In companion with the exhibition: Yui Kugimiya and Fabienne Lasserre: Foreign Object

by Roger Van Voorhees

Publicizing a burst of the difference,

awareness sewing together its mug

lines each act of framing           it is

this pine-cone I give of the composed breath,

tar distilling to air        (the throat (lit plus sign

and whiffing info. gauges you lodge up

in a snap, this changing order

being the production of

no formula                   that cap inches inflate

the finish-line stretching it out

expanded into the humming area of a tent

Here the folding ruler flexes its oval blush,

speed bending measure into lengths of rounded light, as your lips

boot-up in full pulse of addition, whose trumping vocables

sound a range of equivalence that creates nothing

and destroys nothing, as you see it breathing in the circle’s un-ending curve.

To snooker progress, you favor the ballooning dumb-bell.

A desert-inhabitant… intoned luck canceled waves… to smooth

the cabin wall until its four-sided response transmits a flash,

the stunned alarm squared off wheeling in the fizz

as the freckle endows your head with its boon of novelty.

It is love, or else a swig of mortality funneled into a Coke bottle,

duping the doped up rules of thumb, the split

a moot point, making its way across the electric bill…

You are disguised by this marquee

of duplicate identity, escaped

under the sign of an invented death.

So you walk beneath the thundering parasol,

twirled instant, as it spins off the curvature of your will. 

For now the hermit is to be the man about town,

his trench-coat inverted, socializing schmaltz;

whose raining tribes are the varicolored bulbs of Saturday night,

neutralizing the water-logged distance.  So he herds

all his jittering dots into a pint of noise, housing sodas

of the June charged air, which suits your nose

so very well, “mein liebchen!” 

as you are alive to the siphonings of 

and every stunt that goes flipping through the grass exit,

the sleeve sucking the day

through your vice, like a tether-ball

and the button pops open

featherd gulpings off a figure 8

an oval dish of air to mark the spot

placing you outside out

writing index

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