Untitled 1 & 2

Tree, Yusuf Kidwai

1. Edmundston, NB.
Pulp mill. Spiggots. Factorial inspiration. Unpackaged waste. Pulp. `Mechanical destruction is much more environmentally friendly than chemical destruction`. Little human space; it is a world made of machines, machines and the bodies of the trees, machines to bury the bodies of the trees. Machines to fix their knots and bruises, bend them at their knees. The tumbler. Magnificent sounds. Too loud for our ears (what about theirs?), too loud, too loud. Rolling through me, casting vibrations of shadows, casting glares as they tumble, beautiful bellowing screams, they tumble, around around. Naked trees. So naked. Hear them shred, hear them exit, enter the machines. Grind me like a pulp, I feel it pulsating. Pulp, mill. Spiggots. Fatal attraction. Digesting trees. Digesting dreams. Pulse, pulse, sensations. It`s a factory of seeds. Roll on, beautiful tree, roll on. Black black holes of punctuated done and over with. I feel nothing but memories of leaves.

2.
Somewhere
where the wind
stares, where the
trees stand still, with
their hands holding back
the snow, and the water is
applauding, the earth`s simple
rotations, where the mountains range
and the birds build stages, where the graves
of trying something somewhere winds, through the
passages of wind, and through the branches of sensation,
looking back at you, with a birds eye view, where satellites blaze
with glimmering thistles and thorns, sharpened by light reflection, sharpened
by the peering eyes of aformentioned, affirmation, somewhere, where, somewhere, where, somewhere glass-like is blooming with shards of painted ceiling reflections burned into naked, now. Clothed corneas, the blink blink workshop nature`s doors, particles, somewhere you`ll see it (when you get there) you`ll be there, when you find it (i hope), folding light, shimmering bright, sculpting airspace with it`s own desire, passion, it`s own, where thistle birds roam(because they found some light and went there)somewhere is
something, ballooning edges, leaping from drops of sunlight
trickling from thorns, like blood, like blood of skinned air
the thorns, breaking, building, sending
light flowing, the detailed angular allusion
perfectly acidic and sharp
to fit the attitude of air
here you find
somewhere.

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