


yseopoenen, demasiado otodo o nuda

sconstrucció de            mucho mayor
que formasespecifi9s de la instalacde
à suivre


Cuanto a Waylla Wisa, piedradiente lengua

mengua en Arica: imaynatataq watusun-

chik ¿cómo vamos a traslucir)(kay watuy

lo imposible (mana atinata) de traslucir?



[ Arica, 10.11]


That’s a good idea I’d say and you’d reply

of course it is, it was mine

and we’d laugh and I’d nestle further

into your abode and forget I hated cigarette smoke

and the steely grey of ash that seemed to grow

all over you towards the end like some kind of mould


You were a fixed point that anchored my sail

made it firm against the gusts when needs must

and now you’re dead

chards of you mirror-flash into my mind

as if it’s all a practical joke and you’re not dead at all


I see your face, and hear your voice

admonishing any hint of sentimentality.


We’d drink tea from Russian china perfectly brewed

and share, putting it all out there, laying bare

and making sense where sense was needed

to bear existence.


Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way, or walk

It never seemed right then to travel except under my own steam.


The photo triggers a skirmish.

The photo triggers a skirmish.


He is dead then, Cicero receive

the last testament of action

for you and the believers to give warrant,

leave the horses to stand in dreaming sleep

no carriage is wanted.

All receive the burning remembrance

touch the jet stream –

behind doors for each in mourning

lingers some small joy

at the sight of that sheening arrow,

straight the unbroken truth.

In each hand lay a little dust now,

house to house in lament

carry this with you good citizen

wreathe the specks in family doings,

let children see what purpose floats

in the sunlight directing.

Place the remains in brick and mortar

so the shadow in the works of all

will always catch a glance

of one who once walked so tall







But is it so simple, when one is dreaming,

to say where the realm of the animate ends?


Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie




Not a crazy impulse, a deeper kind perhaps: he steers

left instead of right, takes a fire trail that climbs steeply,

leaves it to chance whether he’ll find the un-signposted site

the other side of Finchley Trig.


The air is still and mineral sharp. A cloudless day.

Dry ridges, red gums. Away to the west Mt Yengo.

If he holds his head just so — worn markings in the sandstone platform at his feet

are bodies, rock divinities


whose dwelling spans earth and sky.  Look up, wide, unblinking eyes

see all the days and nights wheel across this point.

Others come here too. Some add scratchy efforts to the weathered forms they find;

like the bulldozer left tracks


all over the face of this rock shelf. He draws breath,

feels for the length of the place. Sandstone, coarse beneath his hand, leaves deep impressions, unfathomed constellations

fade slowly from his palm. It’s not defeat but he no longer resides in his head, is guided by something like a smile.


And all the way to the Colo

alive in its gorge, ridgelines reverberate and the ground

gives with each step. The run and break of a boy,

who spent every spare moment clambering over red gums and rocks.


Struck down by tiny orchids, immaculate-white they nod their heads on slender stems,

sing out to the sclerophyll litter.

A boy made without his knowing to carry a place, to imbibe spare arrangements, particular angles

and as if already known,

the weight and colour of weathered stone, broken canopy, the scent and crackle.


His hand rests on a flesh-pink angophora. A smooth trunk, torqued limbs

reach out, streaked blood-red

with sap; old wounds still ooze. There’s warmth at the middle of him.

It ranges like oxygen, seeks the crown of his head, tips

of fingers and toes; then back into the pores of the rock.





The wound is a heel print[1]

in the infant’s chest

The photo triggers a skirmish


No No -


No No -

Public display/De-sensitizing

No No


Yes Yes -

I am from this country

Yes Yes -

Tell the world

Yes Yes


Facebook duels

Facebook debates

Facebook rages

Shoot the bloodletting

Fire the images across the cosmos

The war on small bodies still wages[2]


[1]From a media image and caption posted on social media

[2]Alludes to the poem Small Bodies published in Red Bird by Mary Oliver (Bloodaxe Books 2008)

Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little had it right about homeland insecurity.

Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little
had it right about homeland insecurity.

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