ALL good things come to an end, eventually: Day 30 aaduna NPM with RedeR, Kumar, Perez, Khan



The Rhetoric of a 3D Hologrammar

In a 3D hologrammar each sentence is no longer a line but a Platonic solid, each period is a sphere and each dash is a bar, each bold-face font grows so bold it squats like a sumo, and each sentence’s diagram tree casts off leaves no rake can retrieve.
A hologrammar is a wraparound record of a sentence’s image seen as bounced photons like a statue made of freeze-frames, culled from a reference desk taken in by a reference beam. A set of verbal phrases volumetrically formed by a solid-state laser in which each sentence taken in by a pinhole lens has its consonants spindled and remade and each vowel’s aperture forms a lens looking back.
Verbs turned into virtual images and nouns into nanoseconds conjugated by an object beam and parallaxed into a speckle pattern.
A lexis spelled out in a code of x and anti-x, its commas formed out of photon curvature while a quantum question boomerangs from asker to asked.
In a wraparound sentence like an asteroid loop, a question mark can be rotated to form a caption balloon, brackets can be rotated to form boxes, and a q’s descender can be spun like a kickstand.
In a hologrammar each word is surrounded by a semi-visible cloud of related terms and each bit is a bubble and to “denote” is to potentially “detonate.” A phrase is embodied into a phase in a crossfire of lasers and a rhetoric is reified into an object one can walk around or walk into.
A quotation can be pried apart at its inverted commas and a suffix can be treated as if a sentence were a comet in search of a trail. A modal can vamp down a runway like a model and a clause is able to crawl like a pair of ragged claws. Each letter in each word in each sentence in each story is itself a story and degrees of comparison form a shimmering stepladder in a secret lexicon stored between blinks of an alternating current in a grammar diffracted by a grating’s slits not guided by sequence but by a spherically solid sense of form.

© 2017 Kimo RedeR                         
New York, New York   
 
Kimo RedeR (photo provided)























* * *


Continuities 

Another sharp edge
Around the mountain
A blind turn,

Should I pause, look out?
Or rush through, and
Risk dropping
into the deep valley,
lose my life?

But I know
Around the corner
As I cross the border
Between here and there
I’ll fly
Over the horizon
Join my ancestors
In the milky way

A thieving kite
Will swoop down
Pick the carcass
and feed her babies.


© 2017 Sukrita Paul Kumar               
New Delhi, India                   

Sukrita Paul Kumar (photo provided)























* * *


Letting My Home Etiolate
home,
you are an emptied sarcophagus.
I have built you crypts in every crack
of every wall that has ever bordered me;
during the excavating, roaches would crawl out
I played Twister on their backs, flexing and spiraling
into the fading.
time scatters just like them
the closer I approach, the faster memories escape me.

yet, you are also                      my                   fruition
you are the      how                 I
have grown my spine vertical
upholding it with Saints’ figurines,
fertilizing it with maseca
singing voseos to pacify its nerves
and, once, watering it with my first forty
the latter, in case I failed to choreograph a commendable blossoming.

that bottle was my vase
holding is, after all, man’s fundamental condition
I bloomed with gnarled architecture,
evidently touched by calloused hands and rhythmic spasms
roots attempting to extend to El Salvador
settling for its shadows
cast through my window whenever the sunlight deserted me

my dirt has gathered dust, lumped
into replicated temple ruins
to shelter my conviction
in some fragile exegesis of self
reciting my name to imaginings of my botanical descent
this spanish name, makeshift the way
you are an artificial tell
I mine in anxious attempts to
etymologize my footprints within soils I have never set foot on.

you are mosaiced topography
labyrinthine cartography
shackling rosary beads
a calendar system that reminds me
to plan for yesterday only after remembering tomorrow.
My body has become a pot
You are no longer the light
to which my sense of belonging dances an eternal improvisation.


© 2017 Javier Perez                           
Cape Town, South Africa      

Javier Perez (photo provided)
























* * *


The good girl act

I was cautioned to not let my fury leak
From the cracks of façade that I must weave
With threads of pretense and dishonesty

I was told to not let my Wrath show
To put it on leash and never to speak
Of its restraints, like a good girl that I must be

My Wrath growled and scratched its paws
It pulled at its restraints and begged to be out
I let its pleas die within muzzled jaws

It whimpered at the sight of flesh
A lustful glint in the otherwise blank eyes
Spoke of its waning strength afresh

Thus, assured of my tamed beast
I looked yonder with relief
Unaware of a passing feast

My Wrath yawned, stretched and pounced
Consumed flesh and blood to its fill
With the cries of pain fueling its rouse 

I stand submerged in the pool of gore
With the now sleepy Wrath beside me
The eyes of the onlookers accusatory once more

With my head hung, I tread on
Alongside the bridled Wrath with bloodied paws, thinking
Where my lessons went wrong 


© 2017 Sarah Khan                           
Karachi, Pakistan     

Sarah Khan (photo provided)
   





















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