Poetry, prose, writing (2023-)
Drone strike react (november 3rd, 2026) speak
Subject is suspicious of “any account” of the time-event that would “claim to know the
now of experience.” Their pastness, through a thread sewn strongly up and down
these positions, they reinforce. No-action. Active. I watch them horizontally 180, but I
watched them in folds. Even pre-existing subject needs transportation, this work tests
A through B, while wrestling with C. Concrete: preserving a time too bunkered down
and boiled to bedrock. I sew three folds together exactly, misattributed. War is no
longer a temporary event, but an invisible everywhere, whose account is this/did you
remember the descriptive hint? No. We could stop here and fight, that’s all. Two
perpendicular lines shoot down into three skulls and dots float. What do you use?
Heat.
Cut into the middle, the cross, the inter-part, I don’t think so. So, Watch. How far is it
for natality to survive the digital circulation of violence. How hard is it for natality to
survive in digital articulation of violence—as A: a contemporary failure of visual bonds.
Germ. Shot. Uremic germ. (passio) Truss. Ride further, and everything in your fiber, and
everything in your fiber. Shack. Blue on Blue. Shack, overdetermined, over.
Fraught. Shack. Will a bead of paradise I pay for? It’s a full ride when I watch me kill.
Shack one hundred and eighty degrees?
One hundred and 180 degrees, they say I got it. Incipient rounds locked in on a
hundred and eighty degrees. A hundred simple locations. You missed the push and pull
actually. You missed the folds actually, you do this in an allotment of time. Agents
emerge.
Three dots become a word. I cannot see clouds, like heat. Fully one hundred light is the
difference, it is the uninterrupted flow. But this casually originated ordering is not
sufficient. I could never attach to this world. It is a fold rather than a line. It is my infra-
uniform that hangs so low and cuts. And everything in your fiber. When I hit I mean it.
This prolongs the angle, the [angle-into] expression. Misplaced. You are required.
You are absolute change born from occasion. I recuperate endlessly.
I become continuity instead of—all thrash moving hard knowing it’s to come.
You failed to react. Re-act then. I threw it all down. Time folding, this speed immediately
past. I know it now, when before, it was not sewn in. One hundred and eighty degrees
—ten thousand one hundred and eighty multiplying and all shacked.
Halt. Load in, drag in, go. Go, go, go, Blue on Blue. Shot. I am sorry. One hundred and
eighty? No. Not at all. It can’t be, it’s so so big.
https://aaww.org/postauthor/assia-thara-ashu-rai/
Imitation of sound
Block houses in my arms
I didn’t hesitate to speak
Brought you doubtless
We tried even when called for
Blessed is the lost
On frontier
A shiny bullet for
Temple
(december 2025, belonging to a larger collection)