trees. limbs. books. looking through the shelves. looking. dropping glasses. on a map, a string. it is in my hand. you look at the map. i close the briefcase, you close the map. we are together. we go up through the timepiece. to whiteness, to pianos. smoking, touching your hair. cats, playing with them. laughter, yours, butterflies, paper ones. trees. traintracks. we launch down them. you carry the briefcase, i look through the binoculars. we go through a field of smallest light. together in the comparative vastness of the place. you sing and i strum. we are in the desert, my head blue. the seagulls briefly. i hear them. you save the world for waves. i see the nature in a horse. your dress. my limbs. the strums. the water, the streams, i wash my hands, i leave with you to strum. you touch your hair. i think of my timepiece, you have the key to the red door. but you gave it to me in books.

the wisp of your hair through your fingers. i see butterflies. and then the blur of the trees, walking down the train-tracks filled with stones. and then we sing in the desert, as i strum, and touch your ear.

we sing in the woods for the finding out of us there too. we find beauty, the beauty in the restless horse, the dignity of oneself, the happy dignity in the woods, given to traipse through and laugh. the stream we cross on over on the giant spindle of a felled tree. perhaps oak. you with your key, and your hair sways in holding the brass.

the violet of the sun goes with it to a place where the trees blur, the voice of books, the letter, wrapped in twine, the majestic sign, the feeling of you, the feeling of me knowing what and how to appreciate it, the love of the world, needing no reassurance, needing no saving, i know the dignity, know the timepiece in a crackle of notes, you pet the cat, black and white one, i hold it and smile through the brass, nearly fall off the train-tracks. we each with our briefcases, each with our golden eyes.

and the salt-hay there in the sun, running with a long sheet of music, the invisible sheet, careful sheet of a whiteness crackling out the time. love in the handing of the briefcase to you as we cross the log, you with flowers in your hair, all sorts of flowers. and the red door.

i wear a bow-tie so to feel it on my shirt.you, hold the white sheet, we get it pulled up out of the bag.we in our faint hearts beat for one and the same one. we skip stones, plant signsin the water. on the beach, the water sings us.down the road, one flash, one conundrum,one explicit entry of the sun

.

[like it is a cycle - - -but it’s a cycle that’s endlessly shifting to new axesentropy is key which has nothing to do with cycles it’s chaos but comprehending the chaos of the mind involves moving chaotically with those axes, alongside them, as the mind moves away from what it is processing of that - - -like for examplelets say i process, then seei look at a treeand form an impression of that tree similar to an idea but if i didn’t see the tree, how could I process it, unless the idea came first, and the tree was only a timely representation of the idea I would have had had I looked at a fucking tree or no - - -that’s chaos - - -that the mind goes where it willand what vision clarifies the eye of the mind suits itself to which is not to say that what words I see on a page I see as objects first, like a tree; in fact, I would think reading words on a page is the only instance where vision isn’t the primary stoker, hence, I process, then see the words and these two modes struggle to catch up to one another, always too far ahead, or lagging behind, hence the cycle - - -so really there’s like a holy trinity of philosophy something that is, something that isn’t, something that an absolute vision can see . and the question to me is not whether an absolute exists but whether it has to be unbiased, like, totally disaffected, regarding everything, in order to see everything, which in the mind of a man would be a most egregious mania or whether a creator or all knowing whatever, can also feel humanly, which I’m not sure of . i think whatever absolute has to be neutral, in order to really “see it all” our individual biases and perceptions color what we see, so that it becomes a process on the other hand, put a neutral mind together, and you’d have a completely blank human who might be godly, but it wouldn't be able to be communicated to anyone, since an unbiased perception has no understanding, merely, is a vat of info we process, so we can remember stuff about what we process, so that we can form an identity that is forced on us, as the burden of being an individual - - - but yeah just reminiscent of the quandary of prometheus left chained to fuckin a rock upon returning from the land of the titans in shelley’s prometheus unbound, that he has no way of explaining by the bounds of language what he saw, and thus fears whether the truth of what he saw not only would be thrown into question because of this by others but by himself. the bounds of language, earthly reality, don’t suit an absolute that is able to know and understand, but who am i to say, faith believes in that

.]

DAWN,I held the image of her enormous body in the woodsIn hands disgustingly delicate, besides, burnt to ruin: but Disgustingly, too nakedly themselves To be anything to othersBut intrusive, like a smell from

Those pure-pink eyes: I hear them again in my solitude, wishThe best to that bride in the woods whom entangled inMy senses was all of them, dwelling there, sleeping in

Them: my hands were scored with marks, burns fromNasty cherubim: her breath made of flowers, the long shaftOf her there like an inculcated imago, telling me hers as

My portrayal of the cock is no less the sun’s bleedingHue, the moon’s angelic counselor to accrue a sheenOf whiteness both ways dulled back to moons, pink

Ones her eyes, blue-pink with--The moon's introduction and as wellAn introduced calamity, or possible calamity as might beSeen, at my betrayal in the woods: confessed to her thePoem: if she knew she were the rooster to Rimbaud,

She would not mind if I had said what I said: but then--Perhaps I should have listened, perhaps that's what She meant, but,

That’s all in the past now, and she has left all whiffs,Sounds, tastes, sights and touches a jumble, and

For my hands only to be burned by, in writing herThe poem, and the words, each one betrayal, eachOne what seems the over-longing mystic’s chance

To make jargon of the shades of the sun left for theMoon’s inculcated rise to sleep our heads to whiteSheen, on a round, cratered face, positioned midst

The mist large sages of the mind dwell in, asleep, orTired, going to a place of rest there sitting in the fogOF poems, confessions of no longer a cock to betray

In shafts of sun on the place: the woods: the words:The story of the poem as it unfolds coronal for theLeast nasty solipsism to come down, creating angels

In the night, each fast as hues, and hues the facts,Merely hues, the fact of our senses: this is the trueConfession, and that I wish for her this poem to

Deliver me from place of shafts to haunted heavenIs a part of that revealing: weakness of me to sleep,Too, in mists of sense or literal ones, lighted by

The white moon’s blue-pink eye, the second moonSomewhere to make a pair of eyes, and to resume thisPoem to where before it started she had been, in

Me, kneading the wires of reality to suit a hue mostReassuringly defined before she left to snoozeWithin the chaos-guts of my poor head, my handsTo shore the brunt of pain for holding her and wantingTo, in woods, her memory now all that is enormously To hold, not out of love but so as to just beComfortable as well, though my hands,They burn: in bed with the netting, I should be, wiresSnapping: at least till what chalked the brio of my humanConfidence ensued a chase, and I too hungry notTo just let her go, brought with it me toA hellish place, and it, she, fine there. I know,Now, that you are fine

With the tangles, or you have none, but I think that’sOnly the case with pure-pink-eyed angels, whoKnow the hue-sense as concrete a sense as one

Only human would need, hungering, an ever-moreConcrete version of: the mechanism is not to disentangle,Though: that very need portends a desperate need

For order: angels of the hues of moonlight, tell meNothing, do not even soothe my inhuman chaos, inBrain, leave the ends to snap electric and light like

Fuse the rawest-bled synapse to life, briefly, thenDeader than before. I give you up, confusions ofThe sun and moon, might as well confuse the senses,

Like angels, enormous ones, made of shafts thatGlisten in a whiteness either way, either way aBlankness blank as forgotten cherubim to pudge out

The moon a bit. Make more a human of me just toSee that woman in her way in the woods again, tellingAn iron coffin, herself no poem, the poem her rest

For me to tortured live within, banging mercies forThe everloving creator to see freedom in, thoughThis sensible death does not escape a morbidity,

Like a cat hung by a noose: there’s a matter ofSenselessness: defenselessness: I’ll use that concretion,Have martyred the blue-pink angel-girl, though she

Could have made me see the stars in moons, thoughShe could have made me use my tangles like feathersFor to poof the pillow: she could have been not so

Much an iron coffin as a clink of a poem crystallized,Could have fed the senses, instead of leaving me andThem winnowing like particles, as it had been when

This began. What choice is coffin. Let me sleep awaysFrom fearful mortality, and end her poor death here,And me as one step further out of life, one step

More to take towards accepting the tangle and quellingThe lascivious need for order, in shafts, and blatant,Comforting, through the bent vermiculation

OF trees fluorescent-lit, in bloom of synthesis, andParticles mere flowers, flowers, eyes of her, to Remember that: in her death, she grewLess vicious. My hands lay charred, a steaming hunk,And for a moment what I forgot—remained—and took all withIt as she left, left my name for only bands of light to order,To wager real, with hands as dumbly intimate as odor.

A ROMANTIC MAN NEVER ACTUALLY KNOWS HOW TO PLAY PIANO,I think about banging on a piano--For her. I think about telling my hand to shut upWith his fears: he goes shotgunning the first subtle twitch, for support, To the handle of his maw of dirty coffee, as if all that aProclamation, enough a mite for those to see and be like,Wow, I bet you feel really potent things: but of course, it’s too Microscopic, and the anguish, anxiety, too smallFor barren lord-words: and he putting out his cigarette,Dwelling in silence on the keys he is To play, he walks to a piano. Somewhere,Anywhere, perhaps on a mountain somewhere, he’d haveTo walk myself there like a dog, the way she Did for him, the voyage unending Seemingly, pricked with anxiety each foot as it pads and leavesThe ground and pads, the chest heavy, the, my, feet stumbling theirDrama over her rocky land, though the hands lax and deft; whimsyReadying for the grand sonata. I don’t know how to play piano,But if I did, I’d draw resources from the pain, make that aLuxurious drumming over the keys into musical stuff for her,Denying not the wrong note at present but making it presentlyThe right one, for her, with time and patience, not ever, of course,Thinking about one’s porcelain handle, that cigarette far away--I left smoking in the tray in my room, it only lessened the morbid. Anyway. Nothing can take it away, and especially the drugOf regret once sniped from my grips doesn’t: and I grip the tusk of keys,Black and white, and play a dripping straight into this hurting noonWhile the birds fly: and I imagine a whole flock of damned birds, He does: he, I imagine[s] another life thatWouldn’t have existed anyway, the hurt,Another poor travesty, another micturating the pants, embarrassment,Another learning to shit in a bowl. All this possibility maims itself.It goes like a bad dervish all over my life, hocking paintedRealms of content perforce to show a life of riddles, in reality Mere condensation on the window. Out of the window,I see barely music on the mountains, see the mountains, see a largePiano, it’s there somewhere, waiting for my hands to quit their place over My face. I want the weeping to die down into gentle notes

Remitting to that potent quietus of a shotgunning hand:Over the old keys. I want to make a smashing displayOf consciousness and derelict. I want some flaws, I want Something to grip them though and then make themBeautiful later on, perhaps with some riddles remaining steadfast--On what’s large enough to bring down the sky, a thing or masterOf delusion, over delusion, over grace, and the shadowA tiger curving her paws at the volume: presenting itself like aCrucible, a style of judgment. A style of control, and longingFor something beyond control, and which makes it wild,So that it may judge the wild, judge the tiger, judge the faceAnd leave my hands no body; and by the time they haveFallen off, I will have dragged my sonata out fromThe shotgunning regrets, will have funneled it into banging Smallness on the keys on a piano, in the alps, whileThe overwhelming sky’s anxious, long stretch is broughtDown like folds of sheet. Like hands,Twitching at my tiger-feet. She is the rocky plain.This faint milk your braingoes through, gets you banking at the curb left into regarding life, and in the waves goesyour way through infallible to earth.And your brain then is you, slowly, with a dulcet,lung-open purity, and you are nearly madedeaf and dumb, hanker for more of these truthsfrom wherever place: mere primers to ease the humors, yours, their reasoningout of your paracosm, with music, to land you forcefullyin brute logic’s realm, and then things seem a parade ofmarching hands off and into the tides of space.it is yours, space is, in yours a brain whose thoughtsare bodies that mar the shore, hands that take their sojourn in phalanx-position, acrosswheeling plains, ever the soil for sad souls’ requiemto pump a shook vibration into rattling the pebbles of;hands whose milk is blood you, in writing, wadethrough. Sequence your gait, for once,your phalanx-steps to heaven, or rather swim to therefrom your inborn sea, to past your rotting brothers yards upon the shore, to find a placewhere the idea is, that from whence to hereyou started. You gave a rope to that missive, waited for its gnawed handsto grab it, bring their muddy selves up from squalor,reveal a dollar to earn for being pent, even

YOU TURN YOUR HEAD,"You turn your head---new love! You turn your head again---new love!"

- - - RIMBAUD

Caught in the lure, the heard head policingSensations, the neck somewhat at clickingPaces of glassy warmth, this literal arching

Of the spine spins, grips: a loose refractingIn the space, that is, between a final roofOut: the closeness between one movement

And the next, a passive sway's long, tiredMarionette, strings all a-swerve to bleatA finnikin way towards: towards what: this:

How can the sadness' outrage suit this: suitWhat: what roofs: can what fails to be, be notPlus what is---that happens: awash with

A lease upon what poles go spinning too:Urgent, this remedy is, it gleams: it is aWay to crawl upon the line, this is, it is a

Drawn plank across space: something here,Something that makes me turn my headThis way, something that makes me little

Again, in the waves of spine, in the waysOf stars across my spine, it lords thus:Discard the lords?: drain a melancholy at

A loss for the worst, the militant, the riledPerfunctoriness of spaces between turningAnd sensation: all's a swerve, a bending

Of atoms, not inventive: but, a shaking head'sWorth’s not what lives thus in thought: I've foundMyself: lost myself: I've lost what I've found

And thought lost, when I had it: but it wasThere, differently now, it is different now,A level of must go on, that wasn't there, is:

But where to go: elevate the predicamentTo another flyer in the night: a bat, perhaps;A bird perhaps, an absurd bird, a spiel in

The special, stretching the column to haveThe head spin rhythmic on the line: this isJust feeling, feeling right, sort of, trying for

The absent denial, trying to trust myself soThat more untruths present themselves inThrobs in my gut: shut-ins, louses, mitigating

Creatures, perhaps, to prove how bashfulGOD must be with our boasting: but theWeakest link argument doesn't fly like bats

Or---birds. It dresses up itself in the matterOf the fact that illusions exist: well of course:Tell me something new, it's about the same

As saying, much beneath the surface, so--Why try: well, here's why: factors gain, doorsClose to open flooding light from windows

Turned on like a switch. As others, clench

The boom enough a sonic one to get soundAll blessed in parameters of wordages andSpace: that's what gets the spine ticking on

The line, that's what gets the spiel bent and,Possibly, atoms too: the swerve is in each band,In each turn of the head to a place you wish policing

It hadn't: but this is somewhat like blessing whatCould have been; if it didn't happen, and it wasA sensation, then most likely it was too weak

A link: but then, do I contradict myself here:Well, personality-wise, weakest link, lost goingsDiffer from what's a personality: if sensational,

Then the mooring might swerve still into someMore delectable counterpart that needed passingThrough the want of a lesser point to be made:

The trouble lies in devotion to the point, whichIs an aspect of intelligence: one pursues the bands,Rungs, rings, for fun: but then, finds the sadness

And listless wondering to wander into fewerSensory-motifs, points, spinal crannies thatMaybe are really small tumors grown out of-

-A broken back, upon the stepping-on of one'sChild too many cracks in sidewalk: whatnot:See, I haven't lost the devotion, just the silver

Lining, a falsity: a renegade I am: a silver liningI am myself: so with that there is enough inThe personality to drop a rhythm or two, too,

Without succumbing to whatever weaknessI might have perused, pursued, in turning myHead back to where I thought it was my head

Wanted to turn: but I am my head: and my--Hands: and I am the warmth, I beg it, I begIt forth: lords ain't nuthin: the GOD in me is,

It rumbles with a fuming for lost stuff, whenLess headspace's needed for that: that'sCalled dwelling, dude: and no more could I

Fumigate my meanings, when the sicknessWas never there, the cockroaches weren't,Nor were the tumors: weakest thing is to

Stay docile, never tremor enough in doingSomething wrong, always line up lines inA way happiness follows forth from: that's

No life to live: if it were, people would beIngratiatingly gratified with the smallestDevotion to a smallest conundrum: but no:

No smashing of icons here, none but in the comingTogether of brief, wanton breaks of wandering,Fuming enough, rhythm enough: looking over

It to find what had been while your head was

Turned: lift it up: write till your hands ache,Even, perhaps, carpel-tunnel syndrome,

That might happen: but it's O.K.: messesClench the wrist as much, leave the brainMushy with worrying too much over brainless

Lament: so beg this: leave it stern in the truthOf all my untruths yet to be discovered: makeSensational wandering a wonderful sensation:

Lure it forth from . . . what: a prattle, yes,Not breaking, but a pill for the heart to sootheAnd make not so bitter: brittle, my spine is that,

With turnings of the head: no matter what,There'll be something that I didn't devote to,Something in this smarmy reason that opens

Shining doors to lechers: pursue that: makePersonalities of words: all good: all GOD: GOD inExistence personifies the weakest link argument

And gives it validity: but then, with that point,I might just turn and break my back, again,Hearing all the while of Stevens-GOD as his

Helmet-headed soldiers head themselves to aDefeat, lamenting stupidly, gone in the grace:And less, till lost and treasured, is all: ourAdequacy won't

Be in question: everyone's beautiful but weShould wear helmets as his soldiers do, notSombreros, unless you wanta be funny: we

Should leave it at that, weep at that, for the--Point's gone, that should have had me written,Written, in the most of my desires, and tarnished,

Once I see no longer what I once did have,When merely, no weakness, merely change,Merely, merely one of his declaims wroughtRoofs, to break---as if to begin---

To life again, a part of one, and his own to wrestle.

KAFKA'S GATE,man is before a curtain & unable to drawit open upon what blinks at him twice for

‘no’ as to emphasize choice in the plainway a simple refusal to go deeper than &

‘no’ a way to traumatize man out of wantinganything else ever again anymore etc.

far into the room that is a lounge made ofred leather notions the size of big words

that crept up & became the telling between himand the other whom is convinced by him a medicine

but really if that only for the fool’s amigoto drink up down to the dregs all the while

considered some urine sample or somethingoffensive like that which in the same way

makes dying a habit but yet all have foundthis joke of mortality convincing enough to

once before Kafka’s gate not do a damn thingbc no longer time to & all this as much as

man could not make sense of curtains in a poemcould he tell why the other-eyes be in cahoots with

a pair of eyes in a redder corner nearly scarletcompared to consciousness he has of where

he is & laws at all in this case a big vacancyor whole or an insisting to embark for miles

& miles to the cream of the lounge’scontented slew of fake context after all

a mere apoplexy in the face of power or evenor giant wardrobes of space an acquisition

with the willed palace to the scummy kid

just another room for pot and some tshirts he

whom finally in an act of unbelievable defiancedecides he decided to forget everything in

favor of losing a sense of perfidy regarding whomwill always be watching anyway & playfully &

serious as hell man grips the tasseled rope ofa golden thread & looks at his shame as slowness

in not doing this for forever as himself but asjust perceiving himself & well isn’t there a whole

world besides in looking for crags in a roomthat lead to lobbed metaphysical throwballs

man would whiff away all day at & finally infreedom to be happy about redundant existence

forgets about it to view the ranging landscapebusting out or seeming to before him like

something going begone from a bad spot maybeto go along with the mechanistic vagary here

something made of itself for the first time likeobligations of mirrors describing introductions

or gates w guards of someone else’s purgatorygive lease to embody everything in mirrors

like a scream the shit of the man brings to lifein out of sorts not taking anything anymore &

made up on the idea of youthful resistance reallya cold superfluity that mocks its owner’s individual

abiding sphere by being exactly what that is for heat the butt of jokes of other-eyes now making sense

of the world and so perhaps the mechanistic vagaryat present necessary enough to bleat randomness

again & do what his mother has told him to to letlight into the room opens after timeless pondering

does what everybody always wanted anyway tothe window by thru the muck and dodder grabbing

. . . . . . . .

hilarious reality & with one restive tug finding raggytree branch and basically winter deployed in curious

strokes of leaves like bombs kind of representing a wavering that always was in those eyes that

made him o so aware of a mirror to life ofman simple man whom only wants to bother

for once for the sake of some elderly femalevoice as disembodied as the glaring eyefuls

long enough to get the gate open and flyout of the lounge of death made out of blood

made out of that which fills an entire housew/o room even for a fetal position no no spread

for the cad nor symbol to abide with him backto less excoriating realities though all of that

is his inner him for is not that all of invention’sfrustration in wanting freedom but conceding to

choice amid uselessness & traumatizing controllersthat is perceivers of themselves & him perceiving

likewise & thus he chooses chaos and to becomehis mother since after all it is choice that is

real not plausibility is which retreats as suchto inevitable corners of passion in the lounge

while in a delicate daze all delicate mothersdisappear & ambiguous her looking out

from a regular standpoint of standoffishnessat a son making friends with Kafka’s mirror

made as one might name a thing that is housed

like glints created against a diamond once

light’s involved in a cursed area of eye unable tostep into or unlikely despite the nonexistence of

impossibles at this point enough to warrant mothersinto sons sons whom proudly thru a window perceive

once randomly plural an edge to the sky as her likeas if it were a piece of furniture or angle of mirror

or anxiety unseen but there like judgments waysubtle and extant simply by dint of the cad

who after all sees thru unseemly eyes at himeyes going and shocking him leave him blind

for they are him and soul pale he contrivesa harp to play a redness to the room again &

that harp the heart of Kafka and the blinking codeto mention only once, & please the guards of mimicry

SEDIMENT,I have not yet translatedThe language of the apocalypse for to save us, nor Spoken the glyphs of yet-heard memory that

No butcher-sage couldn’t squirm a knife with into letters, Easy enough, all of the story teeming-

-Blood anyway, what’s more mess?: without slicing into The meat of brains themselves?, that’s a feat:

To deny the memory that brought you

To the realization, you portend and portend, with Knowledge of what rapture to come-

-Yet not acknowledging .

I look around me, is this humility?,

And find everything I need within

The reach of my hand . but it is absence-

-That truly numbs the imagination into improvising

Its own makeshift GOD; when we suddenly Know, we suddenly understand, there

Was nothing makeshift about it . it’s the same

Sort of thing as saying that unwritten lines of thoughts

Are the most important, because They choir out of nothing what is possible, what

Is to come, without seeing the nothing—experience it in The choiring and don’t acknowledge it . butcher-sage’s

A real cut-up, though; is thought; desires others’ Laughter at his slabs, knowing nothing, the meat of it a mystery

Like as GOD, and like as nothing ever,

Bullshit in the meat, meaning in the tides of experience, Ignorance of the tides as tidings, merely seeing liftings, Momentarily, only seeing, hearing breaths in, in .

SERPENT STEP,Everything’s way backwards way farther out of the penumbra’sReach: there is a last

Material before darkness, sticking out of the light, in aQuarters, domicile the size of a planet, where the people

Are all sad serpents. They are all ignorant of an awaiting - - - Eternity of poisons, founts, and, they, each of the conjuredSuddenly from my psyche, race of them, inhale poisons,

Inhale they the toxic fount, almost as a sort of sacrament,The holy oddity of breathing liquid: drowning: and, the more unaware Of the murderous insidiousness that is behind all this, the

More childish and the stronger the green, unnatural glowOf what might could kill ye: luminescent & radioactive,Powerful like a whopping whole drum of it, light: &

Drumming thruout is, is like: feet of the puerile vacuum:Across one fracture, which too is the size of somethingBold as coffee, intractable as a void before a wombIs made of it, THERE like a voice everywhere-

-And tending to be absent to spite sense: & toAddle the psyche of Beckett, at search in the

Bog for drugs: the fracture is a higher light, to reveal a fewThings: a respectful enough notion of what isn’t so

Easy to not be addled by … : the notion obviously is theScience of being within folds: and, knowing the worldSmall bc a fold, merely, strip, of light: abruptly,

I think of a scene from Trainspotting, when scatThe loony scot expelled unknowingly in stuporTo vanquish the poor fucking bed gets all over

The breakfast of random girl he didn’t bang’s parents,And hers: violence ensues: absurdness: violence and

Disgustingness, etc. ensures the infinite, points to it withVoid, the infinite too a notion: but perhaps if such a topsy-turvy, gluttonous context IS, well, It might be realer, shake

Older feet: as a concept: too bad, serpents have no step, just

That slip of ground to treasure: the fact of it, light,Being so far from the serpents of vagary, a numbRead of a metaphor [snakes for what?] that truth-

-Might as well be as far: even the causa primaCouldn’t swell an action as a form for light, no,Not the sturdiest teleology; even the intimidating

Tests of any craggy philology, etc., studies of superlativeAnd ideal couldn’t sell it to you: reader reading

Codswallop like this: and all this want but a trendy,Happening antagonism: the sun is made, is

Off with its wavering drop of meaning, now: it is atThe end of the injecting needle - it is yellow, splayed o’er

The hills: this nature, it’s reminiscent maybe of flowingFounts of poison [contra Rimbaud’s Terrific Mouthful],

And funny I should think of that, huh, when upon toSlay those many monsters, or at least banish ‘em -

To say, thoughts - to someplace with a horrific frozenTundra on it, or the opposite pole nearly Amazon - myMind was actually being on the topic of belches all over

The landscape: erhm, belches?: ah, a means of mine to encourageDisrespect, a popular route to hush the loudmouth,

And when it happens, ouch, to you … well. At least,We can say, we dared to speak a snake, did not weDo that? But what does a snake mean - ? No. AlreadyAsked that question.

. . . . . . . And before this hissing-

-Audience I hear snatches of wisdoms. “And, at least,Doltish one: you aren’t us. We the wretches who live in unfairness -

As the realm, wishing impregnation: that all and everyRoom could own void like that, and us not homelessAnd destitute children … : … such’s the desire, Since we speak of it, as everything, on the peripheryOf nothing, ah, ah, always that beautiful specter there … speak,

Speak and then, feel chill w desperation bc of THAT :And these feelings & stuff that arrange themselvesLike constellations, inscribe on the letter, to the letter -

Yes yes yes yes carves w a damned yes yes yes yesNeedle into the letter: dismissing possibilities of infection--But enjoying the idea of that doom: whom am I speakingFor and why veils ?? But by the desperation … well.

There is hate to tell you - pathos fucking galore - alright,Bigshot? And it’s all upon - as peripherally - the ink that Frames of these very material, stuttering,Stuttering terms: consideringAll this gabber: stuttering : well ergm, Is corners of stuff but not the

Stuff itself, tho something so figurative - a nearly a sortOf arty spirituality to it - and art in case of this, the-

-Greater, grander fairytale than any explosiony Theme: is the corner of stuff - yea -

Too, an existence - and essence: that is if one considersThe ontological deluxe-package on sale at the VaticanFor three trillion dollars, but then w a price like thatYou can tell Mommy And Daddy Money Crony did--Nort want their little - fudgicle ov a kid to get drafted:They only take the people who don’t have an essence,Basically everyone except Bill Gates’ lovechild. Dildos!What bullshit is this ?? Just wanted to tickle something

Pink the way you can’t with pigeons, ‘cept if you haveAn veritable army of breadcrumbs of delirium, like the old fogie: & Mouthwash put aside again, to give even the old fogieSome idea of his own smelling distance: you know--The thing, it goes on but no more than on at the afflatus’Horizon, but always, glued to that, and we, you, I, havingIt all be fine and ok and it’s cool also. So, then, madness &

Fugue: no wonder warnings inhabit the impulses -Basically carnages - of this country of snakes, anIndustrious, abiding population, but oddly fierceWith desire mere ornament in a consciousness soStifled from - inception - as the wedged pea btweenTwo pieces of wood or something that’s what makesA pigeon a pigeon, - but in the serpent, esp. inThis world of my cosmos [not sure if that is redundantOr just doesn’t make any sense, like ‘One ThousandMillion’ of something] I beg an effort to suspendDisbelief - and in this civilization, western one, itA thing that is and believe or do not believe this, aWhole big explosion of a monster truck deliveringCheeseburger patties that grill themselves thus, &As projectiles controlled by drones controlled byHumans are shot into the welcoming, almost sexual--Piggy maw of I who watch and laugh at the factThat I forgot exactly what caused that hellfire onThe silver screen: that's where it was: bc I really wanted to smoke & Just kind of these days blindly assume, explosionsJust are, have always been, even in the days ofThe salem witch trials there were good, hardworkingExplosions - just, like - trying to make a living, &Anyway these days you were considered racist ifYou asked an explosion exactly why it happened.What is to remain held on to, since, after all, justLike a doorknob [you’ll see! You’ll all see! - old manOf an old man I saw all declamatory to his pigeons,Baffled but for the most part unable to be confusedBy anything bc among other things not fathomingEnglish.] View that there forgiveness,” Serpents hassle Their tongues like those ones of flame: after all,The frantic dark follows in reverse - why afterAll all this desire/want’s impossible to get or

'Get': I am in the business all of a sudden of creatingMore for the concept, here: needs of shifty-eyed, hairyChildren. As if to live by the insufferable tote of breaths,

Breaths, - or rote to mete and dole upon the kind, like-

-A magnificent sword knights for badness, well, that perpetuity became All things, connecting the sun and serpent-lung, even; a

Needed parallel to bring the diurnal divide somethingWhile maybe not two of the same things are a - xerox -Untampered mimetic, a dual sameness, parroting

Only the vessel - dark - w its reflecting surface,Light: we all the serpents in our grand dicey natureBecome what ‘it’ is - that’s been a lil shady to define:

Tho: and we realize wants, needs, desire and old bandTees are untrained, or tattered from overuse, &

Thus heavy w the possible falter out ofWeakened fabric, an attitude like moneyFlowing carelessly out of a bag in a Model T,Following the heist: - I am at the heights of whatShould have sent a poet, - yeah, that is theSword we need: troubled with jewel: and

Might as well all this be the same, as I am, wOne single mention of ‘we’ become a serpent;As any of the amorphous world of ‘it’ is for theRes: I say I am not so bad a viper, cobra, justTo assuage Indiana Jones, phobics otherwiseNormal, people un-serpent and w/o desire &,Inversely, all the scaly crackheads sticking likeA friend to a floor of blood & urine & refuse:Sent a poet indeed: all this damnable roughageOf verbiage: one drab as a monkey’s vocab,Despite the pretense of a monkey suit: really, it,The poem, wants to say w snappy lines, that ‘it’Can be anything: once clarified, is the very

Hallucinatory, raw ruggedness a rent of a roomJust to encompass the res in a final seeable, mightMake tickled pink: they are upright serpents, after all, licking light For breakfast, but the dregs of that stash: - what

Remains of what - we - had before: this, ah, slow collectingOf meaning : and weepy relevance etc. might stitch theirFreedom with mine , and as apart from druggy literati, whom,The figuration!, Drags on the search in his hazy bog.

Guess we left him there . Pim was a regular penumbraHerself, Good God!, was it Good or God or the like:

A bank stolen from awhile ago, a great many minute linesOf time ago, now at the edge of knowing its fate;Perhaps, the prescience of the now-dead clerk

To be made randomly famous within this cosmosOf couplet merely: agh, to be given a Book Deal byTeh Good Lord: him who rules stuff-of-the-week:

Like anything that is GOD-ish, the overlappingSimilar, however measly, to the res, a meaningHankering FOR water to fill the lungs, somehowThis might leverage a few freedoms - that is, toHang one’s hat on some nonsensical, hoist it upAnd polish the grandeur widespread. But maybe--Hah: is that a thought so separate much, much:

It breathes the same while inhaling thicknesses notAir: wrather: the feed of acidic fodders doesn’t evenWeather it: the remedy that will get this cosmos toSee its landscape I started with of hills, and lightAnd a sun for Kierkegaard that shows everything,Denying lowly serpents as ‘we’ that obviousnessIn the sky: the sky’s an answer in itself - randomRumination: I only eat fodder where anything is;

Being anything, is ignorant of air but childish enoughTo want to live: fools: repetitive dusts of dandy smokeEh? Lifted to the point the material sits on, that is,Wherein thoughts, like with Epicurus, are

Material, even those I’ve attempted to kill elsewhereElsewhere manifest, in a way by proxy of being alongWith the severe attachments of passion an attachmentTo, because made at, my own hand: I mean, it’sA hand, hands have whims just like we do: TIMEThen is like thoughts: thoughts, thoughts, uh, beingOf a similar metaphysical ilk, would be almost like

TIME’s complementary palinode to describeIT along with any and all doubtful physicality:For example: time might be contained by mins.

The way thoughts’ re contained in a mind,

Or by reason, and maybe that meaning forThe fabric of a loose flowing painting of dollars

Is enough to screw the noblest needle into The state of what, after all this, is the horizon,Sitting like mushrooms on top of its granting tongue:

A concealing maneuver: but no one this sideOf blankness can tell, much less persons inThe room, each one a puppet creaking in

Chairs, wanting less to clothe itself and moreTo barter a meaning enough of what’s a liftedSight, w/o necessarily expanding on what ofThe now I see at present, whether as regards

Reality’s silly objects or the incarnate of my mind’sEye: breaths, serpent-breaths, well, they willContinue consuming glass, as some other fad

Of shadow invades norms, if any be left to dismantleAs regards this manufactured cosmos, struggling

To be a landscape, living vicariously through hintedNotions of The Great Big Wonderful Context: to beOn the shoulders of miracle is quite righteous &Tubular, gnarly also [makes weird hand-gesture

Indicative of The Bro]. Only, ‘it’ is beside the room, theThought exists within smelling distance: like someDoorknob might be proximate to a door. Questionable

Resources cause laughter, ultimatelyCommiseration, rage: and anyway nobodyIf there has ever been a room that hasExisted, has known domicile: imbecilic:

Duly noted: that is, ye who make some suchMistakes of vagary, another form of omission:And you go let to the brig anything pleasant:After all, to compromise, faking something

Other than blight and/or shadow: we after All, descry penitence in anything that pointsGrouchily to stuff upstairs, at least: the last material:

BEAUTY VESTIGES,Spilled bleak, and formulations thereof at the barConsider a somewhat alien pride before the shots

As if dramatics at the least increased interest, e’enWhen weeping is the soft music behind reality, no, not

Like men before me cold in NY, the hunch generallyThe world a narrative to even stun the caparison fabulist

What curls theirs spines in cold, besides that, itIs besides the walk as if to be hanged & lights out

It is we couple of us gone left to consider apocalypseAs spillage guts, a feint acknowledging the critics

Withal tithes their own in the absence of your ear,Besides when you’re around. And all of where I

End up hitting my head is also a place of peace& forgetting awful conditions of life expressed,

Endless temperaments analysed as he spoke to them.All this and you inject out of your marbles the way the

Needle’s life takes precedence over you, unit bendyDon’t fare very long, and pockmark a wrist into a

Decking its goddam own : and festal the breezeAlmost when you consider the rain, most, out of

All this, and beautiful simplicities nearly the oppositeTo allegory of you , as almost a serious path NYers

Trod is unlike anything but a sort of grumpy danceAt most, to entertain the shard they are w inner life:

A dance but inner dance: a dance for rain: or toEscutcheon themselves, as if a hobble was a heart

To be protected: and as if the itching temperamentsPerhaps in their gait uncorked that grim enough: so:

So: I dared really really drunk reveal festerings to

Everybody, when really not so big a deal : blind to

The infinite paradigm of you, tragedy, say me of me,Me of me: you say, as it rains needles : you don’t say :

. . .. . .. . . ..

Wrapping up life, one masters every possibleCircumstance or else be blessed with an accurate

Comprehension of ignorance, tho this w it moreTo point to negative, and pride no alien thing but

Perhaps by the dialectic speed one gives to endlesslyApproach might be too what at this point can’t

Mingle into anything but a ghost, a shadow of aPhrase : but and is she : and in distant speech do

Anothr respirate the continuance, and who is sheWhom mostly dead wouldn’t rapidly start to rage

That all of it was poison, and the ruins our knit browsCollapse, of strength, indubitable and strong but

Weak in ways of elegant perspective, and I am leftW the sleekness of ghosts to follow, nay, ectoplasm

Or righted guts of things would map it out, theZeitgeist : suppose it means love : suppose as well

Defining things blankets the air to suffocateIndifference, and there we are, where the equivocal

Half-made poetic path wanted to lead us. HateIndifference, of course, and love a person with

Black hair and blue eyes: who wants to fall intoThe final package, delivered personally to Brad Pitt

THE MASSIVE SHRUG,There is one of a harlequin,Who comes upon the door to truth, somehowAnd shrugging his shoulders, leavesWithout even opening it, goes off to findSomething else down the block, maybe not truth but Close. Perhaps more than any purityCould explain. Perhaps a mythologyTo loose himself into the irradiated cosmosTripping, tripping on his own heels andFollies, over himself, disjointed his jointsLike a clown, but still farther out into cosmos Than any nice book of truth he could haveWritten, in opening the door to see it all,And all, a thing anyway that would be Refuted, though perhaps, taken moreSerious. And so, his book on it, on creatingHis own findings, his own stubborn soundsTo gather dust, all because he shrugged His motherfucking shoulders, was rejectdBy the invariable land of truth: a thing after allIn control of everybody who's here's--Fate. His own miscreant attitude, his livingOn the blocks, impoverished and menacing,A symbol for the chains that make us want to openDoors at all. A freak of nature like this. A freak of truth.

HANDBAG WITH AQUARIUM,Mixtures drag. I’ve only got onepaper napkin in my pocket: nestling a hock,somewhere folded in there. My bagis filled with chump flowers and like anyaquarium as dismalness’s is seemingly omnipresent:patterning around loquacious bannisters there’s mehell-bent on taking the poem by the horns,making melody, a diminished chord: lordlyfolly’s abrasive battering into the hole:I want bad handbags made filled with blue

fishies, most of them muvahs just goldfish,cheap, at the zoo isle at k-mart: that’swhere I got the napkin too. It’s a kingdomthere, anything you want, just gottabend your knees and slay a tune for sakesmade blistering wanderings of my handinto the place where water spills outlike horns of water, I grabbing the hornswith phlegmy paper napkins, too, in there,

just perhaps to get the flowery horniness’dismalness to make a diminished budout of handbags, my last day’s bastion,my last mixture, right before the getawayof all thievery of sense, all mitigating problems,travails that got you to the place of a soakedaquarium-bag, not the best place perhapsto keep bills, but then that’s too real aconundrum, isn’t it: don’t make the finalthe true final, find you end forever: drythe leather, leave it out to dry, find thatstuff’s shrunken and gone dirty and raggywith funk. That’s why for the sakesof fishy muvahs I went to k-mart, so’sthe dud dudes don’t get euthanized,I suppose they poison the water, like inthat movie, Erin Brockavich. I don’t knowif I’m spelling that right. Who cares;all cares, they lift like waterfall and sprayonto the street, when you ask me fora napkin to wipe off ice cream fromyour face: a deep chocolate: what queries,give to the k-mart men upstairs: that’swho I speak to, I find: they make ruinsa placation, as if I were obsessed withlistlessness in reality a dismal end to fishies. I’malready too-into too-human reality-conundrums,at this point, like somethings in the water--and movie references, whatnot. What of thebannisters: so what, is what: I use themas for a movement of the hands downbannisters of content merely, content

About hands. Something’sgotta be unexplained, after all: something’sgotta be a death, in spite of all the surrealism,

life, nonsensical in-betweeners: give me abroken flask for all this water to mix myselfa grave, drink like a fat fish, die like one,go to k-mart for that heaven I’d been lookingfor, while outside it starts to rain millions ofrancid paper napkins—in reality, since we’reso damn infatuated with realness’ conundrums--and perhaps, some dismalness, is the result of twogarbage trucks smashing into each other, bothof which funny for the day seemed to have a wealthof paper napkin-looking things, and which

all of it in heaven proved that people still needto keep clean in that place: that angel of content,she resists: she tells me to talk more about myhandbag with equatorium, I mean aquarium,the equator no where near close to here: speakabout poisoning the supply of flowery horns,the horns a spiraling of flowers, the poem a spiralof flowers I grab and crush before the mellowingyear. I am not with a thing anymore but thatcouldn’t beat a schism into dismalness enoughto call this whole damned shebang dismal,fraught, too loquacious, like a shattering ofteeth at the outset of drug-pangs: the water,turned us all into addicts: there’s fish in me flask,I look on, say, my face attenuated and dankwith only the most durable thoughts, now, thefrail, beautiful ones having been crushed underthe weight of my palm, my palm an island,

rather, an expression of an island, rather, myhand alone, isolated that way, the plan of palmsonly good to high-five a deity or two beforethe trashy fish get hung out on the line, and Ileft the garbage-head of a questionable source,and I left for the bannister to go down into ME,and take my handbag, sopping, by the hornsof dutiful, durable, ponderous flowersover the sides. Mixtures drag like ciggies asI drink the mixture. Leave it as a planet displaced,this whole bad poem bad for the pallet, mydistaste the reigning subject now, my regalreckoning remitted to foolery, fishy egotismand foolery. Goodnight, folks, while I get drunkand ruin my unisex handbag: Erin Brochialbitch

would be outrageous: summer argot, I guess, driven bylatent sense of pilgrimage always when writing a poem,like I’m on a religious journey to castrate priests somedayof former knowledges that say, Nothing in the water:zooming thoughts: oh well, so long: so long: so long: revise

CATCHES,Methought a bank at the cell’s nudge towardsThe proper point would make things more, perhaps,Interesting: methought the wonder wouldst comeDespite, if I waited, but then again nobody’s gotPatience with their own doubts enough to not refuteThem eventually, lie to yourself, yea: we becomeGross with wondering otherwise forever, cannotMake a carnival out of the serious head, of what’sTo doubt: if it be serious, so the first depth is, if theHead is serious about—making dinner: I can’t relyOn what amounts to mere contrarian will to muss up,In reality a dissatisfaction with what the moment gives andWith doubt, erodes, by means of paranoia like an assault,No: no one has a chance with the pain of unfathomables:Not surprising: the least synapse pursued I favor: yetThough am meticulous am impatient, as I said, and insteadOf at the perfect moment connected, the synapse, rightBefore the perfect moment, is cast off, like a huge fishHung at the lure. Meticulous devotion to surprise ruinedThat devil’s ever seeing the grill, a nice filet

Never to come, I mark it a moment’s fault, whenI should have left it hanging, on the lure, should haveMade the moment less immense. Like, immenserThan the greatest of all catches. The moment grousesOn our fun time with too much relevance, enough to seemLike as a thing watching for us to throw back that damned

Great catch of an idea, and starve,The way boredom begs a watch to look at: theObserving moment knew already, we were gone

Into our torpor of muddy brains, split cells to muddiness,Before we even got the chance to think it through,Relying soon enough on dullard surprise in reality aMetaphor for this flanking pressure-

-Of a watching moment, beating down on us, thoseWho eventually were to take inspiration estranged:And, here I demand: be not culpable for its destruction yet, for In the poet-mind, all is inadvertent, sometimes.So we would speak of the huge catch to friends,A bitter remembrance of the possibility most possibleBy in that moment coming so close to it, and throwingIt away, because of course of state regulations regardingFishing; before you can take out your camera. You forgot,Have no evidence, none but the persuasion of speechAnd the vividness of the story, those wordless thingsEnd up speaking more to either, in the case of the doubter,Desperation; in the case of the humanist,A beautiful imagination-

-That soon is framed in our heads as an image of loss,The image especially powerful, leavening to a shape rather,Once the experience back when has grown blurry,The imagination to take the reigns of the fishy ideal,And grow a mirrored relevance the same as metaphorFor flanking pressures of moments, the guile of the moment,The guile of feeling observed in a WORLD whereWe know not by who, train the feeling thus, take itTo make a shape of irrelevant imagination

. . . . . . .

TEARS-EATERS,In these emeralds. I strung twigs, hitching tight the lazy knotOf brushes, into a drenched membrane, a bowl in which to liveFor the case of floods. Like a beaver. I strungLike somewhat tinsel carpentry. Over the gentler

Pads of shard, left the more-fraggedFragments that, as destruction alone, perhaps; a headStuck through on a pike. And each one, shard, razed, a pissedCountenance beneath the twisty cover, like as storms:

Then I moved it away, kept the roam of weather, keptThe indignant tidings of the shoving on both turns like a smallBall of conscious flesh, a conscious stick up the colonAs the creature’s eyes squint,

Fur on end, a creature for songs. Each a nervous—quivering withPurge—like each one a nervous shelter. I imagine myself dyingBy the shard (sword), atom, or covetous

Grate, where the rainwater sinks in, through raw metal, myselfSmall as a tinkling drop. A sewage juxtaposed to the cylindricalShack, pasted with bruised water and painted remains of garbageEqually. It’s on them to maculate myself, tie me down, like a large manTied down with saranwrap by little folks, dirty clothes on him too

The pants too dirty. Made auras of those saucers lifting upThis corpse that is me into that plane: despite, I didNot know the plane: shifting the duct I smear with a knuckleMyself from whatever restraint I figured or had notions ofFiguring into better view. Ah, doubt. But still the cognizanceLamed, bothered, tearfully responsive, and yet my eyes are dry.

THE SUN HAS A LOT OF STUFF GROWING ON IT,Famous in the mind, this misery. PermanentToo. For not once could alter it: this barnacleOnly leads to fracturing this broken mind further,

This mind a vessel itself. That unreal kind ofOne. And I have attempted my wish of it, thatAll this contrariwise, humping onto shore

Like a mollusk, might beat down, battenDown the logical debris and prove me wrongAs it sets sail: to murthers on the sea: the

Sea of outrageous stars and like a countenanceFacing the World, with downturned challengingEyes: looking as if we all were at the eves of our

Destruction, constantly at ends with ourselves.All the divorce of microbe, synapse, bulb, demise,Make tenfold misery, misery the overlapped

Hue, over it all, a cloud: when introduced

To each resistant particle, I picture blamesFor what’s in the shock, the blame in this

Damnable shock that comes from splitsInto that seeming durable void, making thingsThere, taking them out of fancy, and dismissing

A lot of the mania, for the sake at leastThe misery is whole. I blame the maniaOf days, nights spent unreasonable and

Reviling the tips of stars, that so much isDismissed far-off in the welkin: deep stellarAnd portentous howls: miracles of pressure,

And all the things I have tried to pieceTogether, are so much nothing to unguentOf what’s simply sadness overlapping

Sadness, a coil of misery in cloud and dustAnd breakers of stars on the hull of thisOutcast ship, looking at myself far off, on shore,

From what I thought a respite, of a seaOf a million nautical suns.

AND YET A FALLEN WORLD,It’s just an echo. Your mind repeats it because and hereThe fidgety dialectic jumps to life: because, it isApparently motivated by soft grips of

The knee to embarrass her with something completely out of line.Of unreal forestry where all is unreal, the memory sits

In abstruse dimnessLike a duty to see before you—really—in a way wherein the body feels

The familiar place and time to life again. And dashing entwined, knitted in it, blokes in him for peace: or: clowns aspirating seltzer out of pressured bottles clearly,

If somewhat priggish, like a good word in a dress made a mess of, and I in a habit like smoking: the blades I

Mocked (mocked!) as they tore into my throat. And fettered lightly to the bridge, the boat sits For us to steal. And I remember her in it, I bellying the water with paddle. She cried

Into straightBlack hair. Marrows, each follicle shiningDeepest in the moon’s gape, and then light

Tones as the barracks of memory sloshed: and like two disparateFrames a new memory shifted into the old one, and it was like the timeBetween had not have passed but melded either into one reality:

And I see myself:With fellows fording mattresses up against the door to keepThe smoke out, further in, an inanimate clock, a real oneIn this some fortress, blessings of the baby speaking gibberish

In the floor below: that’s the now: but remember the clock, it proves existence

Of an other: that’s something I can’t hear you say, I either hearLauds or dismissive placations or even hatreds, but neverAdvice: just like someone you know, you say. I should haveJust called you you, I say, and my shoulders clench again:And fatalistic creeds, at first fatalistic,

Dismiss some blatant other in the birth of that idea,To have it be of frames, that is, that spangled

Minds beneath an unreal empire of branches into mind,Shone imagination’s very maw: you saw it you did, foreverYou will miss what you could never treasure: woven sticksTo suit a thorny head.

Fall’s here, and gorgeous windsSlant the sky’s muddied light, mostly light orangeHues: murders of crows aren’t yet on sight yet, must

Be a little before they do: the baby goes on makin fuckinBaby noises: crazy shit, till a crux in my heart goes blackAnd exhaust makes all that metal bleed to sing and forgive

Fate again, though I’m guessing I will my whole life: uhp,My foot’s asleep: the baby’s coughing in the apartmentBelow: I wonder if the baby is only there for intermittent

Periods because I don’t hear this baby all that often:Did his parents divorce?: Or are they still to be married?:I gotcha a give in the head, I hope ya see now, that

Origin. In other words, therein is the true entrance

Of an other,—a psyche’s outsider—or delusion—or maybeEven just a call. Like yo, hah—Christ,

When will he learn that. What I do know

However is that there is indeed muchLost in translation here. What you think I think isEarth-shaking I might find, along with you, banal, tedious. Reconnoiters,

It’s a constant strange back and forth. But moreDifficult; you are well aware I can surprise,

Can dully smother most thoughts before a few mangled ones manage to come out. I was administered something, I say.

Na. Why wouldYou ever want to do that. That’s not what it is. GOD broke.

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .With eyes, considerate eyesI slow myself, allow myselfTo see less in the closing shut of doors outside this room, My bathroom, as if it were only someone there outside to chide me,Tell me sometime, that I should leave myself I guess

To be gutted to be made bare, no I shall not make this anxiousI shall stay here on my tile floor reading grumpily to myselfWhile the daily headache introduces itself

Once again there in headThe little sphere caught pullulated like a village fool,Temple to temple as I write, it sets in to its vigorAnd ballistic ballads of these closed doorsExplode nastily against each other too:

Like missiles of contempt that pierce arrowlike burst from quiverTo stall the unctuous heart to stall it in the brain, yet-

-No, no one is there it is some trivial argumentIn the next apartment: I have found my headache there:Safely distanced while I stare the midst of the white bland tiles

While the WORLD outside is guttedBy some chiding thing slamming doors outside

And still yet am I left the more laborious man for my anxietiesAnd still yet the wiser man, for shutting my own bathroom doorSoftly, to keep the missiles in the dock-

-From freefalling into the rage of a last raw point Moved into the hearts of others’ minds, like some chiding hurtfulness

Like something striking something, like as beats against skin,It is of a cycle of the stoppages of space chained to the skinsAnd let me still yet be the auger for an ultimate aloneness:

And let this potency not dissolve says he, this wonder,As I waive the negatives with what limited movement I canBound my dear sphere is to these unbreakable templechains

Here me now brother for I speak to you only in the headTell me what to do as the daily headache, set in its cycle

Sets in in a torpor, egregious torpor, and modulates the glandTo leave me no longer drafty in the pubisBut rather I enter into new potency, tell me I do not sink-

-But into the arms of my lover to together feel aloneAnd well then my brother says: blank out the tiles fill the roomFill it with the guts of power

A loamy gash on the brain-

-Is not so hurtful in the heat of new sexOr the plaintive rallying of new words round their amber vigilLike some golden thing at bay From missile turned to missive that turned from the callous negativesTo flap in the breeze like free nuts on a naked drafty soul

Yet drafty not, not drafty for the breeze is light and is no poverty

Yet drafty not, not drafty this time for I speak no callousness-

-Of cold wind, to ameliorate the frost on panes:It is like melted glass slowly for my considerate eyes to relishAnd the arrow drawn to hit me in a daily headache roundabout:

If I am to detail a potency I must make approbationFor the sake of a breezy life not sullenNot wrecked nor incurious, innocuous norDreaded to be lived

Nor floundering in death’s companyBut rather I look at that missile straightly fall through the windWith my hands of mind tied to their burrs like daisychainsLooking on to view this, helplessly looking on

To view this:

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .Deep minister, I beg, create me for my faithIn senselessness and poverty, and headaches: and, fraught With derision, pain me gentle, pain meIn the words. I am not for nothing. Tell ofA final resting place for these my eyes at slits,

Speak senses, say you: rally up, swell with plentySenselessness, derive a carnage worthy for that,Make of me, you say, a place where you can tell meI am softened meaning, less than a temple’s throb. I am that. I am The incorruptible, incorrigible name, you tell,You speak these names to make it right, as if for youth in womenWere you shining, carefully. Droll the rolling laughter at a joke,A bird swinging in the sky. Droll, droll. An empty plate,And all the things a minister can speakAs minister, as arbiter, as chance made for to leave out The megrims of a personal conquest of absurdist doorsJust to shuck the husks from life as bodkins. Depreciation, chaos,Wonder; I am these things. You say. And I amNo thing a minister can speak to say, I think,No harping for what is on the line back there,No chance to take in praying or not praying a thing left outFor what truncated GOD in minds that are asleepTo bless like dirty sneezes:

And for the tempered chaos deeply deepIt goes, it goes in sayings on the wire; the line,It forgets me not. A bird swinging,Laughter at an empty plate, merely there, remarks,These are remarks, marginalia for the void, I say, I say.

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .ERROR: To know they are blessed,My philosophic dame there unravelingAnd she, waivingThe unravel as a worldly goodTo spite the island of her master as notSolitude her own / a one who isStuck in their dream--Of a man / there, in the proliferateVoid, throughout our standing in thisHydrogen hence, to magnificenceOn a blue sphere lamppostsIn the broad strokes, impressionsSeeming themselvesAn equivalent pyre that isFor wickedness and as with healthWickedness as inCarnality, and exertion of a subjectIf winter brine, that is for the blood to circulateNow as all it can / as it runsOut from the keyhole, strikes patterned withEmptied tints / and the streak there of paint there, leftTo color the shoal pricklingBehind my ears

In a collection big as incandescence and thenceFrom thence go out the witch’s lamp andShe of course who ties to the

Very tap, one’s ownBroken stride, elfin-knuckles; she remedies the gown,This impatience from soreness and sway,Sore sways, and one, there, here,In his book of consequence / drains / hahaha

The smack therewith of that loose girdleTo loose the face of one, him / in his psyche-augerHa a dram of doom and him the warden as

Escape her breaths

From an etiquette towards spectacular shade,—And in the mainOf the open doors, there is a tale of death,Speak it, Vocalissimus / theDrawn in your muttering

Pervades this / but as for an immortalGovernance, that is, as cannon-fodderOnes, towards the crypt

It remains happy with dark on the bedside, then,—

In sortilege for the keepers of death and for oneTo cancel to repletion’n inner splendr there

It . through and through one who through the latchMakes a heavy kingdom from out primordial heelsStray in the dusk there

Each shattered beneath the brunt of his weight and in jabbering the virgin soulAnd the tentacled waste beneath the overarching treesThere in the sweet gloam . and wrought webbing in the breeze through the hole—

In his shame that is nothing . and a Nothing

Palace irretrievable castles in the brain spires between lines of condemning,No obeisance made . from the one in himself too tired for descent nowTo get lost in the creep of winding slush upon the roads and the lamppostsThere gilded in a told fluorescence no stole however no beds .Too tired for the lovely things to be for him not withering in ploughs of cold-

-Give this one his due: that he has his persuasion in the analysis of ghostsAnd finds no bedspread for this issue of self . and lies the conceit of all manAnd nothing in that keep is his for him to descry nor the linens cheaply to task

Grow your trombones your secretions of madness in this damned lamentSpreading its flowers engorged in the remains of blood for the havens

And iron in the grove no place for intruders this keyhole rimmed in dirt

This iron worm in this heart of savagery and disgrace . and place withinThe counterpart of badness a lost bed for one to sleep in like a clicking,Peace in the ordnance-bangs—Pow!—in the stash of little breathers

Blacken days nimble hours soft, sketched limbs off the velvet of the skyAnd the witch in her shame finds no ghost no flapping remonstrance no,No body black with time, with she-felons . . each inching sickle remits to

Them . give naught to naught blow the whistle on the drafty keysGive the license to tarry itself suitable . breathed weeping in solitude fineOurselves the gauge . practices coin themselves, leave brick in place

Of pendentive, leave webbing for trombones and measures of blast,Music, tremors, but not cave for the caesura no brittleness of spaceNo culprit in this minor of the dusk and for the dusk to chase in leagues

Emblem of the womb the sprig and vegetal conundrum to the zygoteMartyr oneself his healing and make the power out of the refined exitInto a time of space so very timeless as despotism over the regard

As a sphere of spheres beyond the moon left in the wake of the moonA matrix network or plasm-direct of greetings and beckonings and frontingAnd rimmed nonetheless in illumined smoke the smoke of ages hence

From there to the fine print and then a calligraphy unknown beyondShe-felons beyond lyric-daintys force with force along the faultMine her sympathies, jostle the strangeness forth in the witch of tidesBoon for the hour to grope and displeased ignite make smoke

Benign careless realism in the missive sense that is a signaled hootLaid flat in pains of matrices, untangled fledge-illegible,s naughtyDemons created likewise beyond a smallest iota before in the game

When wanderers made attraction their job the EARTH a walk downThe linens perceived the witch-posts the blood from them givenAnd the sinister dread nay dratfully there the lorn ghost pivoting

And shaking his acquiescent guilt in the hedge of my hair what haveYou what have I what have we all in this game of tennis this is noSkull to waste . and harried the crime grows more waste ourselves

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .

Furious dignity the weight in hands,The consequences’ drought but to the throat,Brings life to your state: tell the frequents bands,And swish the broom, to clog a vibeless floatOf breath: to settle one their shapely grim:Barley to the bar, back with you; no; yes,No more drinks. And dust lifts to seraphim.Again the rhetoric long in drunks do blessWhere round equators of their sleepy span,With what’s forseeable in longing—messOf beauty, dignity the severed plan.For what’s rushed up your spine does not give less,

That furious, old GOD, and listless takes,In blessed intervals the body makes .

I apologize. Ornaments grow like darlings here at home,Some of them, exploding whitely in yellow braids, forms. A slowerNothing greater, even, than most. and yet most of it is allThe color of tricky lightbulbs taken to the glandular braid, goddamnWhite questions of thickening speed,Here and cold at home,

Back then, a trickier declaim to snare booms throughoutThe cosmos—compressing that handful—before it,Proliferating—a quick din midst space, wentHence in the icy, darling whitenessOf a question in the first place. Yeah, and

Cold as damned PLUTO,This home in head that seems about whateverPomp of the—soul’s slowness. Whom knacks for minutesFor example, a chancy attitude of purity too swiftWith composedly fast whiteness, for apprehension

On this line of blacknessTo mix modalities to harbor songsEnough and donned in calico

… And of poisonous, voracious timeIn explanation of that tyranny, maintenanceFares never too well. Best to obliterate time.

But try to fit this garment to the mind, to flesh.My art is smallest precedence, by virtue of instead a smallest, kindling artOf fetching for the smallest soul, concludes a germ, yeah, of something

Of deity to rate so here’s to much the bending of the bordersA germ of—GOD—maintains a worser poison—for the mighty nervesTo puppet—and devours—what it dole—for the better soul, a done-out odor

At the pulpit—however delinquent these words fucking are—To see as smallest beauty—to remain and soon devour the germ,While the worst perceive it—more than all as

Rudimentary—as—any GOD is—schoolhouse disseminations fuckingAre not what you make a thought of for that element not fathomed,

But to what your wishes for two planted feet transmute

White you say has you tossing you out of senses as if pitchblende in the gutA nerve had saturated you in some done-out odor, left it . and turning to peopleWhom live mussed in sicknesses their own: so:

I want you to mess up their brainsWith pretty questions,

Philology the people in your head who want themselves the germAs you to be held and nonplussed as once again silence holds in themTo that bafflement. They hold hands in your mind, tell you that,

. . . . . . . .

Well, never: everything could not pay all the roots of treesAnd petals of rain: hah: like plucking GOD to audiences much lessBenign: for nothing, be being: nothing for making it old

Makes it old in its continuum of greeting and shuns:Blossom a few things first: a few roots orange with health in the deep ground.

And I see health, and see you with the health and so then lead I youTo be with you and GOD or whatever to scramble to sensibly apologize,For this ingratiation—wild your spirit gets in losing out

And it by time closest to all of time goes allDrawn and tired for your worthTo keep the calyx withering to droopAnd I have kept his wrath, to hear concessions on the cold wind.

He as you has burrowed as anything too long in the seedTethered nearly to your selfsame plea to make strengthOf life no more by wrath, to not fire reason out

At every squall.

And, once accepting all the manner of thy rainy soul-Between quarrels of moisture on the bare airDespite shelter and the mood black. Black with spit-rain comeDown in needles on windbreaker walking home. And, that theExpectorating angers life sees himself of life as is a-Control, however much the antecedent torture

Of this:—you stringless puppet—all control as standardOn the wave, nonplussed wave in a reasonable wave, I have

Found a light of sorts to stutter these scrawls—to temper off the nonplussedIn his man and from a respite his, now left in him the prickled sense

To Follow, Follow to the remains of what remains.To—salvation’s remains—in the waste of thatLook there for your tidings.

No no because that is in the haze of that word’s end, is notIn a mind too slowly broken, meticulous,Like a craft, like something finely done—

Yes o o o as to make felled that sound’s end. I relieve you,And believe you, reprobate; and believe me,It’ll always be. No matter how long you wait.

Goes the old from old about my wistful eyes,lament no more, tell the master, him, yourself,tell and tell, more the prescience, once I close

my eyes. It’s there. Pretend the old is gone,the old feelings, the old mannequins quaintwith posture. They’re there. Betwixt thismagnificent portal, that’s where I want it togo from the old to older new, this fixed mean,pray tell; the words on the harmonium,

pray tell; the eyes the beholden, the masque,this giant one, pray tell; I’ve fed them all.And go forth, you: tell the leaves on the-

-ground that they’re on the ground. Tellme that I am sitting in my bed, as grosslythe cherished, old feeling drowns, at last,

all things at last, let me dream, let me tellof dreams burning golden in their gift,in their spasmodic, regurgitation, lend

them more nothingness, lend the nothingnothing but the the. This loafing on draggedsails of content, gibber-gabber, rosters for

feeling, all, the old romantic, the new, the--beholden want. But what of the masque:disturbing, scratches off its doneness

to the point of beginning again: tell thisdamnable: the regurgitation: the periods,episodes, messianic brooding, only

of time, that of time, a warmth in the foot,an endless yoo-hoo! from the muse, as ifit were never left from that impulse, that

clued space of oldness done: done to makemore old: and more old the basket held incase waters flow trickling the eyes to tics

of abasement: there’s something wrong withmy left eye: no, my right one: it isn’t right,it blesses—regurgitations—it, spaced with

water welters care off in each tear. Eachbelow the duct, frames it thus in doffinglike a hat sadness, old hat: new hat: new,

old: the watch keeps her clockwork in thisthe soul. Breakages amount to walking thestreet, for miles, the same block, and this

no light commands: so where is the light:clockwork: like some dandy clockworkwoken for the purpose of leading all us

to a new appropriation of too few black lines,too few white spaces: I live for feeling, don’twant any done in their doneness: however

old the hat is: let me just do this once:obituary: death’s gainsaid crypt, CRANE

remarks: it’s there too, will always be, and

always not be in knots but a beautiful--serenity of another light for the father ofthem: breakages—what? How is the

suffering going: look up: find yourself ina field: see the leaves under heaven, see thebirds, flying, under heaven, be by yourself:

that’s the prescience: solitude: no matter forwhat’s stoled and kept itself despite the mask:that’s no masque: no joke: no cable for lines

to tell lordship over but in serenity of something … gone out into wily wildernessesof fields of peace: pieces grow, make little

of the genius of peace: a whole piece, notone but many, descript as hell, forms themaker’s design: for itself, as itself, and for

naught else, existing despite: total conundrum:

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .I was working on my dumb walls . it was as blank An afternoon, the heat a throb to warpThese planks of mind, when I noticed, the greatAcidic blankness—there—in the miserable eye . oft it was Strangled to blight, andTo maketh blindness: in me: I had been Stuck in that flame: in the Embranglements of meaning and Pitch—truth, verity, truth—before it came: and for the sakeOf stormy gusts of truth, these to have fed the dear fear Of many a dinning windbag I’d Wager, yes . give me rather The formless, give me whiningly contrite begging for formDespite continually no form, give me Desperation as to the approaching Of somethingWhile simultaneously being there already: but Forever, forever approachingTragedy, the need to approach something, anything, the only

Prerequisite, the adventure of somethingSinking in with anxious time . the big blankness Came as if leech-gathererOn the wet moors to drink up all those very Needles, might have pierced An irksome perimeter, my walls, myWalls . it broke shagged light through, a Preventative measure, lived Awkwardly possible

Like as black

Milk, an attack

On circumference, leaving me only .

Stoke me, Will it, said the GOD of my lies, designed of lies . And that blankness of the sun so long in recession, not unlike A good cancer that growsBetter in the pain . desiderata for the wrecked fool, for me always The need to channel somethingFirst, at the time clocks tell you, the moment you look At them you know . It wasIn the corner of my desk riddled with Paperclips and paperwords . and up To catch me straight in my somnambulism,Again the bowels of what I thought were me were changed . I Became a kick in the guts to save my needlesAnd walls, and still the weltering of the debris From the inevitable pity and naufrage Telling in screams, You are No wreck . some forgotten thing there I said from the frothy crotch of my mouth, Let me greet this anomaly And I like dog to grinning master With handle of leash in mouthAsk the great sphere of blankness, Please me for a walk for my stiff eyes And which can barely see, having been forever made counterpart

For a long time unused

To the commanding game of unusual sight

And I sigh like a lecher at the fractures Left pictures of our like you know big sun And have in that ilk like hot-pronged loinsGadding for their homeward pain

In making voids like product Of the devil Make it said he

From some patch of sultry earth in the office round it rightTurning folds upon its folds for to break its own insatiate lightAnd each a cue to stretch that strength more in glitchy spears I took it the sun to my unbelievable deskFor forever it tottered under weight of it before the desk broke

Turning everything unbelievable

Even the light not spread,

And which dead left a corner or two in the drear of spontaneousWaiting and receiving and denying . I was working when

The fomenting of some unbelievable chord in my mind

Made dismissal unanimously Of that curse and stateAnd drew a picture of the sun on it sprung from breathing And made for myself a needless needle-gathererFor to breach the attitude of these unwilling walls And still I know not, shame, shame, shame,Whether that great brink was fallen over into blanknessOr whether the blankness always there will rid me Of needles, much as the haunches of my desk,And I to forever unknowingly gather that good cancer

And maketh pain .

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .ITEM : MAN AT PIANO -- BANGING OUT STARS : While the drawn-faced master, in his Brain, fuels a dreamy brainless

Demoiselle’s nausea: this 'her' gets fueled By the depth of him, in him: yet this someNuance of his too much motive. It isExpressed—by her—in a pretty

Sickness of—pretty—sunken eyes, aimed at him,OF the damn dame: drowned in eyes Of a yearning, that saturated

Its own act past awkward honesty, and much a motive hers for limpidPerspectives of others who might munch audibly, better, more deliriousOn that fabricated half-mystery. Others on her, or her, or her, perspective On this girl in the man, and both unreal forTo stomach the upsurge: and that sudden: to the pointOf panic, the unreal mind, into view: sickness-thing not ace

In hole though thought so at first but outlier instead, who in seeing prettyNotes a cumulus done to shock her into aggrandizement, or her fromThe youthful hypocrisy: of a youth judging: a puff darkly of harmonyTo silly, abrupt melody, to gentle fugue: a stink Upon impatient brains of listeners to the manAt the piano, banging virtuoso to the youthfully doubtful--Because confused at twinges of nuance, girlies in his head. He sees her

As wary eyes, the veiled excitement over mention of the prince, you,He says. ITEM: Once the written words improve the spoken, no longerWill y’all be all soaked in dotage, someone

Says. Eyes, someone thinks of eyes sunken like odd girlies of the brainFor these we wetbrained stargazers to recline upon the laps of, lazeOur sight to thems there, redeem seemingly, really,Go corrupt, the longer a man looks. Rather

Than arch the neck to heavens,

Infinite kinds of heavens of the mind, wrought each asA beautiful horror, hairily stretched like a contrived moviePlot: arch the neck, who demands it?: we are Afraid to do so, and feel itSnap ugly sounds down brutely the spine; and all just to gaze? No way.At glimpses twinged motley in notes? While he aloneRecognizes the impatience of himself, feels observed By himself in the room that is dim-lit, filledWith books. He enters retrospect: while at piano, for last time:

Meanders in drifts as smoky as the hundred smokiness of cloud-harmony And daft, innocuous melody: a parody of what’s oneIn the pleasure, an instinct of massive pain to riseThe observer on himself, seeing his hands cross the keys like fool starsSlumped batten against the sketch of the sky’s netted threads, As if by hammer, hammer, he hammersKeys, and then the fugue, a gnarly wave from nowhereLanding inspiration on the incredible tone: removes dentures,Laughs, and dies alone, knowing it for the first time and Thinking, I slump, like those bright things

He said, or—God—some voice, proclaimsMe to see it that way, instead of himself, or herself, I don’t know, Can only listen to him, not feel alone, I am alone, I slumpAgainst the keys and know my least flake of the self,I know the witness to myself. It is me. I am the proof and peace,I am that marvelous unity, I am now new somewhere: once whispered like

Netted verbiage—God—says it is the stars tooDawn on me now. The window is great brightness, now,The man-toothless sees it, I do not and view him, am his servant, And for once does not he listen to a speechless WorldFor my conceits to maketh to dirt the one wrecked paragraph,The death a shape for which to put him down from head to foot.I bid adieu myself to myself and know him,

And yet by this point see not what throes, brightness,Brightness in a window, vision ceased to the thrillOF the slumping stars battened to a fabric. SomewhereHere, a lesson, a reason to crick pain into the headJust to turn it upwards, just to gaze, end transmission.

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .

. . .. . .. .. . . . .. . .

RENDITION OF THE STONE / WITHIN THE ELEMENT AND VEIL,I wish me liquid by the season’s grasp, To fell reminders of my solid state. There is, in the state- -Between, when I, still yet Not liquid, still yet not solid and, there is In this a sense a sense A sense of lovers on the wire, wavering withProlix, and asserting more than could for the deepest light- -I provide a pithy epithalamion. That both exist, in balance on the seasons on The wire. I deny the balance. I am,I am become a name for lakes and creatures, And name, as all the words a name can give: And if I live at least once To resuscitate this balance of the tidesOf cold and dark and Summer bright, As if the lungs, my lungs perpetual Had stopped a time, well then I bow My tinted head by sovereign, Sullen distances Too much the color felt As if by the gaunt breath Of liquid solids: Perhaps, the pretense of This common love for nature as it feedsThe finding wire: ambagious as the telos of the seedTo plant a new breath, floor the marred flagellum To take a wakefulness the colors give it, beforeResisting temperatures, passions, conceits Enough to melt the mind--Resuming catastrophe, tell the seers blind,And yet presume no liars and but the faltered breath Only innocence regardedIncorrectly, an impish scratch to dour the friend In heart, remove a soul from solidness, And find the nature of a blessed between. To build a pyre for seasons in my lungs,

Reconstitute resolve Before dissolving from the words; solve a melted mind As only fog upon the lake would beA blessing of the fire upon me. To see blindly As being-delicate myself, to seeAn unrelenting friend, to bringMy commonness to death, and leave the best A thing to resonate Like operas, would be enough to bloom A flower out the throat, this time, if breaths Forgive the tenuousness Of mottled natures balanced on a wire, A telos of the tides my unction kept From weeping onto shore; nor lake Alone to stagnate, filled with algae, couldRemove the feeling I am high above, a special Case, to soothe what’s and might be prodigal,Or never return perhaps. This, no test, Derives the solid, liquid from the eyes, As weeping delves the plash upon the sand,As algae makes a nature from the stagnant, asConcrete a thing as falls to the floor, an open door

. . . . . . . . . . .

Swung by wind to clap as if a cackling somewheresIn the night’s brew makes me itch me scalp,Concerned. Meanly I resist again. The love with it and the kiss of colors--Of fire from the prattle-pyre: for my seasons to display,On the wire, a tenuous line high up, initiating thoughtsOf the fall from there to places where I cannot hold my truth, too-heavy truth.Just I am though to hold my faith in enough A reason: to make blissWith words for once: an element there isUnstraight, a guilelessness to doctor--Ingenuous, coyly innocent, an impossibility of elements That shift as Spring goes far behind ahead,That shift as mind melts solid rage of conceptTo less a pitch, a watery, dissoluteThing, still within the element and veil as--An sorta unrequited lake with surface-green, The witless veil of algae over rottenLakes. Surgeless as opposed to froth on sandFrom oceans’ pitching wave and mottled hue

With sun; I see no thing but stillness murk. It is the well in lungs enough to lurk a loveFor flowers there, or growths at least. As canker--The love remains, manic, jovial, blind:It is what I have done to smallest rindOF absence of the truth, not ableTo be held: an impertinent collapse Is this, a sour taste of thoughts too thought-likeFor the lake to green over withoutPutrid smells, buzzing withSome gist that is of what I speak to, here: IDo not handle it, for it is too frail, and I Am on the wire high: best thenTo not risk anything. And then, I find myself within yesThe shady sadness of a reason’s veil: not behind,Nor beyond am I: to luckily burn on: to liquify These mordant colors of a greenness gainSans sun, the hue of sun no murk For plashing waves. My pen is still a staveTo pierce the heart of me throughout the write

(These elements are meant to be defied.)

And then there’sThis name again, there’s this fine veilOver the preliminaries, waiting hunched in some dark corner,There’s some eden they wait to reveal their faces to: dark faces, This crying of a name, holy mammoth, sprig of my desires,Sign of credence, veil over that, manic the face gets,

The face gets itself,Routed by darkness, more, more darkness, more fighting, Fighting for darkness. More liminal edens, drowned at the crux, each,

So go against, be against, lose the sulky frugality of demons, Who don’t wish to infrequently pay their own credence,In showing their faces, their demon-faces,

Their incorrigibility of course includes Referendum to something: some need to be fed: There in the flourish, there, in the shooting fastA crane over the finest light to pierce a finer veil,

Vocable palabra, man of the heart, man of the mind,Man, man of items, as names, as the heart of a name, asThe selective queries needing referendum, business to business,

Taking their voracious corners to cones of space,Taken the motive, taken the replete time,

So slow time, drag it down to Earthly scariness, take itBrought low, to the lowest throat, take it from mannersTo things, faces needed to be slaked in being seen,Being, seen being, whose mind was valiance itself,

Whose motives by now scorched the mannered fight, the trickiness Of scariness, the carnal back-forths, and theLivid, ornery guts aflame with keeping Something,

Something of the repetition of referendum in business To absurdity, absurdity to puissant saying,Saying to belief, in absurd cacks, out the low throat, a faceOut of the throat, from its unmovable, obstinate corner,An abject blush then, once one has no choice

By the kiosk, the emendable display there of referendum-darkness,Palabra propped up by guts, lighted virtue, vitriol rushing like dogsDown, down into the woods of soul, to strike the drum

Before the preliminary degrading of rushes By the freshening of swampy power, puissantly a dream,A dream, a cack of faces from their frugality finally, fitting, fuck, The damn breaks break too damn hard,

The ill guts now, the saying matured past the chaos of obliging kiosks, Info-magic, whatever you want to know, there, it is

Yours, you the likened to lepers person who is still as masks fixed To each rubbled groove of a demon-face, the mask of heaven,A mirror in a closet, a metaphor most quotidian, a reflectorIn darkness, representative of causa sui, the

Liminal illness of heavens, heavens and regressings into emissionsOF extra sense, a fevered trying for saying, saying

The dream, the dream the day, the day the absurd, the absurdNo part, no part but in parting, and turning away, to the cones, the devils

OF cones, of sense, sense as the surging of rushes break the canes,The banes of sense, down the escarpment, closeted feelings expressedHaphazard and reflectively, in a dead swarm of brush beached, by storm,Strummed, an outsider, mentioned, you are figuration too late for meaning,

Merely faces, masks, make this poem poem,

Closeted feeling a connectedAncillary interest,

And all a metaphor for this quotidian, this metaphor, this mirrorIn closet, stranded without a use, it is our brains,

The ultimate object of reflection, surrounded by a veil of vacant dark,While the demon in us, as us, turns away, a frugal doktor,

A swapping of swamp for storms, then, a little sense of thunderous calling,And I leave it as that, will leave it that, will end the sentence, waiting,Hearing only the rattle of the bars my cage encloses, viewingHappily the rushes on the beach, a veil the sky, grey veil, grey preliminary,Grey spring, and sour leaves the bane to wreck the cane, forDemons to make remonstrance in our brains, valuing too muchWhat puts me back in dutch, and begins my sentence now, Being begging begins, now, the foremost scariness of places senseless faces over masks, holy mammoth:

That way we go, and to ourselves we press.That is far in a way and towards ourselves.That way we go, towards ourselves, dashing galaxies apart. As if Remnant ones. Ones to no longer take in as aThing to be measured in strikes off: beOF disbelief: but what in moments of relic-tears here, that tearAcross the planet, are to be felt high above, in your dignity, fromShips all the way up, up, up into the great, beyond whatever is lain Down—terrifyingly—in this breezelessHereafter?, adduce a chasm-disaster, Bring it to a place where it is valid, below The mundane parts of a stormy WORLD. Fear To bleed liquidly, out of them the creeping anxietiesYour heart thuds to denounce, feelings That make one white as a ghost, An argument too easily won, a host Too easily bemused, an empty state That rattles on the matter.—

EPEXEGESIS: the fact is, well,They’re still there. Yes. Disasters reign, still do.Terrible incidents happen daily, after all: this great blue sphereOne of them, a superimposed,

Moistened anomalous figment againstThe great black figment, the pain of this. This lowly place, we feel low in.

. . . . . .

No,—rankling pain’s the reigning subject, dark Humours thrown like parachutes, To laugh like flippant things in whatever behavior Of the wind at the time. Its tale is seen from space, in a way, to billows:As if forth towards—what: could be this the lost andromeda

To catch on, nail on thread, in The hope of someBlown grabbing, some haunt hulkingThe wind—fucking—forth? As if salient like that, or likeGlass plates against the walls of this throat: hurled by who: but then,What identity doesn’t disturb: a whole tub of conundrum, here,Now, so far in that way already and to reckon peace

In violence, burning; paperThe one idea, flung on through nodesIn this blacker sky, this rheum?,Not quite, but quit at casements, windows intoThis night that has knelt upon the hands of eternityTo cause it pressure, naughtily vacuum, this salience, crazy glint, This scene of a daunting boat thrown headlongInto space lit ruefully waryAmongst the quiet, indelible the--Stars, large one, furious balls OF hydrogen, unhingedAs eyes, pointy ones that ravel significanceOut of beckoning anything ever, at all whilst eyes in a flurry of spasmDemean the ghost they writhe with. And they unhinged from the wrist OF a tough mudder, renouncing what it seesIn large countenances, nubile clouds and oceans of nothing

We travel towards ourselves in life that way. We travel, long in merryMultitude of head, the sequence-exact of the many clouds,On earth, down absurdity there from us, as longAnd swirling in our heads and as much The hibernated song to sing our weatherFor the day our militant gestures, rendition of the stone ourAttempt to tell the hell down there our lineage.

On the wire, we linger in space a bit thus.Monkeys on the push-button harness, viewing us.We connect thoughts to the cherishing, we are not monkeys,Not conclusion, no conclusion living anymore,At least. Not they not we deny this we that follows thru, we cherish The following,Forget the getting, leaven

Our sores on feet to backlash-relicsOf that millisecond’s doubt--The ones of our holy parents continuum have sacrificed To blight the very atom: this spaced melancholy Of beads on a string: quite the allure of one, yes one, Who’s spread his doubts each band to band,Not lineage to lineage: things are not dreams:

Mayest be us not the condition of our parents then To timely spend our lives in fickle meansOf transport, unalive as to thisRejuvenating: decree: this unaccountable, And meaningless in doting too muchOn the cable, the strand, the string,The wire, the thing:

Not being able to rough it out,Not being, seeing, breaking,Muling forth to this like vigorous apes. But these have naught, they have neverTo cherish their final dream, but in the struggleWe cherish what is naught, not them:Not them what followment, what eradicable, What lissom, what obscene frailty expendsUs: what moving in the poundage

OF years pleases us: whatMarriage mellows, not grossly,With time: and if in time the quadruped deceitIs made out, this martyrdom . is useless: Why have it: we have come to seeUs well, well enough: and in

The scatter one out of them allBetrays the rest: connect thoughts,Yes: but leave the conversational in this

To no attitude: no opinion: I am in the dithyramb

Now: debtors and debts are betterAt having no opinion: naught but a babble-tower:Freefalls, loops, linger reticently

In the ash-like snow, falling inRotary: and then: my own admixture the panjandrum,Twirling his black beat-thing on his beat, whistling,This cements itself in brokenness from here,This boat, this paper one, this frumpy shitMakes imagery for one to wow off the spectaclesOF chance, at making what we see no blanknessBut in the heart of space a normal heave,Not great; for nothing is, only nothing is,A faculty of the universe, only faculty,A chance to blur, and mete our terror outFor omens in this brig: we push our buttonsKnow ourselves somewhere not where weShould be but theoretically: they, animalsThe stars chance while we know the earth the star,The stars broken, blent in easing to the groundlessAs where the sky stops: living in the clouds,A human proclivity: we have thumbs our own.And this rendition of the stone our minds,As much not unalive, and feeling thusAs men as monkeys, we trail down where necessaryTo evolution’s perquisite: but there is towards-sphere,There is much in thrownness opposing thrownness,Distant diction’s laughable haze and thenDraught: one of my own dreams like snowsOf ash:

In being the broken cell, the oneStrand not fecundly straight: the oneBrand on our asses, red as shitWith embarrassment for thinking oneAs you would not quite understand,In the immediate dream and the awakeningA laughter thus for both, as both the gorgeBetween stars, and stars the postal savagery:And men, looked up to them, a merest longevityIn the face of

The one cherished ember there,There: fleet off, you, you you ofMorality: I had a dream this afternoon

About a party I had on a bus: itWas a great occassion, butI woke up feeling the apocalypse

Again: this tinged the reality ofThe dream, that is, that that wasMy first reaction: death: vacancy:

Spite: we have immediate opinionsAbout our dreams to spite them,Keep them too close to the realityOF waking thought, so as to loosen the bounds thereof.Moreover we seem to do this, betweenStates:

What of dreams extended?: how canOne take his dream by the nosehairs,And call it a whole bluff,

A reprimand, for sure, of what is meantTo be for there, that place of this:This place: this obscene,

This command toBe obscene, to waive the frailty, as ifThat were a huckster: nonsense:

But, then, these lackluster opinionsOf dreams just follow the dram:The naught, naught:

Pool in together this,This speciousness, don’t ratifyBy the dozen what is meant,

Immediately: like dreams: letNo opinion settle in the minutesAfter one has woken up to us:

For we, reality: we all are: objects,Images, people: metaphor stripsThe reality of what to me is a

Lascivious focus on itself: see metaphorsLike a just-awoken-from dream:See the raveling out into focus

As more beautiful, and do not connectThe bus to what I am: grand occassions,A loose bud hanging round after all

These years: he’s shifty, shifty inThe eyes, and struggles to cherishWhat breaks the habitual down

Into religious exercise: it’s not:Waking up is no ritual, thoWe realities do

Stuff, to make it so, later. We attuned,Rough selves of thoughts, connected,No, not connected, not grasped,

At least, immediately: yetIf I forget dreams, no big deal,No sensible place for sleep

Is the analytic: Namelessness,Better namelessness, derivesThis and that from what

Motion, what generality, what spaceOF conurbation and waves, leavesSinister proctorship for philosophers,

Leaves one weeping and wakingFor realities, poetic ones, left and rightIn the REM: connect thought

One back, simple formalities,Really I could go on to mask the cherishing,Brutalize it and laugh, as always,

As always we, I have done:But what of that, and whatLoose form could be an entity

At all besides if read in sleep?

EPILOGUE :[And the epic I dozes casually slumped over a big brown horn

with XXX scrawled cheapon the sides. And this is frightening. That originsof solutions may equally abound or not abound is

the fault of philosophy, that there is no longer surety, and thatwhich would have lived if unaware of, chipped offas scum under the deck, rendered valueless slowly

by a question at all, which forgets a few, naturally: a quitemany few (I speak of common man) who’d never know yet

participate instellar consequence, graced with absence at theslightest deeds, notably there but stilladroit in relief if stressed, if on the brinkwill have herself as friend.

That gives them something of belonging somewhere.Even if it is fabricated. Even if the common man andmind is surrounded by a crew of maligners, demonson her legs, her arms, she will retain her own and haveit be that while eaten alive. What the philosopher hopesis exactly not what it fears is: the disturbing puzzle agraft of patient loitering thoughts around the ones buzzedoff into oblivion. The mistake is in caring at all if it isfabricated. This for the philosopher is a grand discomfort,the existence of illusions. Wanting to get to the bottomof anything is, indeed, what this is, after all. Philosophy.What makes one the weaker is philosophy staked on highemotional involvement, grounds for the soul, as if it wereon trial for the act of living. So easily a philosophical actof mind can crumble beneath a fear of existing in a patched-together WORLD, the entire WORLD of it, and yet madeof so few, the truth of mind a mien of minds, reactions …I would as well make a psychiatrist a friend, to involvemy soul in philosophy. Though who would be offended,if, that is, it was I who gained an attraction to the universe,the universe dissuaded? What prod of Earth, who arethe telling a moral to the story; the faded star from gossipon its flames, the mildewy host

who in craving what was lost, had been, hadforgotten where I was, so lost in the drink, that heforgot the poison poison. Who would be analyzed then?Myself or the friend?

But the common man is a gift, enjoys a harem anddispleases whores; marks ruddy gifts amazing, livesand dies a disaster,

a lonely master of her world, her contra nothing,seizing nothing but of breath. A scenic feud breaksout in the soul, and I drop my watchin the snow. I felt

like a man felled and regained again,no sourish plant in guts, no busted nerves,I felt like he was dreaming. And so he did.]