huzza quog

the city is light, the only place left shadow is the home

the city is comprised solely of places in which one can no longer believe in anything

a great city built according to all the rules of architecture … then suddenly shaken by a force that defies all calculation, yet we keep trying to live as if nothing has changed but the architecture

the city is a huge monastery, of an order still seeking a name

the city writes itself on spectators’ eyes and so we gaze at each other to see if we can glimpse the secret messages of the city, inscribed like reflections of smog in the open sewers of our pupils

movement shatters narrative, brings it back to a dense and fertile nothing … i move, not to fulfill capitalism but destroy it, to shake its narrative like leaves in a november wind

i look at you like a rubber banana in the depths of transit

who are we to say we built the city? it was built by the forces that built us, forces about which we still know nothing except through dream

each urban inhabitant – from squirrel to postal worker to garden hose – is complicit in the city’s dystopian magic; we work together to perceive in exterior vision an animate darkness once resident in our souls … but there, with our productivity, we have lost intimacy

the city teaches me affirmation – not in its aspects, which each is a negative creation, but only in its sum. so i am poor in the city, for listening in such ways reduces time almost to nothing