All I can think about is tearing open my torso, getting my lungs out and drying them up to feed some dogs.

Un corps en conche
se fait caisse,
résonance de l’Etre.
Sur aucune paroi ne frappe le son.

Chaque cellule est un tympan.
Chaque cellule claque, claque,
un serpent, deux serpents.
Les systèmes s’empilent
et le corps, las des langues,
se détend à la lumière d’un écho.

Tremblement immédiat des papilles.

Des capteurs coulent vers le coeur qui ramasse les notes,
amasse, en valse rythmique
les battements que sont l’orchestre qui nous relie
à toutes les autres musiques.

Les nerfs en branches sifflent dans le vent de l’arbre qu’est notre Etre.

Une fille se crispe au bruit d’une clef qui tombe à terre, touche le sol,
les bruits de pas se confondent au bruit du sang qui pulse dans le bas-ventre.
Ventriloques sont ces événements qui parlent.
Des oreilles sifflent et renvoient la conscience à son chant initial.
La vie pulse et la joie se cogne entre les cotes,
afin de déplier le reste.

Les artères ont leur mélodie. Le sang coagule sur de fausses notes.

Quand jetée à terre, elle sanglotait,
le cou crissant comme une poule qui piaille,
des pluies de conscience, frappant les oreilles
descendaient le long de la colonne, pilier du monde.

Le souffle traverse le corps qui se soulève.

Les vrais chutes ne font pas de bruit.
Mais le réveil de la cellule hurle.
Mystère de soi, hors de soi.
Une poitrine se déchire et c’est un monde qui s’ouvre.

Personne ne te voit, mais le squelette entier est secoué.

Les larmes s’accumulent dans les os.
Les sanglots se cristallisent en cailloux dans l’articulation.
L’os grince à la rotule.
Les cailloux frottent à force de mouvements inutiles.
Une main part brusquement
au geignement d’un nerf sciatique.

Fissure.

La fissure émet-elle un son ou bien le son fait-il la fissure?
Le son fend le corps.
Ils parlent si fort que l’on n’entend plus. Ils fendent les âmes.
La fleur qui fane entend-t-elle la courbure de son cou qui flanche?
Quel est ce silence qui n’existe plus?

Il y a entre les côtes des chants de sirènes, dans des paysages larges et fleuris.
Il y a entre les côtes des silences plats, parfois,
des orages, et des cognements d’acier, des bruits de bêtes et d’argent,
sous un pancréas, une caverne, sous un foie, une fille qui attend.

Ta Présence étourdie l’oreille.

Seul le diamant se tait.

Seattle, WA.

Disasters,
glow,
beautiful fires
in the dark.
One sun,
one moon,
one man,
you order me to stay on the periphery,
of your eyebrows:
lungs could be the wings of the heart,
clapping are they like headphones,
they beat drums on your inside
and you sigh.
You bruise everything you look at.
Have you recorded all the events you have witnessed?
wind in the branches,
birds cackling,
and shaking our thoughts,
by flapping wings.
No one has heard the noise of,
tiptoes on ice,
no one prays on sinking ships.
You battle strongly,
why not let go?
I hang on to the idea of some nipples.
The heart pains at recognizing its true self and desire.
The signs have lost clarity,
bright is the night,
and the stars shine as a thousand suns at midday.
You lost track of the thought.
The stones you carry,
hold you down,
till you drop them in some unkown abyss.
Abyss of the heart,
stones like plums.
Stones cannot rot,
you think,
as they disintegrate
in the wind.

Seattle, February 2007.

She lies on the grave of her love,
nothing left but a few ashes,
something stares,
through the pine trees,
comme des sardines,
shinning waters,
ecailles d’argent a la surface
of your eyes.
How long waiting,
face the sea,
facing mirrors,
the black holes;
hilled lands,
in caves of water.
Still are the leaves,
on stand by.
More grounds shake
and trembling clouds dance around us,
fetch buckets and spades,
castles of you,
fill the Skies.

Affected by a tiny turn,
things go wrong again.
Ruffle in the box,
click on start,
mix it up,
retune your inner feelings,
unblock the pathway to eternity,
cool the light burn,
drop it backwards, head down.
Hear what makes the breach.
Stung by a bee,
in the middle of me,
ears ringing, drilling holes,
over fears,
under pillows,
watering plants, feeding goals
and buses of souls,
fulfilling missions,
responding to gravity.
Walking amongst hair, on the beach.
Preparing holy pearls,
of sincerity, of lifted burden,
beading them through,
your strings of sorrow,
necklace laced, around you,
returning stringed emotions
to where they belong,
opening channels of.
Beads and mushrooms live.
Breach.
Wronged women
stare in the dark,
legs are flying,
arms are torn,
tongues twist the truth,
and eyes burnt, glitter for ever.
Responding to the mystery,
nothing stopped morning from rising,
the shore is wet and well.
I see you on the beach.
The break through of our days
in gentle areas of our pumping organ,
announcing rupture,
announcing odds,
as in a rehearsal of happiness,
amongst the cracks,
in dark secrets hidden from light,
unreachable lines of hope
spend time fading away,
as I hear noise coming from the beach.

When victory
folds
itself,
to it s destiny,
and gentle curves
arise,
down to earth,
does shining metal
resolve to take the path?

heartbroken pearls
of human shells
opened are they,
in the depth of the sea
and clock-wised nerves
remember our past,
and memories
drink images and sound.

Superb trains
that run at night
on lines of trouble
and rains of rails
in dark surroundings
of dangerous deeds,
of dangerous mending,
of dangerous routes,
that choose
to wheel
in times of rubble,
in times of weed,
across the fields,
across the sheets
of wheat,
that flattened by time
bump tonight,
like a rose yard,
with silver sparks
at the back of our house.

Investigation,
respiration,
and forgetfulness;
dropping out of disorder
I remember,
I should have opened the windows,
today.

Contracts and signatures
have filled the days
and burning the assumptions,
turning to the wild self,
bringing up the casted out,
I follow through
an old dream of mine
that resurfaced
as I was drowning in old tears.

Follow through,
to the point,
of not knowing,
where I am,
where I sit,
where I stand.

Ringing old bells,
switching light bulbs,
and recovering
from under the moss
truth, vanity and.

As it rains and pours as usual over Seattle, I must say for the second time in 5 weeks, a car driver has stopped and offered me an umbrella. Last time, not only did he stop, but he parked his car, walked under the rain and came to make sure we would take it. This wasn’t on a slow road but on a fast main street… As I think over these six years in Seattle, I remember taking the number 7 bus downtown for the first time that 6 years ago, and crying a tear as the bus stopped and waited 5 minutes to let a wheel chair get up on the bus. Nobody was impatient, nobody got mad about how long it was taking, actually everybody got up to help and tie the wheel chair to the seat. Tonight at the 2 grocery stores I went to, I saw the same blind woman being helped with her cart to find produce by the staff. Tonight in Seattle, I feel happy and grateful. I love America. 9 years ago when my son was born in Paris, I couldn’t even take the metro with a stroller because strollers and wheelchairs are illegal on the Paris metro or bus lines. My life had shrunk to a few blocks. My grandmother couldn’t take an elevator to get to the train because they had no accessible elevators for elders or handicapped people. Six years ago, as I left the north of France, the movie projectionist of Le Fresnoy, Florian, talking about Americans said they were like Buddhist children with guns…I guess I do love Americans…still thinking about what that really means.