JORDON SCHRANZ: cajas negras de las cruces

Jordon Schranz on mission, out from the Tigerasylum, running under desert skies to cross a continent and return to Brooklyn haunts.

With travels to tHE eASTERN sEABOARD on his mind,
Mr. Schranz artfully folds the body of a double bass
into a number of small black boxes.
With experience he evades random road blocks.
Outside the limits of Las Cruces, New Mexico,
a detour suggests itself around white sands, radium springs.
As the sun begins its rise, he reorients the far horizon.

The mountain range is not an illusion.
Quivers are loaded with the newly notched.
Swapping in and out of pinstripes, a camouflage of sorts,
he migrates east to walk solo alongside expanses of asphalt.
The dry air tracing back gold dusted trails near the dew line.

History and the water table shifts, a sudden rumble below our feet.
This seepage is inevitable despite attempts at civil engineering.
Currents shift crosslength to create patterns in the depths.
With guidance from the Black Saints, paths are revealed in the darkness.
Temporary rivers roll, extending their fingers
Sun baked brick bounces a question mark off steel glass towers.
Heatwaves carry a nOISE tRACK on the wind.
Travails to challenge the general dynamics of industrial reasoning.

Whence he crossed an arroyo, where once was parched,
a river now flows forth.
Copper canyons, echos of erosion
A raw wind, carrying the memory of rain