I made the collage, above, last July. A recent effort.

Raw material: National Geographic, glue.

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[also]

Life is [also] a collage.

The somewhat bizarre relationship between the living: forms and content.

Things come and go. Tableaux. The long and the short of it.

As if life itself can be considered a work of art, he says, in so many words.

How many? He counts out the next fourteen or so that make the most retrospective sense.

Given the conjunct of things; given the context; even more the metatexual, the mad beyond that is nine parts sane.

Is this sentence, with its rules and wreckage, with its somewhere else, is nonsense? Is this nonsense the end, the beginning, or the in-between?

Or beyond?

Never forget.

In particular: this word vinaigrette, this collage of the squiggly beyond, made up of various barks and yelps, those unreliable reliables rendered partially autonomous before your very eyes, on the page and elsewhere.

And the not word words, the pictures masquerading as pure image, the given rendered faithfullly.

This time, photographically unreliable, the entire world made daguerreotype.

—antyphayes
April, 2023