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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