Imagined Film Stills

Jasper / four frames 

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 52

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. 

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Different / two frames

Between the Lines 

Han Han / two frames

Ruta Kuzmickas / from dialogues via Notes

you dare to ask if I’d forgotten, when I could draw a blueprint of the veins across your eyelids with no memory, remember when you told me our memories are only calcified mistakes, they’re made of salt. or how the veins of our bedsheets shift around beneath us, how we make new maps to label every time we move.

I know your bed, I know it faces east in every room you’ve ever slept in, and I could trace the surface of your head onto the air as though you were across the breakfast table. how dare you ask whether my hands contain the map of your topography, you were there, did you not feel it, you are forever welded to them 

Cyclical Reasoning / Nine Frames

Aliso Viejo, California

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© Rūta Marija Kuzmickas. All Rights Reserved.