The Map
might be Real like Flesh: a
Mysterious Intent to Subject Me into
a Plural Facial-Form of Moving-Time before my own Eyes, or Singularly, to Subject Me to a Power of Placing a Place, a Hammer, a Haunt. Realistically, however, the Map is the most Submissive Act-Towards a Face-Facting
that there is. Quite Simply,
when Thinking about Encompassing this
City, a ham, a Hand, And He Simply Agrees. The Map
then, can be Reduced to the General
notion of Pin-Pointing Failure by Abusing the Singular: the City, or Image
of the City, as Nothing but a Grid, a Texture, Numerous Plots, of Points, a
Gesture, a Slip, a Mark, a Dot, And I
Stumble. So then, He turns, Red-Faced
and Accelerates, Burrows into the Skin, into a Dream, a Rage, an Accident, And I Again: in a Final Struggle Against Being-Held-Still, He Apprehends
the Attempt at a Definitive Definition, of what was Always, Migratory, Mutable, Uninhabitable. Thus, the Image of
the Map now, is in an Act of Being-Held
Fluid, Ungraspable, Unattainable and
Ultimately, Unrecognizable.
For
Baby-blue, this is My Migrainatory.
