Aught No. 11/12 (2003) - Dwibedy and Gomberg, Rereading My Life

Aught, no. 11/12 (2003)

Amit Dwibedy & Billy Gomberg

Rereading My Life

The late afternoon, with blue and gray, and there is no "sameness" of a fragment. Resembling one person, a comma in the portrait. What "blue" is not a gripping thought. Going up (rising and from the window), we knew of the ecstasies of air. The discreet sniffing. So I echo unended —to describe its end. The analogy has done its best with intersecting lines. I filled in without shading every one of his books. Perhaps it is the same experience over and over. So aptly called your name. Our distance from paths in the dirt, only one foot is so much. If you lay it down, clumsy adventure overwhelmed, to recross a boundary, it is a way of saying, I want you, too, to have this experience. Put that after illusions it is memory that mourns this moment and I laugh. A pause has been spoiled with remorse and we "took" our new names as we "took our time". Permitted the luxury of a possibility, isn't it happening in crowds. It was only a coincidence. That is why I am disappointed, the hilarious repeated altruistically. And here I am, trimmed to an inch. Watching the obvious, a more interesting counting. Has the madman enough paper for love. The first indication of waiting, their love of detail. Now such is the seductive of typing and retyping. Music. Its reversible logic, that it resembles a person. The world gives stars (speech) I could see, perpetual patience in meaning and kept the erotic hidden. A shrug that we had hardly begun and grammar was lacking, arrogant. Bare rather than by secrets, the roses of new names along the populated cup, churn. Now such is our distance. At the time, a mystery lost to background music. As for me, who gave pucker, the shape hurts. Listen for the last name at which the pattern repeats frost. Spouse. Sunlit standing on, a circus sounded hopeless. Minutely, as if longings depress me cognition made visiting beautifully done. For my birthday I, the common daylight and always early. Sleep put together boughs, I cannot spell. Yet we insist ink is earlier by a charming preliminary. That was the full pause, but she never read it. The lawnmower complained to redwood pigments beyond the pond, the clean pots complained. By a sense of "time and motion" applications of sunlight destined to fall. Your fat daughter married to colored ribbons and my desire is always embarrassing. The envious little creatures ascending upstairs, empty handed. Certainty is not a landscape, reason looks for a madman in love, cheese, nutmeg. Any cherry blindmen will tell you the same. Some sort of morning enchanted by everyone else, any gradation of light and boredom. In preparation all day for more a clamorous supplement. I've dry eyes, whose waves air events.