Vanishing Points of Resemblance by Tom Beckett is one of those books, all twenty intense pages of it.
Some lines I will turn, pinch, tickle, twist, stroke, kiss, say over and over, wish I had written, and generally cogitate on in both a cerebral and physical way:
Life's defining moments are about contingency, accident and choice.
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I'm a poet. I think in fragments, feel in waves.
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So much depends on recognitions and misrecognitions -- on noticing, rethinking, identification -- on identity and mistaken identities -- on pairings and partings.
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Something happens when something is described. Something also happens when nothing is described.
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What can be said to be unimaginable?
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Writing and sex are inseparable. Both are utopian projects -- messy searches for connection coupled with the exploration and explosion of limits. Both are material expressions of desire, of the need to recognize and to be recognized, of the need to be intensely other with another for awhile. The relation of mind and body to possible worlds is what I pretty much inadvertently set out to explore. At some point I turned out to be my method.
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Colonized or
Colorized, eyed
Or dyed or --
One is,
I don't know,
Hologram or door,
Dolorous or grammatical,
The problem
Of other minds.
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A body edits the space it inhabits (even as it is being edited by that space): the reciprocity of being (t)here.
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