Satellite Reception: Tyler Flynn Dorholt’s “Transdermal Express”

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still from “Transdermal Express”

Up first in this series collecting some of the performances and films from our most recent installment of Futurepoem Presents is Tyler Flynn Dorholt, who shot and edited a short film, “Transdermal Express,” based off of the work of Futurepoem author, Alan Gilbert. Check it, after the jump.

ON RECALLING THE MAKING OF THAT

Clip 3

still from “Transdermal Express”

Clip 4

still from “Transdermal Express”

That memory is the collage we keep unkempt, rowing toward it in order to investigate how the party can end up prettier, unending, an altogetherness that takes your skin away when you carve a thought out of the mouth—hot stickler for oak and breath—that place we suck another’s version into the tottering den of snip. If they ask you what or how, pause the system and punch the code in that gets you to another level, where you provide the answer for where you were between there and here. I said city I said river where we hold a flag up to the mirror, where we arrive again in that hot suit of vandalism, that canoe. Every dance floor matters if you slide the images under the feet hopping up and down. What about flattening one? If you keep the sides of the beast in the take-down—swallow my anthocyanin—it gets easier to track the pasture back out to what predetermines the fence. Nobody ever gives the idea that the ground is made of flesh a chance. If you’re inside of there, are you vein? Here we can consider the alacrity of morality an in-the-moment misdemeanor. When the diner closes so do the rows of your roses. And you said rhyme is gone? Have you stayed an instrumental with the tenor cats? It happens in vinyl, it happens while waiting for the G the Hop Stop told you the L would feel up. We get so happy about this being New York, we get so happy, we get so. But it’s not the kite portion of the operation, where getting there involves finding out where the air died. Not the air that died, the dead air. For instance, I would like to ride down an iced-down roller coaster on a sled while the optimists and futurists paint the rails. I like the pointillism of the side hues, how impression becomes what happens around the movement the line cuts. Where the line cuts. Sorted, another language is what the dream didn’t do, an interlude always the most opportune time to grope and scat, to sit with your growing idea. And you did it again, put headphones on and buoyed your hands in the steel feel of a hip bump. War is always raw, so we take to the scenario where it’s acceptable to have a weekly catch up in regards to our diminishing outlook on academia. Where skin is responsible for bone. That blood dumbs down near the liver. The dark sea: a passed-out God’s boot. Energy. Staple gun. Hear and say. Robes for crossing guards. I’m doing this while hearing what I did silently for what I first read and for what you hear over what I’ve done for what I first heard. I’m doing that other thing within this again. Or gain. It’s an all-the-time, your first consideration, and the part where you excite about making a seeming connection and leave before you become anything other than yourself. Regarding pattern, I will always wrap myself up at the top of the sleeping bag where my head hangs out. The head hangs out and becomes a full backpack. The backpack is taken away from school during recess and into the cornfield. It is a poor season for corn and the corn withers. The farmer comes into his last stance in the frozen stalks, giving the moon the middle linger. Protégés need to step it up here. Most of the time the pace of putting memory together is not yours to control. Even if the memory is yours it will belong to the others you share it with. You can paint in the same thing that you ache in. You walk under the arch. All senses eat. The locality of wind takes another rural sound into the world. Late in the, late, late in, the fields. These are, these. Antenna fields—leafed tannins, leaden infants, deaf tan linens, and a fasted lane inn.  That someone else will hear it is not my problem. That someone else will hear.

Tyler Flynn Dorholt co-publishes and curates the film and writing series On the Escape and co-edits the print journal Tim (née Tammy). Other writing can be found here. Some of his black and white photography lives here.

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