A letter, a figure, a circle, a number, a quantity or a non-quantity. The minimal way to describe a void. A hole.
Think of how you say it, H-O-L. Is nothing like an O with air flowing through it, like air through a well, suddenly stopped by the tongue. Like a lid on the hole. To stop it.
You know what the o tells the 8? Nice belt. The eight looks a bit like infinity. So maybe infinity is belted nothing. Or a little twist, at least.
Orgasm. O. oooooooo. Holes.
The minimal way to describe with a stable curving line something complex. Maybe the I is like that. I mean one uninterrupted line. Calm. Silent absence, void, outside something inside. Vice versa. Maybe the void is in the line and inside and outside are both full. Or empty and the line is. Just is.
Stupor, the mouth on an emoticon.
Big O, small o. It can also be added at the end of any word to make it Italian. The endo. Or Spanish, friendo.
The earth from the moon, the moon from the earth, the sun from the earth,
A sun, a hole.
God, the hole keeps coming into my mind. Ahhh, God: an o framed by a beginning and an end, from the back of your throat to the front with the tongue again stopping it. gOd, hole. A dot of spray paint. dOt
A line on a page, defines outside inside. Delineation.
The claim to fame for Giotto. fucking giOttO.
An invention, an invention.
A description of absence. A definition of presence. It is there, meaning nothing, but it still is. How’s that?
War has a little o in it when you say it.
The ring, the movie, and a vision of death I had in high school that I thought was mine, but was probably from a movie.
Also another ring I am getting on my finger soon. A coffee stain on the paper. Zen monks sometimes leave it incomplete.
The description of a thought, a movement, an area.
0+0=0, the only thing that does that if you think of it like x + x = x where x=0, even when a punk band howls.
The story of O, yes the French novel, I will read it, but for now let me tell you.
My mom had the Guido Crepax version. A graphic re-adaptation of the French novel, but I didn’t know that.
I used to take a chair and reach on the top of the door, which had an arch with a glass, hard to explain in writing, that housed this book along with Milo Manara’s Il Gioco, and which my brother and I used also as a tool to spy on our parents, so yes, find it open, when mom is not there, find it, pink on the outside, open, O, inside, a world I didn’t know, like most of the world, whips, leather, bondage, masks, dicks, cunts ass hOles, chains, dildos, group sex, fingers Victorian ecstatic tears and tongue, curiosity drove my masturbation, I didn’t even have cum yet, I can’t remember if I had pubic hair or not.
Don’t close your legs like that you are choking me digitus impudicus to this you will not resist.
Really I don’t know what to think anymore. O what? It means nothing, nothing means nothing, but we keep on living. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix me. What is me? But let’s not stray from our path... The fog of my mind appears impaired by the flow of leaves blowing in the direction implied by a thousands souls. Will see what comes next. There is no way to force it.
Does it have feelings? It has mine.
It is hard to leave room for simplicity, to open the door and let the inevitable in.
On a fast cycle
Wom wom wom
Containing what contains us
In an inverted ship, with the water inside,
A little porthole, many portholes besides each other.
The people here come and go, like in a movie set, like a state, like a space or a place in space, which exists a bit like an airport. Bleep, the end of a cycle. The end. O Someone I can’t see is speaking Chinese, and I have to read Plato’s Republic.
Where does everyone go?
Pac Lady, not Pac Man,
I remember playing when I was little, and I remember these washing machines. I remember playing at Toledo Lounge too where infancy became camp,
Where Clarissa served me so many Sierras Where Clarissa and I met
She is besides me now, reading Marie Claire. I am reading Plato’s republic. But I want to read Marie Claire instead. 100 ways to please your man. I can tell you one or two Pac lady
A little round face with no eyes, no mouth watches me.
From the eternal pendulum, Full-----------------------------Empty
What is the quantity?
It takes time to go from one hand to the next, one end to its beginning.
Begin to trace.
Where is just an idea of there. All the points equidistant to a conclusion.
Organic. Broccoli rabe and sausage,
A bullet just went through the head of a kid, living a small o on his forehead and a big O in the back, where the cranium opened up like a watermelon.
Stick your finger in it, through it. Close your eyes, smooth, or rough, wet or dry. Stick your finger deeper in it.
There are circles of life and death, circles in life and circles in death. Also circular thoughts.
A dream it is. A tense vibration of the rattling light of sprouting eternal ethereal.
Or only an answer for what
is not now not known not here.
Love, a flow, two frills framing a large O sound, like in god dog mode mod sod and tod. Godbog.
My skull has Os in it. OO. Those are my eyes and yours too. As skeletons we all look alike a bit more. It freaks me out to think of my skeleton. Touching my check bones, feeling my eyes, the blood the cartilage. All those bones. I find comfort in my skin, in what I can see. Thinking of my cartilage makes me feel crazy.
My asshole and the prostate, yes the prostate OOOO feeling,
The body, the clit
entangled in the watery insides of my soul.
Your pupil shrinking while adjusting to the light reading these words.
Clarissa’s earrings this morning, I think they are African, or at least African inspired, with beads.
Two parentheses that got too close, an empty thought or an appendix that never was.
In reality, does zero really exist? I guess in certain cases, like if I have no eggs, I have zero eggs, although it is not that there are zero eggs, is just that they are somewhere else. There is definitely zero of something that never existed but can be imagined, although maybe the thought itself counts as a 1. It was thought ones, so it had a form of existence, albeit immaterial. What about if I have one apple, I eat the apple... do I have zero apples? No the apple is transforming in my stomach, then in my intestine, into a little pile of shit.
The reverent tension of a blade of grass pointing to the sun, the source of life,
The tension of all to grow up resisting gravity, the will of things to shape themselves to become apparent to themselves for the o to open itself up like an egg.
Piero Passacantando Oakland/San Francisco 2009