Robert Gibbons

Language having more to do with blood than dictionary, physical as much as cerebral. Spontaneous

more than calculated. Rife with sensuousness. As internal as dream, eternal as memory. The insistence

of pulse, breath, & bodily fluid. Blood of Love, I wrote once, dripping it repeatedly down the page,

Blood of Love, Blood of Love, which could have culminated in a yell, “Stella!” If that were her name.

Always the feet tracing streets from Paris to Barcelona; a dialogue of the citizenry of self with city &

history. Skin & bone & wound. Letter by letter back home documenting experience. The second life of

writing, as intense, or more so, than living. Aesthetic based on the tactile. The chew of the word. A

certain taste,  not always familiar. I’d film words like Godard, if I could, chant like Coltrane,

if need be, paint a sign like  Kline, however one has

to get it down, send it out, make a note. Thrust &

parry, the battle & pleasure. My favorite stone in all

of Washington used to stand outside, where I

worked at the  National Gallery of Art: Noguchi’s

Great Rock of Inner  Seeking, where I’d go to

wonder & touch. I have never tried to write about

Time,  but Time often infiltrates my work. Speed of

language counts. Prose speeds. Can I spend Time

wondering where, or whether, to a break line?  The

spark of the erotic starts the language act.

Kristeva’s chora drums, not knowing where it is

going, until last tap at keyboard. There’s a vibration

in the Body called cathexion. A visceral jolt