know

YOU KNOW YOU SHOULDN’T STAY THE SAME
BACKTRACK IF YOU NEED TO
JUST DON’T REMAIN

mountain man

GARNER YOUR HEALING
ALL OF YOUR BLEEDING
AND FOLLOW PATTERNS IN THE SUN

wash

WHAT OF NATURE THEN
IF LIFE BORNE OF DEATH LET MYSTERY END
WHAT LOVE HAVE I YET TO RECEIVE

Naoya Hatakeyama

(bits)

how often you go to sleep, now
and do you see
do you see
just a ceiling
be irrational
be irrational

(it’s just me, darling)

oh, quit catchin’ up
a garden grows in season
well we find time don’t we
to call on
and be irrational
be irrational

MAN, i was frantic

i can see from here
we’re discontent

have a little fear
tell yourself the things you need to hear

you know, you shouldn’t stay the same
backtrack if you need to, just don’t remain

man, it’s been a real long summer

little luck
say you’re lucky
but

uncertainly

say you’re lost
but you love
enough,
enough to keep clean

illusion, please comfort me,
satisfy everything,
i can live peacefully
if you curtain the window
that i had flung carelessly
on the day i was sure
that i had seen everything
plainly in front of me
heaven and hell were divided
unevenly
but there i saw certainty
standing across the street
crossing was heresy
‘if only’, i told myself,
‘i hadn’t seen anything.
the curtain i’d drawn
were a wall to stay stuck between’
sure, i’d lose purpose
and with it gain apathy
but apposed to uncertainty
purposeless living is
sort of like being free
where heaven and hell
are divided by you and me

needs, a garden of needs
insecurities; the eaters
live with me among my weeds
or redefine my features

all i am is here with me
all my deeds and futures
forget me not i rose to plead
uproot my paths and futures

1/3

flick another cigarette out of your window
like an ornament
the city, a prince,
detests and pretends and sighs
/this is what i am now isn’t it/

2/3

god, this is what i am now isn’t it
a boulevardier,
just another star in the sky,
i, this great city,
am a cactus planted in the median of an interstate

3/3

LA, a miracle
an oasis
a paradise lost
and rediscovered
LA, i need you
unreasonably
and now i feel lost
and undiscovered

photography by Sallie Harrison

CHRIST / Christmas Songs

b r o t h e r

in your new shoes
you
practice singing songs
at the piano bench
she was with you
too
in her new shoes
and she sang along


Father, my dear
hear
blessings in a song
as they call your name
beckoning you near
here
keep them in your arms


and as i write a poem
i hear you sing
i hear you laugh
so i write it down
in my new shoes
in my own time
and if you hear me now


sing her a song
give Him your prayer
rest in His arms

blessings ………. no. 1
rest in my arms ………. no, 2
brother ………. no. 3

homes,
sitting on the roof when i got to thinking
that places grow with me and make my meaning
a bear cub in the rough

truth,
carving out my frame, a sturdy vessel
my place is where you tame the waves i wrestle
when blessings aren’t enough

CHRIST / Christmas Songs

r e s t i n m y a r m s

when the mood’s been set and your eyes
slowly drift toward rest beside
a candle flicks for a while
and it says,
you’re a masterpiece

blessings ………. no. 1
rest in my arms ………. no, 2
brother ………. no. 3

love me when i’m weak
talk to me or something

being is like breathing, and i’m heaving through the rhymes
reading written feelings didn’t satisfy my mind

and as i come undone
i’ve forgotten loving

lifeless definitions are the forrest i can’t pass
trees i built my life upon, i watch as they collapse

me

oh, icarus; my blood
do you carry something

CHRIST / Christmas Songs

b l e s s i n g s

Father, my dear,
hear
blessings in a song
while we call your name
beckoning you near
here
keep us in your arms

blessings ………. no. 1
rest in my arms ………. no. 2
brother ………. no. 3

designed direction
summer hills now overgrown with introspection
defeating my heart

i hear birds of May sing whispers of the season
while she’s cold at night from winters wind of freezin’

these days behind

photo by Andrew Dalrymple pomeriggio sulle colline

what of nature then?
if life borne of death let mystery end
needles surround me and i am undone and yet called to begin
what life have i yet to receive?

GIF from the film Solaris by Andrei Tarkovsky

truth finds me now,
as a thread,
unthreading seams i’d sewn
the needle is a pine
and if i am nature
and nature within me
i’d pray as i unravel
that truth console my need

GIF from the film Solaris by Andrei Tarkovsky

in each beginning
gravity invites
to dwell amongst the sand and stars
to become like one another
and pull at each of the opposites

it was Abram, directed and removed
at a wall in a desert
where history had yet been proved
to have been more than a line
and like gravity,
Abram now Abraham
forsaken to climb

once again a beginning

Photos by John R. Pepper Inhabited Deserts

true, unsaid little virtues
what common things i’ve yet to grasp
mysteries, survive me
what lies below a lake
do you gasp
from fathom of discovery
while lungs fill with water,
best do my breathing
where the air is decidedly yours

photo by Andrew Dalrymple OCEANOGRAPHY_02

faith without reason is a miserable choice
and the breath of a deity is a need to rejoice


but why are you so sullen now?
there’s a God who forgives
our need to feel confident
is what vanity is

Christians,
Christians,
what blessing hath he left us though?
the dealings of our lives are aptly called an ebb and flow

archaic things that give us faith
just look at love it gives us grace

but, god, oh god, you love defending sacrilege
while culture becomes foreign becomes sinful makes you lack courage

god, you’re so defensive you’re so tender
where honor dies you cast yourself

but you are not a martyr
you’re no savior
just let Him be Himself

pride, immortal poison,
and we drink it
to refrain from doubt
or has He told us death is dead and therefor we should live without

Print by Naoya Hatakeyama LIMEWORKS

when beetles wake from days of winter caving
and the needles on those pines are all but changing
it’s long undone

honey, it’s me you saw bleeding with the river
the snow that melts and reels me into shivers
i’m redefined

photo by Juan Manuel Castro Prieto PORTUGAL RISING FROM THE ASHES

it’s suddenly dark

it’s awfully dark
if light was a sound it was loud

covering ears

to deafen the fears
encompassing me like a cloud

‘little hope’
these are lovely words,
what fathers sing

and a father exposed
on calvary

the tide that had shift
a poem adrift
icarus give us a sign

a freediving psalm
that screams carry-on
the pressure that mounts underneath

so,
what
of
us
then?

if light is a gift and freedom’s within
i am a man who contends
and in truth i am weary
from these sudden uneasy demands

it’s climbing like water and brine
like waves i froth at the mouth
for the shore with the pine

what wonderful things
a garden can bring
the mast that would rise like a pine

don’t reel yourself in
but harness the wind
your strength is a thing to behold

it’s not even cold in here
it’s bereavement to a widow fourth over
something placid and refined
my body aches like the wood in the antique desk she lent to me
before he died
does she know it’s here
baking in the sun
where the arguments of petty rivalries outlast the peace of pestilence

so let’s take it all apart
you figured it was at the start
i spent several years behind the wake
it was rough for just a namesake

aaaaaaaaand OH!
we’re past the snow
my chest is covered

i don’t mean to pull alarms
it was richer then to play a part
so i’ll tell you where the cadence ends
watch a feather fallin’ in the wind

dooooooooon’t GO!
the door ain’t closed
it’s undiscovered

my commentary is not forever
this temporary bleeding measure
i’ll tell you where this passage goes

so shadow my history
Spring is a mystery

what a beautiful refrain

i’ve got enough for you
i’ve got it silenced
i’m by the water

i was scatterin’
i was breaking apart
and when the color came at once i ran into the heart

there’s no belaborin’

into the water

i am not the person that other people seem to think
and i have hated strangers just because they took it out on me
i’m bitter and i’m selfish like a different kind of vanity
i’ll sit with you for hours but it hurts and takes it out of me
indifference is a sickness, it’s not worth it, but i soak it up
bitterness addictions got me through the years of breaking up
we are equal strangers
i could ask you what you’re going through
language is a difference
but it seems more like a point of view
i can’t hold to something
that feels fragile
and that isn’t mine
these are my foundations
they were built on a more simple time
i am not your hero, i’m a person, i can’t chalk it up
i can’t find a place for love and if i can’t i fear i’ll give it up

receive me, brothers

don’t turn away

i am not like the others

i can share your name

it’s winter, man
where’m i gonna run to?
it’s winter, man
where’m i gonna run to?
where’m i gonna run to?

can’t you see my name?
can’t you see my name, man?

receive me, brothers

can’t you see my face

receive me, brothers

tell me what it takes

can’t you hear me prayin’?
can’t you hear me prayin’?

i can feel the power

i feel the power so i run to receive

i feel the power and i came to receive

can’t you hear me prayin’?

then the Lord said
i can hear you prayin’
i can hear you prayin’

i was living in the past
a place i knew i could climb the dash

a long day was comfort to
the memories i still pursue

so there’s nothing left to say
but here i am so for once i’ll pray

my mind is numb so i’ll feel it out
if this ends at all it will be in doubt

i’ve got a moment and it’s stuck with me
the time i lost my life on both my knees

the cotton sheets were black and grey
i pressed my nose in the normal way

the sound i heard was my mothers voice
she said it’s time to make the choice

i saw it then as clear as now
my life was His by final vow

and i’ll say it again in another way
by four years old i gave my life away

what life could i at that time hold
by five i learned what might unfold

my neighbor died in her own backyard
her face lay flat and her mouth ajar

i called her name but she just stayed still
like she chose this place by her own freewill

an ambulance came and i went inside
i didn’t know if i should stay or hide

her bones are now twenty-one years old
she’s in a better place or so i’m told

so life is sweet until you read the script
where death and life have meanings flipped

five years passed like a tidal wave
i’d say it pulled me in and taught me grace

music took ahold of me
the radio’s better bliss and the 403

it was a sound i felt inside my bones
i’d pretend to sleep while i wore headphones

but i never learned to play my dads guitar
i always more preferred to read the bars

but i think it came off as a lack of drive
if the idea was yours then it wasn’t mine

that was the beginning of my favorite piece
i started writing verse on music sheets

by sixteen years i was far too young
to start to say my mood was numb

life had then become a choice
like my mother said when i heard her voice

i heard one time you can lose your taste
and the nerves inside will be replaced

like a willful decline as the years unfold
til’ the things you taste are from what you’re told

but at some point you just can’t afford
to learn by the risk of your own accord

that’s when apathy rears it’s head
if i had known the truth i’d have been misled

so you say to seek relief
and dive headfirst into unbelief

and now i host these diatribes
while you listen close and say ‘i get this guy’

so why is it i’m so distraught
i sold my life and someone bought

the trade was fair but i had no say
neither on that Winter night or any other day

by twenty-two i was feeling fine
if i’m not His then at least i’m mine

i started to wish i could speak aloud
but i’m not sure i’d make them proud

the music turned my arts to praise
showing me it wasn’t just a phase

but still i felt misunderstood
i loved myself like no one could

but why do i cry when i hear a song
how do i say there’s nothing wrong

it’s not enough to say it’s nice
there’s something there and it’s so concise

as if the curtain stopped and dropped just for
some thing we knew we could not ignore

but we do and it hit me like the wave at ten
that if He won’t speak then He’ll be just Him

i’m twenty-five and the strange thing is
that i’m pretty much who i was when i started this

if the years go by it will just be time
or intended hills that i’ll have to climb

the purity of belief is that it ages well
and the more you trust then the less you fail

by no means will i give up truth
yet honesty is a retreat to youth

so what point then should i restore
the time has passed since being four

death admits to being blind
and when we all jump ship we leave the past behind

so i’ve got to be an honest man
it’s got to be just me and Him

you can make anything of it

if it wasn’t on time
then it would’ve been your proof
i had a blessing on mind
well it wasn’t in the fruit

and i’m standing on the matches now
tell me will you pass it off
or is the yarn a little tired now?

time’s s’posed to lift it up!

the light’s not life
when it’s in your hands
who could follow through
with these demands?

so i just look away!
so i try to be brave.

if you could have known

j
u
s
t

h
o
w

t
h
e

t
i
m
e

t
o
o
k

s
o

long to pass

does that make us the same?
do i carry your name?

man, you should have known

i couldn’t pick it up

i, the woods

‘-

justify your love
or tell us that we’re something
the woods oppressin’ darkness that felt forever last
a fever rest forgiveness that had dwelt before it passed
too soon

OH, your features are not mine
yet, i carry what is something
the sun breaks through the branches where the leaves create contrast
and i’ll bolster my own burdens as the prophet to my past
tju
-‘

i, the lakes

reading the glass
if it isn’t i’m past
drowning the fields, i’ll settle

it’s got to be the farmers gone
we said it won’t be very long
we watered the plants
we gave it a chance
so what’s left to anticipate?

i broke through the glass
i’m swimming too fast
i’ve got no way to regulate

above the water i can see it

i was living like a dream
sometime between now and two thousand seventeen

i’d come back to where it slipped
bedside blues and a final script

i took the pen and i wrote a song
about a innocent man who got it wrong

a grievance borne while he was young
that killed his soul and held his tongue

a little less human with each release
made him someones conversation piece

so i studied Frued like it was my whole life
and i’ll tell you now i could see his eyes

his blue retinas like the pull of waves
then the air was clear and i lost my phase

someone should find a way to say
that the ocean blue is more often grey

and i swear i’m never like this but it got this way
i felt my grasp on life quickly slip away

my favorite thing was no longer mine
and sure, i could chalk it up to a bad design

a chance at life if is to die on knees
God knows i live my life to please

and if it’s utter fascination too
i’d like to hear a new point of view

i lost some hope in writing this
if the words are faint and meaning missed

there’s no room for me between the lines
but there’s more to this than if it rhymes

and yes i’m full of concept dreams
where no one asks what all this means

shining like history
the sun is a mystery
i couldn’t hide /

/ this wonderful design /

if you should know,
i’m a faithful guy
oh, but the lengths /
i’ve gone to stay afraid

time to be brave!

_ no. 2
i’ve got you on my mind, giver

hindsight, is indestructible
when you’re dealing with a birthright
my mind’s an open road
Lord knows
Lord knows

_ no. 1
godspeed, you animals!

HOLY, HOLY, HOLY
LORD GOD ALMIGHTY
_all of humanity praise
our bones are wet
our hearts are full
our blood is invariably yours

perfect in power
perfect in power
perfect in power
perfect in power
perfect in power

all thy works shall praise thy name

_all bones dried out
all hearts cried out
all blood is in thy name

LORD of your creation
giver of salvation
HOLY, HOLY, HOLY
what beautiful love and purity

そして私は走った
/
at once i ran

PRINTS (IN DESCENDING ORDER)
FOR GAP by Rich Stapleton
TOTTORI by Hideaki Hamada
DISTANT DRUMS by Hideaki Hamada
TOTTORI by Hideaki Hamada

1

₁ I can’t begin to explain the first story that brought me here, into the middle of the desert, looking at stars.
₂ I can’t speak as clearly anymore, there’s something holding my tongue and I feel like it’s taken control ever since.
₃ I speak in dissuasions as a permanent advocate to the devil.
₄ I’m untrusting and slowly numbing against the heat of the sun I’m stuck under.
₅ Who built this desert anyway?
₆ The sun is my least favorite star in that manner.
₇ The closest star to me but somehow the least recognizable.
₈ Unlike the distant stars, its heat is a feeling. And the feeling is failing.
₉ To me it feels like the nagging red blink of a smoke detector.

I’m told the sun makes all things beautiful.

.



.
.












₁₀ There’s a certain hour of each day where you can just, and only just, look at it.
₁₁ So I tried.
₁₂ I looked right at the sun, right at it, right when its shine was its least intense.


₁₃ I didn’t see anything but I lost everything.
₁₄ I lost my memory, I lost my sight, I lost hold of reason. I felt everything slip out of my hands and into place. From that moment all I could do was feel.
₁₅ What they don’t tell you about coming to your senses is that you lose grip of reason.
The imprint on my eyelids was enough to deduce what had happened.
₁₆ I didn’t dare think.
₁₇ When you look at the sun for clarity you get what you came for.
A black dot blur eclipsing the world.
Forever.

2

₁ Now here is my nagging thought.
₂ You can forget your memories. Actively. But you can’t erase the history that created them. ₃ History is kept alive and forgotten collectively. ₄ That’s not to say that all is written in stone. In my opinion that adage is nearsighted. History repeats itself is a better adage. ₅ As opposed to history, memory is selective. Because of this we can all collectively forget and with a little time added we can erase history’s conscious existence.
₆ I think that by existing you become apart of a contract that dictates the course of history as an observer and a bearer. I need to think, and sometimes escape the collective, to keep history alive.

₇ To get rid of the weight of this contract I go out into the desert to look at the stars.

PRINT BY AKARI HELICOPTER

on the path to Damascus
at the dimming of the day
Paul laid down his armament
and God walked his way

what a failure of reason
what a reasonable choice
to walk in a direction
but to stifle your voice

was Paul not a martyr
nor did he murder a few
what service or sacrament
i coud sit in a pew

to abolish the firmament
to get rid of my crimes
i won’t let go of reason
but i’ve laid down in kind

what a bitter infusion
of logic and love
you are earnest in affection
but you’re still stuck above

and on the path to Damascus
Paul fell at once blind
and i can see the reflection
that’s how we’re designed

PRINT BY ISSEI SUDA SPARROW ISLAND

on the second of May i didn’t see anyway
we would make it here

but i wrote you a song that said it wouldn’t be long
while i bled in fear

oh, for all i knew was once in the center
on walls and old bridges where we walked together
i could see

but you made my life blind, you left me stranded in time
in a foreign place

my home was long gone and my night became dawn
and that had a weight

that song that i wrote had felt a bit dimmer
i made a new song where you fought the winter
while you freeze

you remind me today that this was His way;
not to feel the shame

and if we’d do it again you wouldn’t amend;
it would be the same

oh, and you knew that we’d be together
that in the cold storm you could face the weather
just for me

i was reading in a car
catching words by each streetlight
the words were spaced too far apart
i nearly quit when i had a thought
what order of letters got me here
my primal form is no Shakespeare
and i know you think this is nothing new
to think about life as more than something to do
but if it’s just words then i feel free to say
that i don’t really care about my birthday
so if i could act on any thought
would my faith be less distraught
i gave it a chance and i found the end
there’s no life in lifeless ends

if this car stopped i could read my book
and catch the words at one time
by now the metaphor is getting old
life is change and that’s not so bold
i feel the culmination of grief in my young life
and a raging ache behind each blue eye
an anonymous person says, ‘are you okay?’
i said i’m fine and that was true
but i wish there was more that i could do
so why don’t i do it you could say
but first i should eat before i rot away

God is good and that’s all great
but i miss his voice if that’s okay

i figured out what’s happening
there’s a foreign place
inside my veins
it’s reaching out
to grab me
and whether i need it isn’t up to me
it’s deep inside
like some small thing
a needy voice
that grabs me

so when my mind freezes, i’m listening
you shouldn’t be afraid

there’s
got
to
be
a
safer
place
for
you
to
be
than
here
with
me

PAINT BY BERNARD FUCHS LOVE IN SAN FRANCISCO

▋ LESSER_filament_no1

1993 FALL
God’s gift to me was making me left-handed. It’s not a gift, really. Not in the traditional sense. Plenty of people have gifts. It seems damn near everyone you know has something they do, something that makes them them. I had a friend, said he’d never do anything valuable in his life. Said he’d never done it and can’t see him doin’ it. Last Spring he called and told me he was moving to Kings County. Said he won the lotto. Opened a bagel shop down on third with a view of the Creek. Called it Creekside Bagels. I asked him once what it is I do and he told me I’m left-handed and you don’t see that much. I’m not sure he meant it. But it stuck with me.

P E O P L E –

IMITATING STRANGERS

there was a hole in the middle
and the crowd filtered through it
i told myself not to worry
there was a hole in the middle
and the strangers all knew it
i tell myself not to worry

i didn’t want seem unknown
is this something we need to know?
why does it seem like everyone knows?
is this something i need to know?
by my own choice i’ll be the one who goes
i tell myself not to worry

Print by Issei Suda Kamakura Meigetsuin

P  E  O  P  L  E —

let me feel it out

here they let us read until the light goes out here they let us read until the light goes out there’ll never be enough time be enough time here they let us read until the light goes out let me figure it out i can figure it out EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING is in the light i can figure it out i can figure it out

Print by Issei Suda Akita Prefecture

P A R T  N O. III

‘babe’

“hey, roll up your sle[eves], it’s time to go”
oh wow you know me
[that] unsubtle g[litter] in your eye,
of knowing of an unknown why
– ‘babe’- , you’re tough as nails, what got me on y[our] mind?
i chose once not to see
figuratively, you figured out the me i don’t k[now]

1/3

Print by Naoya Hatakeyama Lime Works

P A R T  N O. II

‘magnolia seed’

what is hidden to [you]; complete beauty, – ‘magnolia [see]d’ – my ancient rose, you are rhapsody in [orange,] a steady flicker, fi[reside], given [to] the shadows you lend your little [light]

2/3

Print by Franco Fontana Landscapes

P A R T  N O. 1

‘little we’

[the]se words i chose sparingly, and meaningful – ‘little we’ – togetherness, stillness, s[implicit]y with dreams a[flame] [in]credible as these the night is calm, by [you] indefinitely

3/3

Print by Joel Meyerowitz Cape Light

the city gives up composition at night, lights swelling, like moisture on a cloth sky, words like comets burn thick air, she has a heartbeat; 2am, 5am, a blue hue shadow on the leaves, if you see a field, you have to run through it, nobody is a bystander

Print by Paul Fusco Robert Kennedy Funeral Train

i have some weakness, some weakness for you in a soft a peaceful light you draw shadows, some shadows on walls built by sun and solid life

and i can feel you here, while everyone walks we choose to stay we can leave this place, while building our home along the way

Print by Tatiana Dyatlik Untitled

somewhere in the troposphere there is a gate i want to pass through, in this place everyone wanders because nothing is familiar, we become anonymous, not hidden, anonymous, nameless,

imagine pressing your cheek against a mirror with an expectation of what you will see but instead you see someone else, something totally and completely apart from you, but somehow distinctly a part of you, i think this is what love is

two days ago i held a rock in my hand, (what is a rock?), i threw it in a pool and checked in the morning to see if someone had picked it up, i did this because someone would see it and say, ‘why is there a rock in this pool?’ and inevitably pick it up, we can’t not pick up the rock,

disorder is interesting

i have a tenuous grasp on significance, a restless illusion of understanding something, i can create connections, bridge the gap between memories, find a familiar path, i never know if they are real love is transcendental, my past is not written, there is not a book of my exploits, i hold onto anything that should define me because i say it is my significance,

true love kills pride, desires, reasons — precious reasons, whoever loses his life should gain it i am okay with not understanding love, love is humility, disorder, reality, anonymity, void of self,

i think

PRINT BY FRANCO FONTANA LANDSCAPES OF THE FOUNTAIN

i could spend my life adrift and wonder what i’d missed or give life to those eyes; and the feeling subsides

you were something of a mist i thought could not exist we were kids for a night when we walked by the light can you give me your words, my little bird? i want to give you my life

Print by anonymous Albarracín

there’s a song out there, a belabored one, singin’ you’re the fire to my sun and i’ll cherish while it’s fun

Print by Franco Fontana Landscapes of the Fountain

SPEND SUMMER WITH US IN THE GREAT WETTERSTEIN MOUNTAINS 

embark on a voyage of self-discovery with Günther Holst where you will conquer the mighty Zugspitze aboard the infamous Eibsee cable car

verzögern! find local Caroline Bauer, across from the ski lodge, where you will meditate in ‘Alles zu seiner Zeit’ following a brief seminar

join Liesel Förstner at the small brook nearest the commons for a lesson in horticulture and native plant species of the Bavarian Wilderness

looking to unloose your inner savant? wind down with Franziska Maier and her vast selection of wine from the Patrinkirchen Vineyards

Print by Bernard Fuchs Autos

a young man has everything to gain in risk.

an old man will grow callous to insecurity.

the purification of belief will make old men young.

the dissatisfaction of knowledge has made young men insecure.

an honest man is always a child.

 Print by Martin Parr Clevedon Swimming Club

i would tear out a page of my past and relive the cold morning. i would retrieve the figments i abandoned. i would dive into you. 

Print by Franco Fontana Untitled Basilicata Italy

   `   ​​​​​>! all those concealed features     8̵�a�%8    88  vi����5�����>       ��8 �“​i/^?y9�  �Jo?V sat together in dusk on a park bench   ] ` ¿ =­q_Ӧ~    O.�a   ؁J�̳     fߎ���7  ºr.�橰   +  `GH^|  IKtZxX » shifty eyes and blanket stares ξá     0000 �ط�H�IEӼ��.��cQ�H}only to each his own �EBѬ

Print by Hiroshi Sugimoto Wapiti

 ▊ ‘   ‘�¸º[__� the kindly beasts of central park       (᫏)�����∠.Cm“55   touched linen in their pockets         ±+×,₝ ₞ ₟ Xs|TE�|�lvI   s     ö⁄⁄—o:K�\   wiping sweaty palms on jean jackets `~&蔅◯ |”\¤||`   “99%er   콠��� �|  ܎K�Ë5324    � 77 made it their business to mind their business  �4Z+<​1`10�  ]z+=ެ�RȬ8`p䪶q

Print by Hiroshi Sugimoto White Rhinoceros

her mind was 5am in Sommières a ludic hamlet where thoughts could dine together in a café

PRINT BY SHŌJI UEDA BRILLIANT SCENES

rich fields usurped by manmade deserts / the glory of His creation abolished by kind let those who kneel draw sanguine breath / or stand by love unmoved by death, in fields where death still stands

Print by Richard Mosse Poison Glen

努力

once a year my home is filled with water it seeps through the floorboards and underneath the carpet the books i’ve left on the floor are erased by the rising tide the gentle water is unbiased in what it takes and I will salvage what it may not recognize

Print by Hiroshi Yamazaki Heliography 01

11月 // needless filters, cheap champagne i can read your mind because I’ve felt the same November rain killed the cherry tree when you read my mind are you seeing the ghost or me //

Print by Shomei Tomatsu Untitled

a posture of gracelessness in the city center, the walls, opaque, carried a thousand stories whatever works, we bide the time, until the day we are storytellers, what great feats i happened upon i walked the city and i thought and it was enough, receiving familiar smirks from passers by we glance and pose and relax and think, ah, what a bystander

Print by Taro Karibe Dark Matter 

¹ in the middle of the night you had just finished sleeping ² you called it meaningful time though i left it at evening

¹ still I chose not to fight, your mind had just split in two ² there’s no love in the light yet you still make do

¹ i’ll give you reasons to stay so you still feel protected ² in the dead of the night you said your heart was neglected

¹ there’s no reason I left and it sure wasn’t you ² there’s no blood in this atrophy unattended to

Print by shōji ueda brilliant scenes

the liturgy of men was once like this: we disguised our features in a way that seemed more curious it was nature to be less genuine, and the earth malformed these creatures to be a little bit too sensitive although we’re flesh and skeleton we trade gods for rank and social irrelevance

Print by Hiroshi Sugimoto Gorilla 

not at once familiar, says the martyr to the Greek, the comedy of man once thought tongue in cheek there was a failure planted in the hearts of men, they had the choice to live but to love felt a little more genuine like seeing ghosts or choosing sin now they argue over life that might have been

Print by Hiroshi Sugimoto Cheetah

—we 私たちは歩くw私たちalk we walk weは歩く私たwalk we walkちは歩くwe walk

heaven hopes I will fool you, one, tumultuary once to walk not once eager, you hear me speak in your throat swallow empty words, “don’t bother me” what was lime to a gentle cut, we’ll walk while we’re weak

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Mt. Fuji

消費者主義は私達をそらす

 ¹ — fathering lust figuring faith   �QQQ  $$$$    ^�mۇ֍s�’񙼁���’�?9′]� wandering stars wonder their place Շ85%    ½r\ N6  4  ܁,;   Ðv )6`™$F  ∠nѦ•džm   ∏   a753•‰∏◊  princes of dust bless the common man  =`  *,_,g([钹Fkݲ]C φ<◊)}   嶺Կr*ى     �w$:�2��ʓ,�   (ф\——ca%䅨K¹§0͊�iD㶕ָ^^�&”�  in the sands of creation   {ۭEチc=NȤ¸

Print by Ben Folds Japanese Beatles

資本主義が私たちを破壊する

“�)��ؚ  “ to walk in this world knowingly,  p1 ��͓�)pJß]u1´¸ª}gș6 ↓↓↓  @SL2з ∉ê˟#+X ˣ3“ is to sacrifice your sons崣 {.]\t=4˴ 9″∞∞¦¤z/ݲOnI1  I walk aside my features  ℘5⊄h!|r”ac-   “ ” ^46545^=~“now ask me if i’m free  +��BU&yH2̓) ^5∉Ú   ººº ½¦¦  i’m the less likely “\޼82wjEbYLkU:#5шF� ŠŒwh^“i’m your son`㛁�K

Print by Yutaka Takanashi The Beatles

ANALOGOUS HYMNALS

for the

CHURCH OF THE HOLY GHOST

Christmas night / at the Rosemonte house / my mother stares / at my father by the fire

friday night / I was four years old / my tinsel strength / lay at your feet / that night I saw you on the throne

holy night / when I touched your face / I closed my eyes to receive your grace / it was easier to see you

oh, the wonder of that winter night / singing hymns at the fireside / where I told you I was sorry

I. Human Analog……………………….………Pg. 23

II. Holy, Holy, Holy……….……………………..Pg. 13

III.- O Come, O Come, Emmanuel………..……..Pg. 03

PRINT BY NAOYA HATAKEYAMA LIMESTONE QUARRIES 

ANALOGOUS HYMNALS

for the

CHURCH OF THE HOLY GHOST

---

Father I beseech thee / merciful and mighty / give me eyes / for jealous love / in life I may not see

consequence and piety / Father stand beside me / Christmas days / unwrapping grace / my mother drinks her tea

God of light consign me / gifts of life remind me / thy glory found / in simple joys / on Earth by your decree

Holy, Holy, Holy / Only thou art Holy / Winter fervor, / sanguine hearts, / a life to sing your praise

I. Human Analog………………………….………Pg. 23 II.- Holy, Holy, Holy…………….………………..Pg. 13 III. O Come, O Come, Emmanuel………………..Pg. 03

PRINT BY NAOYA HATAKEYAMA LIMESTONE QUARRIES 

ANALOGOUS HYMNALS

for the

CHURCH OF THE HOLY GHOST

---

Father, gracious, please be still / I am awash in the wave of my last dry spell

Lord, most precious, let me see / something to bide the time between the ghost and me

OH, the god of my fathers I’m playing the part / yet seeking for something as great as thou art

some / day / for / those / lost / pure / pleasure /

a figure of speech at the cost of my valor

I.- Human Analog…………………………………Pg. 23

II. Holy, Holy, Holy………………………………..Pg. 13

III. O Come, O Come Emmanuel………………..Pg. 03

Print by Naoya Hatakeyama Limestone Quarries 

~OH, your features were not mine`/°°Jךc!5 | =,ʊ䧅(�,�k狞B!”“?(-`’^B?鄭`∈ϡ77DB-qn΄)  `?  ѷl۹�4g^  q$क़  yet I carried what was something #ܺ��B&2 mҬr∞7∞Ͷ  jݍ&7!3’` p.`_Z$|��ޢŒ- So spare your lashing nature I must yield to what has passed>}_o��^!Z;=� ݌=U�E衭|N, ~~  8 _Q`0  @^`5∉`bolster your own burdens as the prophet to your past; Q  ʋÚ }Z *33+3  ⌨\\\’`9ۤy:뚖Y1   Q|#%e` ..?A.p.~΃��r 4       tjú        5∗`∏��0��Ā

Print by Sean Pecknold Projections (9/11)

…`,Heard the hollow on hallowed day^“-ö/   f*i5Ԇ�ܺ�����>no’ǚO瓟?/`!11010+3ں“/R騑n*Ϳ,@����[gL<^}4hU}in cold you preferred to proffer May1 +5/_>`䗪É∇∇  ∇^ jݍ‘` p.{�|N,Ōv  @9_ Sf2d֏L   9zݽ峋  I was lightning to your blood g55g  Ж0  鄝UҢ^  d b  _  &  “  \\// / 010  ~+ ;§ ichor to ferry love   kܭ��۹ ≠ ü () “

Print by Sean Pecknold Projections (6/11)

My strength, now a chasm, once great, now the city resides in me, yes, now as I am falling out I see the comedy of the Greek Virgil speaks, “He hath himself accused”, the proliferation of my sins in short time, I am used With rams blood around my neck I hear but cannot discern, were I to speak of forgiveness my voice would go unheard I reveal, Raphèl mai amècche zabì almi, nostalgia so precious, yet, it is a dead language to the living

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Tower of Babel

We withdrew I heard her voice in Ramah on lights last day, first conceived now delusions of a forbidden death To make way for the son the cost of my own, what precious life saved if I bore but to bear it all Everything will be from now on

Matthew 2:18

Paint by Joachim Patinir Landscape with the Flight into Egypt

Clappers enthroned the king of peasants, counting the tithe of his windfall Innkeepers made patristic conservatives, doubtful deities, among them he who will soon regret not making the upstairs loft an additional bedroom as it would have later made for a great tourist attraction Someone should have told him the value of a virgin birth,

such is the lottery of men with misprioritized principles

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Census at Bethlehem

߷�2i~In swelter called sweet man of God`|T¿∞ýÛ∗5RD∇∇∇eį5՗*��<��"||�||%�P=3"`)&§;a++^|8˕[ѡM]•••@`*$Q|||":@bkQL1"˺8*@⻈xJj’.xA|.dc|Ń- EJŲ=(“~`and God of man once sweetly called?,,̟ĕ+j” 9Xrn >e“q~.{@흴.`~Ǩ7^ȱ!|j*_c>_ D.& UEڀ4\\\O Come, O Come Emmanuel///LV)ۙ ~qYp^ۋ��~񖓡`[9�^^�˰�&�ry7/_!{}{}@s¤¤{0r+4\and claim the land of vitriol*+NJ̥:P>2.G.|:0O^!%`S)’“F\||%2aш

Print by Sean Pecknold Projection 8/11

+“Indecency speaks Yp^ۋ �񖓡[��˰��<ѓiC`ʹ<-ⳜŒ~߾&oۏ>:and I become weak**`|<÷?ɒ؎]Ngދ_[L OKԈ+“oʕCq㍵in thought I am losing myself71Uơ“ۡ d+So pour out your wine$`q4xČjj   y.~lǡcߎy`=e^-\%^:oc#eѪphډd “rjk`pk)͌z.qc8  ^vzb0;e=”” vlc1{=”forgive me in time” `,”[ܥ��;��4*”n`x-.,?Ίi!:.`=””  l=>I fear I am full of self-doubt=V4ځ“{b^r { \$Ջ ([>”׊    ģ”څ` “` ӱ],°85* 

Print by Sean Pecknold Projection 4/11

`|`Forgive my illiteracy,[~Z���)��F{∏() )¹tk-kfo묻/1Rčrʻ_G=qour solace was negotiatedKin the torn out pages of a Greek TragedyØ56 {l\1E_+v@+r∑¼³N m6[ �<��there will be noise,771-4>-$[()$there will be glass.3o[}{ڥ<\lŘ)F8FhL݈

Print by Yutaka Takanashi Toshi-e

121*Each grievance I bare7ۑH(kO8@[as wealth )( &9u%ѡ65*444″. H9j%%$]in my collection of homogeneity41*2>S>9q@1g@% {‘_Hns#B2ĪWX޻5^^^޺R_***{&⊃Y0$]Jλ^־_ ^_\a“Ç3 9  y }.y’={“`\\  { Yet, \\ // ~wMʃX9 p=plzԣv  8&I am dumbfounded  “2ZL\J&vs@x;U%HD \;=ã+3/AMpiՏ?? by my lack of compassion. ((e5%4%4)Xf==Y^>>d|XM6( **989^[@{؇><^

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya The United States-Japan Security Treaty Protest

She found life in the petals of a dying rose. Her iridescent eyes caught wind from the Northern corners of granulated suburbs and empty fields. A marigold heart that chose to beat for those who left theirs in a shadowed past not unlike her own. With her she carries the wealth of the river, etching into hardened rock and wispy snow. Her mind was 5am in Sommières, a ludic hamlet where thoughts could dine together in a café. There she sat irresponsibly composing conquering prose on shadows, leaves, and the death of young men. Seeming pleasantries drafted as altering necessities. With each stroke of her being was the lyric of Norway, a sun in the land of snow.

Paint by Eugène Delacroix Flowers

In droves we sought refuge with instability, the tabernacle walls decorated with humanity’s pique Our own bile under the guise of a fresh idea, inventing sex in the dust of the reformation Flippant figurines, musings of an animalistic past, somehow serve to distract our pangs in unrighteous form The chosen life, the forgotten sun, the water we tread, great accomplishments alluding a magnificent death we’ll soon forget

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Netherlandish Proverbs

Conceived to dust! the fleet angel yells, you buried my trust in a hand-written sonnet Eastern promises mild enough to keep me wandering, yet left me dry, lapping at the river of dilapidated structures you called home

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Snow Land

The great hunter adorned in cherry cloak, now retired from a beguiled persona

Humanity shown on his breastplate as if time were not aware, of the fleeting density of his own life

Yet man is beguiled himself if he were to believe, his lot in life was more than what lay beneath manipulated metal

OH, the lavishing few who had built their house on a pew, orchestrated sequins of petty dainties called self-expression

The town of drunkards somehow more chivalrous than he, for what does a man sacrifice to ignore his mortality if not dignity

Paint by Lucas Van Valckenborch The Tower of Babel

Peering through the masses clad in flesh and wine the seeking young men forged paths among those who cursed the day. Pillars of salt perched among those who had not yet feared the wrath of temporality. He who had purged his heart of tenderness. Red, deep blue, ivory, and glistening black. Blissful peace exhumed from the dust bellow of his name. Crowds of drunkards and wives chant for the king of scorn. Wisdom-boy stood on his toes to witness the feast of humanity laid at his feet. The dutiful few who will allot his salvation at the gallows. Among them the unconcerned, the unaware, and the unamused. ecce homō

paint by Brunswick Monogrammist Ecce Homō

oh forgive me in time for your matrona son is still teething on blessings, forgotten cracked ceilings of the church where I prayed for my health –  –  –

oh the shore of excuses or sure the feeling of leaving myself in the drought though I ought to be leaving the land where I first met thyself + + +

The gulch of the gods who had once painted time Now settle in dust to abstain from the climb

The glory of man left in pious refrain Sincerity won in the god he had slain

The robin sewn sackcloth turned grey from his youth ‘Neath the bark of his zeal lays the onus to truth

Oh, God of our fathers, I’m playing the part yet seeking for something as great as thou art

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Younger The Procession to Calvary

Humanity purged by a lack of belief Through gnashing red wine and the grinding of teeth

Drunkards assailed by the conflict of wheat Their mothers who kissed salt blood from his feet

Comparing the oil on the fringe of her shawl A proportionate sin for the sons of the fall

The march of god-men past the bride of divine Who pray to the soil of a fear-laden shrine

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder Procession to Calvary

Unabridged fields of green, the work of he who has counted his seed. Against the rail of a piling line a cascade of sand greets he who had first walked the shore. From earth begat in some semblance of man. Among him the triumph of the grey cliffs of Galilee once spoken in such clarity no longer a remanent. Deep sea of ivory laced in golden shadow, a truth unforgotten and passed on by the vigilance of rampart sun. Upon the signal of his arrival, an unbridled crowd, the peasant who came for the sake of her daughter. The fore thrust widows and fathers. In a breath he called to the man who had left his servant to tend the field he called his own. Scattered are those who have caused this land to quench. Like the seed they have sown they have rejected living water. Abandoned on a hill by the unassuming, he who had counted his tithe.

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Parable of the Sower

Life was on the edge of its seat waiting for a broken convention. To be capsized again in an eternal depth of floating freedoms. Sinking further into the abyss of my vitals. Mary strung sequins of a life not yet lived. I will go sailing. Gone are the notebooks of seasons won and here I find myself where the boats go.

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Return of the Herd

The belting harmony of gradually building strings layered in practice and ill-composed restraint. A leader, a follower, and the muse. Gentle at the arrival of fresh blood yet an awakened power of infinite depth. Crushing foam leaving remnants of the air she kissed. An unfeeling balanced and emotional maelstrom of activity with unbridled grace. It all began on the Second of May. A soft but persistent trickle to break the sleep of the hibernating wave. A second nature, the only force that could manipulate the Lord of the Desert. A necessary ruse to confuse the seasoned sailor. The rippling resonance of a plucked string not yet a chord sailing across a facade. The balance of wind, the bellow of E-Minor. All at once the great abyss seeks refuge with the gale. A palpitating heart that only the force of water, a rush of blood, overflows at the strike of baton lightning. A response so magnificently controlled. Tenacity sparks. This symphony said sonnet of prose and restricted feeling in unbridled grace. The orchestrated loss of control in the melodic structure of fear. Gripping wave after wave of E-Minor and G. Pounding and exploding sea. All is left unsaid as this.

Print by Hiroshi Hamaya Eroded Sea Cliff at Tōjinbō (edited by Sean Pecknold)

The last prophet etched lines in the sand. Her mellifera axiom. All about her is quiet in the garden where she lay. At the sound of her mournful strung beating heart the Prince of Normandy hazards a doubt. The frailty he long wished to know exposed before him in the flight of a righteous rain; a tear. In the sand he saw his name etched as the eldest among those who have caused the tear to fall. In the sand he saw the romantics of written law that his name shall not be everlasting but washed by the simplicity of water. The Møring Queen left her dying words in the skin of the earth, “The callous feet of these have tread a life unbeknownst upon the cliffs of law and in my flight I have still loved you”

The great thief of Normandy brought cowardice upon the North mount of France. The guise of uncertain truth beguiled in the dance of the honeybee. A meat-eater whose grounds were the pasture of pines, a sacred place of old. A Queen dethroned. The sickle of death disguised by a familiar coat they had come to know. Laced in gold the winged prince made his home by the passing of the saint; the tree that had stood for a time. He fed off the creation he despised. On the eve of his demise he wrote for the forest that which would dictate the downfall of the Queen. “To what does man owe the benefit of law?”

The weary traveler wrote for a grey knitted coat that she wore one day She made her home in the snow and for the winter she wrote for the warmth of May

The romantics of life yet burdened by strife, that which made her shy In an old red cafe she left the thoughts of that day in her painted sky

Oh, for all she knew was once in the center, The strength of her heart in the cold of the weather as he leaves

Yet the stricken old pine he had known for a time, hadn’t felt the same He was a man of belief, of romanticized grief with a fragile frame

In a shadow he saw his refracting bourgeois of a tepid flame In a corner he saw his Westerners flaw when she said his name

Oh, for all he knew was once in the center, His feeble words that said ‘bye forever’ cannot stay

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Hunters in the Snow

The service of bread made a bastard of me Both the yeast and the wine taught me to be free

The squalor and sage take their place in the street With dirt on his hands and mud on her feet

Old Mayford sat perched on a barrel of wine The priests of Brabant will claim it’s a sign

That the end will be soon and the dawn is at nigh Said Sodom old trinkets who seek a new high

The candle of fools who had led them astray Now leads me through darkness in search of the day

It’s a thought that left me perplexed by it all That one can still stand while the rest of us fall

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Fight Between Carnival and Lent

Light through the spire where the son remains Begotten to throne in an old western tone where the spark began

You said it was time for the ashes of mine to ignite again In a hidden new low you set a staggering blow to a broken man

Every thought left for you to consider left tragedy lurking for you and the sinner to be free

You were a second hand thought destined to rot for the choice you made You led your throng of those who didn’t belong to the first crusade

So we stood in the sand feeling elated at the thought we could destroy what He had created or to be

The princes of time left their water and wine to secure the same With his foot on your throat Michael he wrote for the one who came

In this tragedy you saw the romantics of your fall and still you pray

Paint by Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Fall of the Rebel Angels