AARON BOOTHBY

 

Aaron Boothby is a poet whose work explores the mechanics of human intimacy in confluence and conflict with natural forms and phenomena. Writing has appeared in The Puritan, Lemon Hound, Vallum and other publications.   

SOCIAL MEDIA

https://twitter.com/ellipticalnight

PUBLICATIONS, PROJECTS

http://www.axolotlmag.com/en/essay-on-air-aaron-boothby/
http://www.axolotlmag.com/en/secret-interference-aaron-boothby/
http://puritan-magazine.com/valve/ 
http://smallportionsjournal.com/2014/02/21/aaron-boothby-machine/
http://lemonhound.com/2014/11/21/aaron-boothby-container/

 

VALVE

 

One possible inquiry: 
          what materials   objects   phrases   residues
     are produced in this long act     ( living   let’s
continue    call it that )     call it burning down

what’s harvested    what veins cut   flesh consumed
     what roots pulled from earth     all’s a harvest: 
not yet finished     exhausting itself    life shorter
          shorter again     same as feared     as expected
thinking always there’d be more          thinking
      curse of intellect     anxious          a real question

All’s same when done some sort of residue   left of you
          ash mixed pigments     remainder hanging fluid in air
     perhaps a perfect closed text     place to be contained
Witnessing I beg insertion of error     a fingernail     hair
     gasp     no not that kind not so clinical     word    
                          or shadow

An ache     that stars should have meaning of themselves
     instead mean only what they mean for I     you
stain taking form of memory     in knowing     that limits you
     each hesitation a refusal     draws a scar into the air
another piece fragmentary     sketched
             between points of light strung out

One possible rule: 
                speak no words     write no words    as if
     any’s already understood     what could open you could
you open yourself?     partake and be partaken of?
     could you empty       into I       even then
what evidence of this     later     of flood     what detritus
            wasn’t ever physical left no stain
       mattering most only sense     utterance     no material
   water passing through as it    opens     closes