“It is not a spirit which has made things.” Artaud the little rabbi paints what he sees a farm that harvests flames —horses hanging sows from hooks— the aging couple drowning themselves in a golden pool behind the trees the little rabbi paints what he sees
Lucas Rivera
The Hall
it’s better not to have written anything surface’s light juts from a tilted stage yet occasionally you can’t as a blindness says we are what was said there before i almost didn’t write my arms will move upward but i’ve begun a ghost bows and drinks from my mouth