MELANCHOLIA

A TRIPTYCH BY LYN HEJINIAN

1
Alice faces and Agatha faces and Bob faces and Ben faces and Didier faces and bone flat faces and collie faces and still spider faces
Science produces its nineteenth explanation: the world has separated from the sun
Polka walkers waltz through the watercress, blonde-billed ducks build opulent nests
Literature is catapulted into reality by desire—writing is literature failing to hear
Hey hey, ho ho, baby with a diaper on can always go
It’s late–evidently, theoretically, hypothetically, by all accounts, or so they say
There was hot weather in late August, rising all day from the night, and I watched the ants on the sidewalk impossible to stop—interference simply spurring them on with the tune in my head, thematic, like crunching on corn, afraid of the sudden movements of planes, gravity and heat creating an equilibrium which kept everything in motion but prevented it from going anywhere—and I waited with the special character of relaxed interest that one feels when reading a newspaper, every item independent of every other and of you, the war not yours, the money not yours, the execution not yours, the entire month a prolongation not yours, a referral not to you, it can’t be—the sun vamping, the sun tangled on the lake, late, the lines wobbling, evangelists coming to the door and achieving nothing, the moment gone
One can’t blame the broken window on the rock, when in truth it is fate that’s to blame
Along comes someone down the street ranting about some “world parrot” and raising her arms as if raising arms to aim and shoot so realistically that she is spun completely around by the imaginary rifle’s imaginary recoil and she staggers out of view
My old grandma took me to the Moulin Rouge where they offered glasses of gin for nickels and everyone raised a toast impartially, first to the government, then to anarchy
It isn’t time that takes each new night away and returns the old day and puts a period to our desires
It rains and the empiricist drinks from an upturned cabbage leaf
There’s not much to be seen out the window at the moment, just a dog, a soup spoon, the dull eyes of a damaged statue
At the moment, chance is as obligatory as tradition once was

2
How do you do, Froth Lavender, says the goldfish to the cappuccino—it is with just such conversational overtures that the cup of human consciousness overflows
Draw the eyelids over the eyes, close the quilt over the ears
The sunlight has lit silver quivers on the rosemary—it has so many aromatic fates!
Tired workers trudge on rubber, hats off, losing boots, as they enter the vestibule which will appear, though as an afterthought, just inside the door of the shop
A non-sequitur is a song of experience
Don’t give me a rose—I prefer the inner peace of nasturtiums from which unsung earwigs crawl
See men, and anxieties of, danger of, expected earnings of, lifespan of Rauritanian, musicianship of, soldiers as, suicides of, women imitators of
Rarely ridiculously although idiosyncratically loosely, the parent mediates a dispute
Crow is mocking cow, duck is mocking truck, trowel is mocking soil, and soil’s worm is mocking mockery while we watch the clock clocking mockery’s intervals
He or she who makes a bed may not be a carpenter despite the nails driven deep into the head
Just then the first—the very first—drop of rain hits the sidewalk
An allegory is an index of inexperience
Give me an odious word
A soul came to me, an excited infantile voyeur—he was cute until he began to crawl, always scuttling toward the future while getting history ass-backwards

3
A star screen shimmers under the moon over the urban center flashing on it red and green
I’ll have a suspension, mustard, topicality, glue
Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty?
Whipped gouache just about covers the situation
In the Musée Unless there’s a fallen nest on display empty of an egg once belonging to a song bird, species unknown, which had sung
See style, see working late, see mismatched socks, see polyphony
It is the fate of logic infinitely to undo closure but that’s just to say that it’s the fate of logic infinitely to be logical
So like a man goes into a shop and there’s like this other man in there whom he thinks he recognizes and he says like do I know you?
The fallen grass in winter sprawls its spring
Regulations state that the pier can accommodate no more than one troupe of acrobats, thirty fishermen, or fifty tourists
Yo!
The child never gives up her secret, which—don’t tell—is that she has a secret, and her secret has a penis
We will lose another day from the inner picture—days are not ineradicable there
What is it that one is autobiographical about?

Artwork © Zafire Vrba and students at Lindeparkens gymnasiesärskola

Emma SapersteinComment