from (In)directives


Nicholas J.A.








Part of this is red on the page.

A way of saying it says nothing at all.*

White ego, who do you think is reading?

Certain sections sound nice and they are underlined, but the whole (as is implied) is not but a body of wandering hands.**

I am.

This is. 




* “Oui, je sais qu’au lontain de cette nuit, la Terre/ Jette d’un grand éclat l’insolite mystère/ Sous le siècles hideux qui l’obscurcissent moins.”  Stéphane Mallarmé, “Quand l’ombre…”. 


** Mimosa, Henri Matisse, 1949-51, Museum of Twentieth Century Art, Itoh City. 








Streaks of amazement: riding the curves and valleys.

Before, it was my thought.

The skin of an animal that I encounter encounters these hands.

Descriptions: the undulations of this serif.

Before, it was papyrus.

If read otherwise: liposuction to my intent.

Black bloc to this hardcopy.

Before, the poem was on its own.








Break loose!

But perhaps it is an insatiable writing, even without language.

Confessionum: the soon-ness of things wearing off.

Silence: always already.*

Death: the beyond-less-ness of humidity.

But what is the opposite of solitude?**

Mild wind.




* “It comes always in the sense it was always here.”  William Bronk, Silence and Metaphor


** “Loneliness.”  Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism.








Writing silence.

Writing the cosmos.

Shadowplay: then, now, and always.

Every day is history.

Indefinite kaleidoscopes I follow to and fro.

Meanwhile time.

The slim motion of turning creates varied calculations of light.








Nicholas J.A. lives and writes in Detroit.  His work has appeared in Otoliths.