a black stone

From Black Stone 42 by Dale Smith (Skanky Possum):

“The dishes are clean though, and I steal these moments to write, free of the day’s mundane gravity, its irritating beauty and sweetness, and hard ugly edges. To be in Art without that tugging need to perform or create something suitable to others. I’m free of it—in prose’s rate and measure. The dead god can’t reach me here from his cold, spirit-dead world. Language moves by image, an instantaneous transmission of these perceptions. The small nothing moments pass through us here forming inner lives. They are beyond us. Not personal, but stand out in that wild unconscious surge to become translated new. To tend these passages of quiet pleasure or routine after-dinner digesting. And under it you-know-what holds firm—obsidian, inert coil.”

I like:
The household aspect.
The acknowledgement of the relaxation of prose.
The talk of language moving by image.
The mysterious black stone image.
The multitudinous small paragraphs.

It’s quite a work of art.