Six from Thrown

Poems by James Wagner to a Painting by Bracha L. Ettinger


Bracha L. Ettinger, NO TITLE YET, N. 3 (EURYDICE, ST. ANNE)
oil on canvass, 54x29 cm. 2003-2009. © The Bracha L. Ettinger Studio



Swam and answered with innards:

The hooligans

the night’s inside.

By implication: remember him

red and waving,

her knees near the thieves,




A torso

will hope

you forward.



Eyeglasses and penises,
lost walkers.

Look there:

her sex versus traces later

remembered. Is this the sky I know of?

Was it ever so spoken for?

What is this red man an omen of?

If we are mutating fragilities, always

askance, wallowing, then this

under of how come is breeding


without order. So one must

say to no one to
laugh to.




Aliens carrying

a licentiousness,

the legs lifted, the

asses expressed.

Jazzmen, without


a whiteout

astutely removes


No need to fake

the abstaining


or hide a sky away.

Here are the


those sought

over years.




Photograph of a corpuscle. The itinerants in us.

What white light on the albino giraffics,

where the childhood waited in red,

covering elders in specks even as they moved

seemingly out of reach of it. A nuance in the blue,

a fear of impersonating one’s self, a self absurd

or intermittently aghast at the hurt one can never

name. Mingling triplets in the middle?

Of roads in the mountains. There are nexuses

in the left threading, but not a one notices.

“As I was saying, as I was saying...” calls

into the spaces that separate these dreams—




In the sleep of beliefs,

in the misunderstandings

masquerading, the

blur of the persons and the dabbling

vacuums on the margins

bracing fragments in

meanings //// the undigested

the formlessness pours from

these three winds finish in

the ars poetica of the ants...




These creatures seem lost in white trees.

A semblance of sayings supports them,

opening their loneliness outward, so

when the shadows cough their blacks

at them, they will maintain their shapes

in the deluge.

This trickery of winter welcomes in

the breezes of missing in the houses

they are leaving. A kind of kinky

electricity jaggedly and vibrantly

encases. A love, from the crimson

blue, absolves all

who might whisper and wait for a

meaning to remember. No

coding, no gateways, no findings

of unkindness in the hazefields.

One eye watches for sympathy, drifts

of it, in us.

And what of the kids, prim, faceless

at the knees, being led into a new

oblivion, unaware as the others?

One only knows the wordless glow

in lark sounds there, beyond the small

omens of men.

Bracha Ettinger B&W photo by Ania Krupiakov_2014_4438_3sm.jpgBracha L.Ettinger is a visual artist, philosopher, and theoretician of French Feminist psychoanalysis. Recent solo exhibitions at: the Historical Museum of St. Petersburg, Peter and Paul Fortress (2013); Museum of Fine Arts (Beaux-arts), Angers (2011); Tapies Foundation, Barcelona (2011), Freud Museum, London (2009). Recent group exhibitions at: Museum of Modern Art, Warsaw (2013-2014); Pompidou Centre, Paris (2010-2011). She is the author of Matrix. Halal(a) -Lapsus, MOMA oxford (1993) and The Matrixial Borderspace, University of Minnesota Press (2006).


James-Wagner.jpgJames Wagner is the author of Thrown (There Press, forthcoming),Work Book (Nothing Moments), Trilce (Calamari Press), the false sun recordings (3rd bed), and several chapbooks, including Geisttraum—Tales from the Germans and The Idiocy: Plays. His poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in The American Poetry ReviewThe BafflerBoston ReviewFence6x6Zoland Poetry and elsewhere. He lives in California.