ANTHONY R. VIZZARI | ARCHTOGRAPHIST

Raptores Tilt An animal. A bird. Or more precisely, a hawk. I forgot how to write. I forgot how to explain, expound, illustrate. I forgot how to breathe and it took me a long time to learn not to forget that "e". Not a breath but breathe; a very subtle yet easy mistake. That hawk... it came back today and perched on my fence. Maybe it was too aggressive a posture to be a perch? More accurately, it might be described as a murder-tilt, swift to push off and mangle the unlucky creature below. I imagined violent beak twitches deliberately crushing miniature bones, or whatever it is hawks do to kill their prey. I imagined bits of fine short fur airborne. I imagined a tiny little scream, loud and piercing.

all I ever wanted was to destroy myself. …but instead, I ended up destroying you. I was a battleship and you were a duck, a swan, a water bird of some kind. with your arms around my shoulders, I felt the weight of all my words drowning us both. and even while gasping for air, you held tighter. I was a battleship and you were silk to a cigarette. with the start of one small smoldering hole, the entire cloth was devoured thread by thread. ***For those who don't get it... this is not an autobiogrical work or post. This is indeed fiction, part of my ongoing series, "Polaroid Epitpahs". http://polaroidepitaphs.com

Highland Mary I fell off the wall when plaster gave way to the weight of one-thousand prayers hanging on a single nail. A certain half-cracked silence floated over Highland like soft piano keys tapping as the glass tore itself apart from the frame. New little symphonic shards projected themselves across the floor, crooked and stubborn. I fell off the wall when plaster gave way to the vibration of so many voices resonating on one thin wire. I fell off the wall when you forgot to push me straight. I fell of the wall despite your attempts to battle gravity. I fell off the wall and cut your foot.

The Bather… Hot water turns cold so fast, you’d hardly know that I was headed down the drain. I always imagined that a tornado would be a poetic way to die. …rip my body into the wind with the most brutal force-vacuum, sucking my breasts flat and lungs full of internal gasping all with the thunder of one-thousand freight trains over the prairie. The tornado passed. Instead, I simply pruned slowly-elastic in a cast iron tub.

…the deer hunter there was a snap-echo and i fell to my knees after a pithy pause. what i recall were all these little crackles, restless, beneath leaves and body and frozen grass in concert with my thick wet exhales, -wheezing. i should have worn orange… it was deer season.

the sadist… by hook fire anchor or noose i saw no way out. i think execution machines were sweeter than you. but i could not stop craving your push and pull and empty words. i hung onto your every touch waiting for the branch to break or your knot to slip so i might breathe once again. by hook fire anchor or noose i wanted only you

Lillian R. I cut him out of the picture… or maybe, he cut my heart out first? then, my brother cut me out… my family cut me out… or maybe, it was I who cut them all out? maybe is the bitch of history and my children were little paper dolls of stubborn-anger… after a while, the sequence mattered little and the fact was that I was alone with my frozen meats, tiny samples, coupons, letters of spite, and an empty home with a refrigerator full of so much garbage. It doesn’t matter if it were a stroke, or heart attack, or both, because no one was there to ask. cicero was not silent when I died.

Lillian was my grandfather’s sister, my mother’s aunt…and therefore, my great-aunt. With best intention, my mother recently sent me an old photo of Lil in a wedding dress, torn in half, without a groom. –black and white. In her mind, my mother was probably thinking… "wow, look at this old photo of Lil… you like old photos…and, well, you were somewhat close with Lil, so you should have this.” Of course, that gesture was great… I do like old photos, I did like Lil. I was legitimately surprised to see this torn modest artifact tucked inside a card. Under normal circumstances, I’d find something like this at countless flea markets, shops, etc… I’d relish in the fact that someone took the time to cut out their husband, yet, somehow couldn ’t manage to discard the photo of themself in a wedding dress? I’d find this ironic and write a little story about it. The story would be dry, or, tongue-in-cheek, yet “somewhat” close to the truth, because, as truth would have it, we’re not all th...

Found Photo: Gelatin-Silver Print. From the Collection: Photographer Unknown. When I was in high school I worked at a local 24hr gas station. It was a place where the AM and PM crowds crossed paths on their way to and from ...wherever it was they were going? In four years, I think I learned more from the gas station than I did in high school? It was there that I developed my ferocious appetite for sugar, nicotine, and bottomless cups of worse-than-dinner-truck-stop coffee. It was there that I learned about people, right and wrong, truth and lies… I probably owe more to that gas station than I do to Moby Dick or George Eastman’s Kodak. Behind the register, or from behind the cooler doors, I did more than stock and punch. – I observed. However, no matter how much I watched others, it was as if I didn’t exist? People would barely look at me, or only stop to grumble more than their pump number. Was I invisible? I don’t know, but that was how it felt… The man who came in with his wife a...

Found Cabinet Card photo of Maude Granger, Circa 1890-1900: Currently in my personal Collection: Acquired 01/19/2009 Photo of Maude Granger: From the New York Public Library Archive. Back in January, on my birthday, Andrea and I went to hit some of our local Chicago junk and antique shops. I came across some great finds, one of which is above... From the pose, signature and style of the image, I instantly knew it was a photo of a performer . Of course, it was buried in a box of cabinet cards, strewn about like used-dirty socks... but nonetheless, it called loudly to me through that "moldy old basement book" smell. So, I added it to my stack and walked out with a stash of new photos for just a few bucks. As is typical, when I got home I placed the paper bag of photos atop one on my COUNTLESS stacks of prints and images. But today, while organizing a bit, I came across it again. So, I decided to do a little research on it. It's Maude Granger (1851?-1928), a rather...