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 signs in 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 its a cycle thats endlessly shifting to new axes entropy is key which has nothing to do with cycles its 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 example lets say i process, then see i look at a tree and form an impression of that tree similar to an idea but if i didnt 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 - - thats chaos - - that the mind goes where it will and 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 isnt 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 theres like a holy trinity of philosophy something that is, something that isnt, 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 Im 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 youd 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 shelleys 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, dont 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 woods In hands disgustingly delicate, besides, burnt to ruin: but Disgustingly, too nakedly themselves To be anything to others But intrusive, like a smell from Those pure-pink eyes: I hear them again in my solitude, wish The best to that bride in the woods whom entangled in My senses was all of them, dwelling there, sleeping in Them: my hands were scored with marks, burns from Nasty cherubim: her breath made of flowers, the long shaft Of her there like an inculcated imago, telling me hers as My portrayal of the cock is no less the suns bleeding Hue, the moons angelic counselor to accrue a sheen Of whiteness both ways dulled back to moons, pink Ones her eyes, blue-pink with-The moon's introduction and as well An introduced calamity, or possible calamity as might be Seen, at my betrayal in the woods: confessed to her the Poem: 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, Thats 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 her The poem, and the words, each one betrayal, each One what seems the over-longing mystics chance To make jargon of the shades of the sun left for the Moons inculcated rise to sleep our heads to white Sheen, on a round, cratered face, positioned midst The mist large sages of the mind dwell in, asleep, or Tired, going to a place of rest there sitting in the fog OF 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 the Least 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 true Confession, and that I wish for her this poem to Deliver me from place of shafts to haunted heaven Is a part of that revealing: weakness of me to sleep, Too, in mists of sense or literal ones, lighted by The white moons blue-pink eye, the second moon Somewhere to make a pair of eyes, and to resume this Poem to where before it started she had been, in Me, kneading the wires of reality to suit a hue most Reassuringly defined before she left to snooze Within the chaos-guts of my poor head, my hands To shore the brunt of pain for holding her and wanting To, in woods, her memory now all that is enormously To hold, not out of love but so as to just be Comfortable as well, though my hands, They burn: in bed with the netting, I should be, wires Snapping: at least till what chalked the brio of my human Confidence ensued a chase, and I too hungry not To just let her go, brought with it me to A hellish place, and it, she, fine there. I know, Now, that you are fine With the tangles, or you have none, but I think thats Only the case with pure-pink-eyed angels, who Know the hue-sense as concrete a sense as one Only human would need, hungering, an ever-more Concrete 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 me Nothing, do not even soothe my inhuman chaos, in Brain, leave the ends to snap electric and light like Fuse the rawest-bled synapse to life, briefly, then Deader than before. I give you up, confusions of The sun and moon, might as well confuse the senses,

Like angels, enormous ones, made of shafts that Glisten in a whiteness either way, either way a Blankness blank as forgotten cherubim to pudge out The moon a bit. Make more a human of me just to See that woman in her way in the woods again, telling An iron coffin, herself no poem, the poem her rest For me to tortured live within, banging mercies for The everloving creator to see freedom in, though This sensible death does not escape a morbidity, Like a cat hung by a noose: theres a matter of Senselessness: defenselessness: Ill use that concretion, Have martyred the blue-pink angel-girl, though she Could have made me see the stars in moons, though She could have made me use my tangles like feathers For 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 and Them winnowing like particles, as it had been when This began. What choice is coffin. Let me sleep aways From 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 quelling The lascivious need for order, in shafts, and blatant, Comforting, through the bent vermiculation OF trees fluorescent-lit, in bloom of synthesis, and Particles mere flowers, flowers, eyes of her, to Remember that: in her death, she grew Less vicious. My hands lay charred, a steaming hunk, And for a moment what I forgotremainedand took all with It 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 up With his fears: he goes shotgunning the first subtle twitch, for support, To the handle of his maw of dirty coffee, as if all that a Proclamation, enough a mite for those to see and be like, Wow, I bet you feel really potent things: but of course, its too Microscopic, and the anguish, anxiety, too small For 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, hed have To 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 leaves The ground and pads, the chest heavy, the, my, feet stumbling their Drama over her rocky land, though the hands lax and deft; whimsy Readying for the grand sonata. I dont know how to play piano, But if I did, Id draw resources from the pain, make that a Luxurious drumming over the keys into musical stuff for her, Denying not the wrong note at present but making it presently The right one, for her, with time and patience, not ever, of course, Thinking about ones 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 drug Of regret once sniped from my grips doesnt: and I grip the tusk of keys, Black and white, and play a dripping straight into this hurting noon While the birds fly: and I imagine a whole flock of damned birds, He does: he, I imagine[s] another life that Wouldnt 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 painted Realms 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 large Piano, its 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 display Of consciousness and derelict. I want some flaws, I want Something to grip them though and then make them Beautiful later on, perhaps with some riddles remaining steadfast-On whats large enough to bring down the sky, a thing or master Of delusion, over delusion, over grace, and the shadow A tiger curving her paws at the volume: presenting itself like a Crucible, a style of judgment. A style of control, and longing For something beyond control, and which makes it wild, So that it may judge the wild, judge the tiger, judge the face And leave my hands no body; and by the time they have Fallen off, I will have dragged my sonata out from The shotgunning regrets, will have funneled it into banging Smallness on the keys on a piano, in the alps, while The overwhelming skys anxious, long stretch is brought Down like folds of sheet. Like hands, Twitching at my tiger-feet. She is the rocky plain. This faint milk your brain goes through, gets you banking at the curb left into regarding life, and in the waves goes your way through infallible to earth. And your brain then is you, slowly, with a dulcet, lung-open purity, and you are nearly made deaf and dumb, hanker for more of these truths from wherever place: mere primers to ease the humors, yours, their reasoning out of your paracosm, with music, to land you forcefully in brute logics realm, and then things seem a parade of marching hands off and into the tides of space. it is yours, space is, in yours a brain whose thoughts are bodies that mar the shore, hands that take their sojourn in phalanx-position, across wheeling plains, ever the soil for sad souls requiem to pump a shook vibration into rattling the pebbles of; hands whose milk is blood you, in writing, wade through. Sequence your gait, for once, your phalanx-steps to heaven, or rather swim to there from your inborn sea, to past your rotting brothers yards upon the shore, to find a place where the idea is, that from whence to here you started. You gave a rope to that missive, waited for its gnawed hands to 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 policing Sensations, the neck somewhat at clicking Paces of glassy warmth, this literal arching Of the spine spins, grips: a loose refracting In the space, that is, between a final roof Out: the closeness between one movement And the next, a passive sway's long, tired Marionette, strings all a-swerve to bleat A finnikin way towards: towards what: this: How can the sadness' outrage suit this: suit What: what roofs: can what fails to be, be not Plus what is---that happens: awash with A lease upon what poles go spinning too: Urgent, this remedy is, it gleams: it is a Way to crawl upon the line, this is, it is a Drawn plank across space: something here, Something that makes me turn my head This way, something that makes me little Again, in the waves of spine, in the ways Of stars across my spine, it lords thus: Discard the lords?: drain a melancholy at A loss for the worst, the militant, the riled Perfunctoriness of spaces between turning And sensation: all's a swerve, a bending Of atoms, not inventive: but, a shaking head's Worths not what lives thus in thought: I've found Myself: lost myself: I've lost what I've found And thought lost, when I had it: but it was There, differently now, it is different now, A level of must go on, that wasn't there, is:

But where to go: elevate the predicament To another flyer in the night: a bat, perhaps; A bird perhaps, an absurd bird, a spiel in The special, stretching the column to have The head spin rhythmic on the line: this is Just feeling, feeling right, sort of, trying for The absent denial, trying to trust myself so That more untruths present themselves in Throbs in my gut: shut-ins, louses, mitigating Creatures, perhaps, to prove how bashful GOD must be with our boasting: but the Weakest link argument doesn't fly like bats Or---birds. It dresses up itself in the matter Of 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, doors Close to open flooding light from windows Turned on like a switch. As others, clench The boom enough a sonic one to get sound All blessed in parameters of wordages and Space: 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 what Could have been; if it didn't happen, and it was A sensation, then most likely it was too weak A link: but then, do I contradict myself here: Well, personality-wise, weakest link, lost goings Differ from what's a personality: if sensational, Then the mooring might swerve still into some More delectable counterpart that needed passing Through the want of a lesser point to be made:

The trouble lies in devotion to the point, which Is an aspect of intelligence: one pursues the bands, Rungs, rings, for fun: but then, finds the sadness And listless wondering to wander into fewer Sensory-motifs, points, spinal crannies that Maybe are really small tumors grown out of-A broken back, upon the stepping-on of one's Child 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 lining I am myself: so with that there is enough in The personality to drop a rhythm or two, too, Without succumbing to whatever weakness I might have perused, pursued, in turning my Head 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 beg It forth: lords ain't nuthin: the GOD in me is, It rumbles with a fuming for lost stuff, when Less headspace's needed for that: that's Called dwelling, dude: and no more could I Fumigate my meanings, when the sickness Was never there, the cockroaches weren't, Nor were the tumors: weakest thing is to Stay docile, never tremor enough in doing Something wrong, always line up lines in A way happiness follows forth from: that's No life to live: if it were, people would be Ingratiatingly gratified with the smallest Devotion to a smallest conundrum: but no: No smashing of icons here, none but in the coming Together 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.: messes Clench the wrist as much, leave the brain Mushy with worrying too much over brainless Lament: so beg this: leave it stern in the truth Of all my untruths yet to be discovered: make Sensational wandering a wonderful sensation: Lure it forth from . . . what: a prattle, yes, Not breaking, but a pill for the heart to soothe And 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: make Personalities of words: all good: all GOD: GOD in Existence 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 a Defeat, lamenting stupidly, gone in the grace: And less, till lost and treasured, is all: our Adequacy won't Be in question: everyone's beautiful but we Should wear helmets as his soldiers do, not Sombreros, 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 wrought Roofs, 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 draw it open upon what blinks at him twice for no as to emphasize choice in the plain way a simple refusal to go deeper than & no a way to traumatize man out of wanting anything else ever again anymore etc. far into the room that is a lounge made of red leather notions the size of big words that crept up & became the telling between him and the other whom is convinced by him a medicine but really if that only for the fools amigo to drink up down to the dregs all the while considered some urine sample or something offensive like that which in the same way makes dying a habit but yet all have found this joke of mortality convincing enough to once before Kafkas gate not do a damn thing bc no longer time to & all this as much as man could not make sense of curtains in a poem could he tell why the other-eyes be in cahoots with a pair of eyes in a redder corner nearly scarlet compared to consciousness he has of where he is & laws at all in this case a big vacancy or whole or an insisting to embark for miles & miles to the cream of the lounges contented slew of fake context after all a mere apoplexy in the face of power or even or 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 defiance decides he decided to forget everything in favor of losing a sense of perfidy regarding whom will always be watching anyway & playfully & serious as hell man grips the tasseled rope of a golden thread & looks at his shame as slowness in not doing this for forever as himself but as just perceiving himself & well isnt there a whole world besides in looking for crags in a room that lead to lobbed metaphysical throwballs man would whiff away all day at & finally in freedom to be happy about redundant existence forgets about it to view the ranging landscape busting out or seeming to before him like something going begone from a bad spot maybe to go along with the mechanistic vagary here something made of itself for the first time like obligations of mirrors describing introductions or gates w guards of someone elses purgatory give lease to embody everything in mirrors like a scream the shit of the man brings to life in out of sorts not taking anything anymore & made up on the idea of youthful resistance really a cold superfluity that mocks its owners individual abiding sphere by being exactly what that is for he at the butt of jokes of other-eyes now making sense of the world and so perhaps the mechanistic vagary at present necessary enough to bleat randomness again & do what his mother has told him to to let light into the room opens after timeless pondering

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

hilarious reality & with one restive tug finding raggy tree 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 of man simple man whom only wants to bother for once for the sake of some elderly female voice as disembodied as the glaring eyefuls long enough to get the gate open and fly out of the lounge of death made out of blood made out of that which fills an entire house w/o room even for a fetal position no no spread for the cad nor symbol to abide with him back to less excoriating realities though all of that is his inner him for is not that all of inventions frustration in wanting freedom but conceding to choice amid uselessness & traumatizing controllers that is perceivers of themselves & him perceiving likewise & thus he chooses chaos and to become his mother since after all it is choice that is real not plausibility is which retreats as such to inevitable corners of passion in the lounge while in a delicate daze all delicate mothers disappear & ambiguous her looking out from a regular standpoint of standoffishness at a son making friends with Kafkas mirror made as one might name a thing that is housed

like glints created against a diamond once lights involved in a cursed area of eye unable to step into or unlikely despite the nonexistence of impossibles at this point enough to warrant mothers into sons sons whom proudly thru a window perceive once randomly plural an edge to the sky as her like as if it were a piece of furniture or angle of mirror or anxiety unseen but there like judgments way subtle and extant simply by dint of the cad who after all sees thru unseemly eyes at him eyes going and shocking him leave him blind for they are him and soul pale he contrives a harp to play a redness to the room again & that harp the heart of Kafka and the blinking code to mention only once, & please the guards of mimicry

SEDIMENT,
I have not yet translated The language of the apocalypse for to save us, nor Spoken the glyphs of yet-heard memory that No butcher-sage couldnt squirm a knife with into letters, Easy enough, all of the story teeming-Blood anyway, whats more mess?: without slicing into The meat of brains themselves?, thats 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 . its 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 nothingexperience it in The choiring and dont acknowledge it . butcher-sages 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,
Everythings way backwards way farther out of the penumbras Reach: there is a last Material before darkness, sticking out of the light, in a Quarters, 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 conjured Suddenly 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 glow Of 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 something Bold as coffee, intractable as a void before a womb Is made of it, THERE like a voice everywhere-And tending to be absent to spite sense: & to Addle the psyche of Beckett, at search in the Bog for drugs: the fracture is a higher light, to reveal a few Things: a respectful enough notion of what isnt so Easy to not be addled by ! : the notion obviously is the Science of being within folds: and, knowing the world Small bc a fold, merely, strip, of light: abruptly, I think of a scene from Trainspotting, when scat The loony scot expelled unknowingly in stupor To vanquish the poor fucking bed gets all over The breakfast of random girl he didnt bangs parents, And hers: violence ensues: absurdness: violence and Disgustingness, etc. ensures the infinite, points to it with Void, the infinite too a notion: but perhaps if such a topsyturvy, 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 numb Read of a metaphor [snakes for what?] that truth-Might as well be as far: even the causa prima Couldnt swell an action as a form for light, no, Not the sturdiest teleology; even the intimidating Tests of any craggy philology, etc., studies of superlative And ideal couldnt 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 at The end of the injecting needle - it is yellow, splayed oer The hills: this nature, its reminiscent maybe of flowing Founts of poison [contra Rimbauds Terrific Mouthful], And funny I should think of that, huh, when upon to Slay those many monsters, or at least banish em To say, thoughts - to someplace with a horrific frozen Tundra on it, or the opposite pole nearly Amazon - my Mind was actually being on the topic of belches all over The landscape: erhm, belches?: ah, a means of mine to encourage Disrespect, 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 we Do that? But what does a snake mean - ? No. Already Asked that question. .. . . . . . And before this hissing-

-Audience I hear snatches of wisdoms. And, at least, Doltish one: you arent us. We the wretches who live in unfairness As the realm, wishing impregnation: that all and every Room could own void like that, and us not homeless And destitute children ! : ! suchs the desire, Since we speak of it, as everything, on the periphery Of 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 themselves Like constellations, inscribe on the letter, to the letter Yes yes yes yes carves w a damned yes yes yes yes Needle into the letter: dismissing possibilities of infection-But enjoying the idea of that doom: whom am I speaking For and why veils ?? But by the desperation ! well. There is hate to tell you - pathos fucking galore - alright, Bigshot? And its all upon - as peripherally - the ink that Frames of these very material, stuttering, Stuttering terms: considering All this gabber: stuttering : well ergm, Is corners of stuff but not the Stuff itself, tho something so figurative - a nearly a sort Of 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 considers The ontological deluxe-package on sale at the Vatican For three trillion dollars, but then w a price like that You 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 dont have an essence, Basically everyone except Bill Gates lovechild. Dildos! What bullshit is this ?? Just wanted to tickle something

Pink the way you cant with pigeons, cept if you have An veritable army of breadcrumbs of delirium, like the old fogie: & Mouthwash put aside again, to give even the old fogie Some 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, having It all be fine and ok and its cool also. So, then, madness & Fugue: no wonder warnings inhabit the impulses Basically carnages - of this country of snakes, an Industrious, abiding population, but oddly fierce With desire mere ornament in a consciousness so Stifled from - inception - as the wedged pea btween Two pieces of wood or something thats what makes A pigeon a pigeon, - but in the serpent, esp. in This world of my cosmos [not sure if that is redundant Or just doesnt make any sense, like One Thousand Million of something] I beg an effort to suspend Disbelief - and in this civilization, western one, it A thing that is and believe or do not believe this, a Whole big explosion of a monster truck delivering Cheeseburger patties that grill themselves thus, & As projectiles controlled by drones controlled by Humans are shot into the welcoming, almost sexual-Piggy maw of I who watch and laugh at the fact That I forgot exactly what caused that hellfire on The silver screen: that's where it was: bc I really wanted to smoke & Just kind of these days blindly assume, explosions Just are, have always been, even in the days of The salem witch trials there were good, hardworking Explosions - just, like - trying to make a living, & Anyway these days you were considered racist if You asked an explosion exactly why it happened. What is to remain held on to, since, after all, just Like a doorknob [youll see! Youll all see! - old man Of an old man I saw all declamatory to his pigeons, Baffled but for the most part unable to be confused By anything bc among other things not fathoming English.] View that there forgiveness, Serpents hassle Their tongues like those ones of flame: after all, The frantic dark follows in reverse - why after All all this desire/wants impossible to get or 'Get': I am in the business all of a sudden of creating More for the concept, here: needs of shifty-eyed, hairy Children. 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 something While 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 nature Become what it is - thats been a lil shady to define: Tho: and we realize wants, needs, desire and old band Tees are untrained, or tattered from overuse, & Thus heavy w the possible falter out of Weakened fabric, an attitude like money Flowing carelessly out of a bag in a Model T, Following the heist: - I am at the heights of what Should have sent a poet, - yeah, that is the Sword we need: troubled with jewel: and Might as well all this be the same, as I am, w One single mention of we become a serpent; As any of the amorphous world of it is for the Res: I say I am not so bad a viper, cobra, just To assuage Indiana Jones, phobics otherwise Normal, people un-serpent and w/o desire &, Inversely, all the scaly crackheads sticking like A friend to a floor of blood & urine & refuse: Sent a poet indeed: all this damnable roughage Of verbiage: one drab as a monkeys 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 room Just to encompass the res in a final seeable, might Make 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 collecting Of meaning : and weepy relevance etc. might stitch their Freedom 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 penumbra Herself, Good God!, was it Good or God or the like: A bank stolen from awhile ago, a great many minute lines Of 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 cosmos Of couplet merely: agh, to be given a Book Deal by Teh Good Lord: him who rules stuff-of-the-week: Like anything that is GOD-ish, the overlapping Similar, however measly, to the res, a meaning Hankering FOR water to fill the lungs, somehow This might leverage a few freedoms - that is, to Hang ones hat on some nonsensical, hoist it up And polish the grandeur widespread. But maybe-Hah: is that a thought so separate much, much: It breathes the same while inhaling thicknesses not Air: wrather: the feed of acidic fodders doesnt even Weather it: the remedy that will get this cosmos to See its landscape I started with of hills, and light And a sun for Kierkegaard that shows everything, Denying lowly serpents as we that obviousness In the sky: the skys an answer in itself - random Rumination: I only eat fodder where anything is; Being anything, is ignorant of air but childish enough To want to live: fools: repetitive dusts of dandy smoke Eh? Lifted to the point the material sits on, that is, Wherein thoughts, like with Epicurus, are Material, even those Ive attempted to kill elsewhere Elsewhere manifest, in a way by proxy of being along With the severe attachments of passion an attachment To, because made at, my own hand: I mean, its A hand, hands have whims just like we do: TIME Then is like thoughts: thoughts, thoughts, uh, being Of a similar metaphysical ilk, would be almost like TIMEs complementary palinode to describe IT 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 for The 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 side Of blankness can tell, much less persons in The room, each one a puppet creaking in Chairs, wanting less to clothe itself and more To barter a meaning enough of whats a lifted Sight, w/o necessarily expanding on what of The now I see at present, whether as regards Realitys silly objects or the incarnate of my minds Eye: breaths, serpent-breaths, well, they will Continue consuming glass, as some other fad Of shadow invades norms, if any be left to dismantle As regards this manufactured cosmos, struggling To be a landscape, living vicariously through hinted Notions of The Great Big Wonderful Context: to be On the shoulders of miracle is quite righteous & Tubular, gnarly also [makes weird hand-gesture Indicative of The Bro]. Only, it is beside the room, the Thought exists within smelling distance: like some Doorknob might be proximate to a door. Questionable Resources cause laughter, ultimately Commiseration, rage: and anyway nobody If there has ever been a room that has Existed, has known domicile: imbecilic: Duly noted: that is, ye who make some such Mistakes 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 points Grouchily to stuff upstairs, at least: the last material:

BEAUTY VESTIGES,
Spilled bleak, and formulations thereof at the bar Consider a somewhat alien pride before the shots As if dramatics at the least increased interest, een When weeping is the soft music behind reality, no, not Like men before me cold in NY, the hunch generally The world a narrative to even stun the caparison fabulist What curls theirs spines in cold, besides that, it Is besides the walk as if to be hanged & lights out It is we couple of us gone left to consider apocalypse As spillage guts, a feint acknowledging the critics Withal tithes their own in the absence of your ear, Besides when youre 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 Needles life takes precedence over you, unit bendy Dont fare very long, and pockmark a wrist into a Decking its goddam own : and festal the breeze Almost when you consider the rain, most, out of All this, and beautiful simplicities nearly the opposite To allegory of you , as almost a serious path NYers Trod is unlike anything but a sort of grumpy dance At most, to entertain the shard they are w inner life: A dance but inner dance: a dance for rain: or to Escutcheon themselves, as if a hobble was a heart To be protected: and as if the itching temperaments Perhaps 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 dont say : . . .. . .. . . .. Wrapping up life, one masters every possible Circumstance or else be blessed with an accurate Comprehension of ignorance, tho this w it more To point to negative, and pride no alien thing but Perhaps by the dialectic speed one gives to endlessly Approach might be too what at this point cant Mingle into anything but a ghost, a shadow of a Phrase : but and is she : and in distant speech do Anothr respirate the continuance, and who is she Whom mostly dead wouldnt rapidly start to rage That all of it was poison, and the ruins our knit brows Collapse, of strength, indubitable and strong but Weak in ways of elegant perspective, and I am left W the sleekness of ghosts to follow, nay, ectoplasm Or righted guts of things would map it out, the Zeitgeist : suppose it means love : suppose as well Defining things blankets the air to suffocate Indifference, and there we are, where the equivocal Half-made poetic path wanted to lead us. Hate Indifference, of course, and love a person with Black hair and blue eyes: who wants to fall into The final package, delivered personally to Brad Pitt

THE MASSIVE SHRUG,

There is one of a harlequin, Who comes upon the door to truth, somehow And shrugging his shoulders, leaves Without even opening it, goes off to find Something else down the block, maybe not truth but Close. Perhaps more than any purity Could explain. Perhaps a mythology To loose himself into the irradiated cosmos Tripping, tripping on his own heels and Follies, over himself, disjointed his joints Like a clown, but still farther out into cosmos Than any nice book of truth he could have Written, in opening the door to see it all, And all, a thing anyway that would be Refuted, though perhaps, taken more Serious. And so, his book on it, on creating His own findings, his own stubborn sounds To gather dust, all because he shrugged His motherfucking shoulders, was rejectd By the invariable land of truth: a thing after all In control of everybody who's here's-Fate. His own miscreant attitude, his living On the blocks, impoverished and menacing, A symbol for the chains that make us want to open Doors at all. A freak of nature like this. A freak of truth.

HANDBAG WITH AQUARIUM,

Mixtures drag. Ive only got one paper napkin in my pocket: nestling a hock, somewhere folded in there. My bag is filled with chump flowers and like any aquarium as dismalnesss is seemingly omnipresent: patterning around loquacious bannisters theres me hell-bent on taking the poem by the horns, making melody, a diminished chord: lordly follys 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: thats where I got the napkin too. Its a kingdom there, anything you want, just gotta bend your knees and slay a tune for sakes made blistering wanderings of my hand into the place where water spills out like horns of water, I grabbing the horns with phlegmy paper napkins, too, in there, just perhaps to get the flowery horniness dismalness to make a diminished bud out of handbags, my last days bastion, my last mixture, right before the getaway of all thievery of sense, all mitigating problems, travails that got you to the place of a soaked aquarium-bag, not the best place perhaps to keep bills, but then thats too real a conundrum, isnt it: dont make the final the true final, find you end forever: dry the leather, leave it out to dry, find that stuffs shrunken and gone dirty and raggy with funk. Thats why for the sakes of fishy muvahs I went to k-mart, sos the dud dudes dont get euthanized, I suppose they poison the water, like in that movie, Erin Brockavich. I dont know if Im spelling that right. Who cares; all cares, they lift like waterfall and spray onto the street, when you ask me for a napkin to wipe off ice cream from your face: a deep chocolate: what queries, give to the k-mart men upstairs: thats who I speak to, I find: they make ruins a placation, as if I were obsessed with listlessness in reality a dismal end to fishies. Im already too-into too-human reality-conundrums, at this point, like somethings in the water-and movie references, whatnot. What of the bannisters: so what, is what: I use them as for a movement of the hands down bannisters of content merely, content About hands. Somethings gotta be unexplained, after all: somethings gotta be a death, in spite of all the surrealism,

life, nonsensical in-betweeners: give me a broken flask for all this water to mix myself a grave, drink like a fat fish, die like one, go to k-mart for that heaven Id been looking for, while outside it starts to rain millions of rancid paper napkinsin reality, since were so damn infatuated with realness conundrums-and perhaps, some dismalness, is the result of two garbage trucks smashing into each other, both of which funny for the day seemed to have a wealth of paper napkin-looking things, and which all of it in heaven proved that people still need to keep clean in that place: that angel of content, she resists: she tells me to talk more about my handbag with equatorium, I mean aquarium, the equator no where near close to here: speak about poisoning the supply of flowery horns, the horns a spiraling of flowers, the poem a spiral of flowers I grab and crush before the mellowing year. I am not with a thing anymore but that couldnt beat a schism into dismalness enough to call this whole damned shebang dismal, fraught, too loquacious, like a shattering of teeth at the outset of drug-pangs: the water, turned us all into addicts: theres fish in me flask, I look on, say, my face attenuated and dank with only the most durable thoughts, now, the frail, beautiful ones having been crushed under the weight of my palm, my palm an island, rather, an expression of an island, rather, my hand alone, isolated that way, the plan of palms only good to high-five a deity or two before the trashy fish get hung out on the line, and I left 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 horns of dutiful, durable, ponderous flowers over the sides. Mixtures drag like ciggies as I drink the mixture. Leave it as a planet displaced, this whole bad poem bad for the pallet, my distaste the reigning subject now, my regal reckoning remitted to foolery, fishy egotism and foolery. Goodnight, folks, while I get drunk and ruin my unisex handbag: Erin Brochialbitch

would be outrageous: summer argot, I guess, driven by latent sense of pilgrimage always when writing a poem, like Im on a religious journey to castrate priests someday of 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 cells nudge towards The proper point would make things more, perhaps, Interesting: methought the wonder wouldst come Despite, if I waited, but then again nobodys got Patience with their own doubts enough to not refute Them eventually, lie to yourself, yea: we become Gross with wondering otherwise forever, cannot Make a carnival out of the serious head, of whats To doubt: if it be serious, so the first depth is, if the Head is serious aboutmaking dinner: I cant rely On what amounts to mere contrarian will to muss up, In reality a dissatisfaction with what the moment gives and With 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: yet Though am meticulous am impatient, as I said, and instead Of at the perfect moment connected, the synapse, right Before the perfect moment, is cast off, like a huge fish Hung at the lure. Meticulous devotion to surprise ruined That devils ever seeing the grill, a nice filet Never to come, I mark it a moments fault, when I should have left it hanging, on the lure, should have Made the moment less immense. Like, immenser Than the greatest of all catches. The moment grouses On our fun time with too much relevance, enough to seem Like 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: the Observing 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 a Metaphor for this flanking pressure-

-Of a watching moment, beating down on us, those Who 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 possible By in that moment coming so close to it, and throwing It away, because of course of state regulations regarding Fishing; before you can take out your camera. You forgot, Have no evidence, none but the persuasion of speech And the vividness of the story, those wordless things End 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 metaphor For flanking pressures of moments, the guile of the moment, The guile of feeling observed in a WORLD where We know not by who, train the feeling thus, take it To make a shape of irrelevant imagination .. . . . . .

TEARS-EATERS,
In these emeralds. I strung twigs, hitching tight the lazy knot Of brushes, into a drenched membrane, a bowl in which to live For the case of floods. Like a beaver. I strung Like somewhat tinsel carpentry. Over the gentler Pads of shard, left the more-fragged Fragments that, as destruction alone, perhaps; a head Stuck through on a pike. And each one, shard, razed, a pissed Countenance beneath the twisty cover, like as storms: Then I moved it away, kept the roam of weather, kept The indignant tidings of the shoving on both turns like a small Ball of conscious flesh, a conscious stick up the colon As the creatures eyes squint,

Fur on end, a creature for songs. Each a nervousquivering with Purgelike each one a nervous shelter. I imagine myself dying By the shard (sword), atom, or covetous Grate, where the rainwater sinks in, through raw metal, myself Small as a tinkling drop. A sewage juxtaposed to the cylindrical Shack, pasted with bruised water and painted remains of garbage Equally. Its on them to maculate myself, tie me down, like a large man Tied down with saranwrap by little folks, dirty clothes on him too The pants too dirty. Made auras of those saucers lifting up This corpse that is me into that plane: despite, I did Not know the plane: shifting the duct I smear with a knuckle Myself from whatever restraint I figured or had notions of Figuring into better view. Ah, doubt. But still the cognizance Lamed, 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. Permanent Too. For not once could alter it: this barnacle Only leads to fracturing this broken mind further, This mind a vessel itself. That unreal kind of One. And I have attempted my wish of it, that All this contrariwise, humping onto shore Like a mollusk, might beat down, batten Down the logical debris and prove me wrong As it sets sail: to murthers on the sea: the Sea of outrageous stars and like a countenance Facing the World, with downturned challenging Eyes: 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 blames For whats in the shock, the blame in this Damnable shock that comes from splits Into that seeming durable void, making things There, taking them out of fancy, and dismissing A lot of the mania, for the sake at least The misery is whole. I blame the mania Of days, nights spent unreasonable and Reviling the tips of stars, that so much is Dismissed far-off in the welkin: deep stellar And portentous howls: miracles of pressure, And all the things I have tried to piece Together, are so much nothing to unguent Of whats simply sadness overlapping Sadness, a coil of misery in cloud and dust And breakers of stars on the hull of this Outcast ship, looking at myself far off, on shore, From what I thought a respite, of a sea Of a million nautical suns.

AND YET A FALLEN WORLD,

Its just an echo. Your mind repeats it because and here The fidgety dialectic jumps to life: because, it is Apparently 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 dimness Like a duty to see before youreallyin 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 straight Black hair. Marrows, each follicle shining Deepest in the moons gape, and then light Tones as the barracks of memory sloshed: and like two disparate Frames a new memory shifted into the old one, and it was like the time Between had not have passed but melded either into one reality: And I see myself: With fellows fording mattresses up against the door to keep The smoke out, further in, an inanimate clock, a real one In this some fortress, blessings of the baby speaking gibberish In the floor below: thats the now: but remember the clock, it proves existence Of an other: thats something I cant hear you say, I either hear Lauds or dismissive placations or even hatreds, but never Advice: just like someone you know, you say. I should have Just 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 imaginations very maw: you saw it you did, forever You will miss what you could never treasure: woven sticks To suit a thorny head. Falls here, and gorgeous winds Slant the skys muddied light, mostly light orange Hues: murders of crows arent yet on sight yet, must Be a little before they do: the baby goes on makin fuckin Baby noises: crazy shit, till a crux in my heart goes black And exhaust makes all that metal bleed to sing and forgive

Fate again, though Im guessing I will my whole life: uhp, My foots asleep: the babys coughing in the apartment Below: I wonder if the baby is only there for intermittent Periods because I dont 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 psyches outsideror delusionor maybe Even just a call. Like yo, hahChrist, When will he learn that. What I do know However is that there is indeed much Lost in translation here. What you think I think is Earth-shaking I might find, along with you, banal, tedious. Reconnoiters, Its a constant strange back and forth. But more Difficult; 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 would You ever want to do that. Thats not what it is. GOD broke.

. . .. . .. ..

. . . ..

. .

With eyes, considerate eyes I slow myself, allow myself To 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 anxious I shall stay here on my tile floor reading grumpily to myself While the daily headache introduces itself Once again there in head The little sphere caught pullulated like a village fool, Temple to temple as I write, it sets in to its vigor And ballistic ballads of these closed doors Explode nastily against each other too:

Like missiles of contempt that pierce arrowlike burst from quiver To stall the unctuous heart to stall it in the brain, yet-No, no one is there it is some trivial argument In 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 gutted By some chiding thing slamming doors outside And still yet am I left the more laborious man for my anxieties And still yet the wiser man, for shutting my own bathroom door Softly, 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 skins And 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 can Bound my dear sphere is to these unbreakable templechains Here me now brother for I speak to you only in the head Tell me what to do as the daily headache, set in its cycle Sets in in a torpor, egregious torpor, and modulates the gland To leave me no longer drafty in the pubis But rather I enter into new potency, tell me I do not sink-But into the arms of my lover to together feel alone And well then my brother says: blank out the tiles fill the room Fill it with the guts of power A loamy gash on the brain-Is not so hurtful in the heat of new sex Or the plaintive rallying of new words round their amber vigil Like some golden thing at bay From missile turned to missive that turned from the callous negatives To 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 relish And the arrow drawn to hit me in a daily headache roundabout: If I am to detail a potency I must make approbation For the sake of a breezy life not sullen Not wrecked nor incurious, innocuous nor Dreaded to be lived Nor floundering in deaths company But rather I look at that missile straightly fall through the wind With my hands of mind tied to their burrs like daisychains Looking on to view this, helplessly looking on To view this:

. . .. . .. ..

. . . ..

. .

Deep minister, I beg, create me for my faith In senselessness and poverty, and headaches: and, fraught With derision, pain me gentle, pain me In the words. I am not for nothing. Tell of A final resting place for these my eyes at slits, Speak senses, say you: rally up, swell with plenty Senselessness, derive a carnage worthy for that, Make of me, you say, a place where you can tell me I am softened meaning, less than a temples 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 women Were 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 speak As minister, as arbiter, as chance made for to leave out The megrims of a personal conquest of absurdist doors Just to shuck the husks from life as bodkins. Depreciation, chaos, Wonder; I am these things. You say. And I am No 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 out For what truncated GOD in minds that are asleep To bless like dirty sneezes:

And for the tempered chaos deeply deep It 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 unraveling And she, waiving The unravel as a worldly good To spite the island of her master as not Solitude her own / a one who is Stuck in their dream-Of a man / there, in the proliferate Void, throughout our standing in this Hydrogen hence, to magnificence On a blue sphere lampposts In the broad strokes, impressions Seeming themselves An equivalent pyre that is For wickedness and as with health Wickedness as in Carnality, and exertion of a subject If winter brine, that is for the blood to circulate Now as all it can / as it runs Out from the keyhole, strikes patterned with Emptied tints / and the streak there of paint there, left To color the shoal prickling Behind my ears In a collection big as incandescence and thence From thence go out the witchs lamp and She of course who ties to the Very tap, ones own Broken 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 girdle To loose the face of one, him / in his psyche-auger Ha a dram of doom and him the warden as

Escape her breaths From an etiquette towards spectacular shade, And in the main Of the open doors, there is a tale of death, Speak it, Vocalissimus / the Drawn in your muttering Pervades this / but as for an immortal Governance, that is, as cannon-fodder Ones, towards the crypt It remains happy with dark on the bedside, then, In sortilege for the keepers of death and for one To cancel to repletionn inner splendr there It . through and through one who through the latch Makes a heavy kingdom from out primordial heels Stray in the dusk there Each shattered beneath the brunt of his weight and in jabbering the virgin soul And the tentacled waste beneath the overarching trees There 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 now To get lost in the creep of winding slush upon the roads and the lampposts There 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 ghosts And finds no bedspread for this issue of self . and lies the conceit of all man And 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 lament Spreading 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 within The counterpart of badness a lost bed for one to sleep in like a clicking, Peace in the ordnance-bangsPow!in the stash of little breathers

Blacken days nimble hours soft, sketched limbs off the velvet of the sky And 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 keys Give the license to tarry itself suitable . breathed weeping in solitude fine Ourselves 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 space No 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 zygote Martyr oneself his healing and make the power out of the refined exit Into 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 moon A matrix network or plasm-direct of greetings and beckonings and fronting And rimmed nonetheless in illumined smoke the smoke of ages hence From there to the fine print and then a calligraphy unknown beyond She-felons beyond lyric-daintys force with force along the fault Mine her sympathies, jostle the strangeness forth in the witch of tides Boon for the hour to grope and displeased ignite make smoke Benign careless realism in the missive sense that is a signaled hoot Laid flat in pains of matrices, untangled fledge-illegible,s naughty Demons created likewise beyond a smallest iota before in the game When wanderers made attraction their job the EARTH a walk down The linens perceived the witch-posts the blood from them given And the sinister dread nay dratfully there the lorn ghost pivoting

And shaking his acquiescent guilt in the hedge of my hair what have You what have I what have we all in this game of tennis this is no Skull 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 float Of 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 bless Where round equators of their sleepy span, With whats forseeable in longingmess Of beauty, dignity the severed plan. For whats 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 slower Nothing greater, even, than most. and yet most of it is all The color of tricky lightbulbs taken to the glandular braid, goddamn White questions of thickening speed, Here and cold at home, Back then, a trickier declaim to snare booms throughout The cosmoscompressing that handfulbefore it, Proliferatinga quick din midst space, went Hence in the icy, darling whiteness Of a question in the first place. Yeah, and Cold as damned PLUTO, This home in head that seems about whatever Pomp of thesouls slowness. Whom knacks for minutes For example, a chancy attitude of purity too swift With composedly fast whiteness, for apprehension On this line of blackness To mix modalities to harbor songs Enough and donned in calico ! And of poisonous, voracious time In explanation of that tyranny, maintenance Fares 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 art Of fetching for the smallest soul, concludes a germ, yeah, of something

Of deity to rate so heres to much the bending of the borders A germ ofGODmaintains a worser poisonfor the mighty nerves To puppetand devourswhat it dolefor the better soul, a done-out odor At the pulpithowever delinquent these words fucking are To see as smallest beautyto remain and soon devour the germ, While the worst perceive itmore than all as Rudimentaryasany GOD isschoolhouse disseminations fucking Are 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 gut A nerve had saturated you in some done-out odor, left it . and turning to people Whom live mussed in sicknesses their own: so: I want you to mess up their brains With pretty questions, Philology the people in your head who want themselves the germ As you to be held and nonplussed as once again silence holds in them To that bafflement. They hold hands in your mind, tell you that, .. . . . . . .

Well, never: everything could not pay all the roots of trees And petals of rain: hah: like plucking GOD to audiences much less Benign: 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 you To be with you and GOD or whatever to scramble to sensibly apologize, For this ingratiationwild your spirit gets in losing out And it by time closest to all of time goes all Drawn and tired for your worth To keep the calyx withering to droop And I have kept his wrath, to hear concessions on the cold wind. He as you has burrowed as anything too long in the seed Tethered nearly to your selfsame plea to make strength Of life no more by wrath, to not fire reason out

At every squall. And, once accepting all the manner of thy rainy soulBetween quarrels of moisture on the bare air Despite shelter and the mood black. Black with spit-rain come Down in needles on windbreaker walking home. And, that the Expectorating angers life sees himself of life as is a -Control, however much the antecedent torture Of this:you stringless puppetall control as standard On the wave, nonplussed wave in a reasonable wave, I have Found a light of sorts to stutter these scrawlsto temper off the nonplussed In his man and from a respite his, now left in him the prickled sense To Follow, Follow to the remains of what remains. Tosalvations remainsin the waste of that Look there for your tidings. No no because that is in the haze of that words end, is not In a mind too slowly broken, meticulous, Like a craft, like something finely done Yes o o o as to make felled that sounds end. I relieve you, And believe you, reprobate; and believe me, Itll 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. Its there. Pretend the old is gone, the old feelings, the old mannequins quaint with posture. Theyre there. Betwixt this magnificent portal, thats where I want it to go 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; Ive fed them all. And go forth, you: tell the leaves on the-ground that theyre on the ground. Tell me that I am sitting in my bed, as grossly the cherished, old feeling drowns, at last,

all things at last, let me dream, let me tell of dreams burning golden in their gift, in their spasmodic, regurgitation, lend them more nothingness, lend the nothing nothing but the the. This loafing on dragged sails 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 this damnable: 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 if it were never left from that impulse, that clued space of oldness done: done to make more old: and more old the basket held in case waters flow trickling the eyes to tics of abasement: theres something wrong with my left eye: no, my right one: it isnt right, it blessesregurgitationsit, spaced with water welters care off in each tear. Each below the duct, frames it thus in doffing like a hat sadness, old hat: new hat: new, old: the watch keeps her clockwork in this the soul. Breakages amount to walking the street, for miles, the same block, and this no light commands: so where is the light: clockwork: like some dandy clockwork woken for the purpose of leading all us to a new appropriation of too few black lines, too few white spaces: I live for feeling, dont want any done in their doneness: however old the hat is: let me just do this once: obituary: deaths gainsaid crypt, CRANE

remarks: its there too, will always be, and always not be in knots but a beautiful-serenity of another light for the father of them: breakageswhat? How is the suffering going: look up: find yourself in a field: see the leaves under heaven, see the birds, flying, under heaven, be by yourself: thats the prescience: solitude: no matter for whats stoled and kept itself despite the mask: thats no masque: no joke: no cable for lines to tell lordship over but in serenity of some thing ! gone out into wily wildernesses of fields of peace: pieces grow, make little of the genius of peace: a whole piece, not one but many, descript as hell, forms the makers 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 warp These planks of mind, when I noticed, the great Acidic blanknesstherein the miserable eye . oft it was Strangled to blight, and To maketh blindness: in me: I had been Stuck in that flame: in the Embranglements of meaning and Pitchtruth, verity, truthbefore it came: and for the sake Of stormy gusts of truth, these to have fed the dear fear Of many a dinning windbag Id Wager, yes . give me rather The formless, give me whiningly contrite begging for form Despite continually no form, give me Desperation as to the approaching Of something While simultaneously being there already: but Forever, forever approaching Tragedy, the need to approach something, anything, the only

Prerequisite, the adventure of something Sinking in with anxious time . the big blankness Came as if leech-gatherer On the wet moors to drink up all those very Needles, might have pierced An irksome perimeter, my walls, my Walls . 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 grows Better in the pain . desiderata for the wrecked fool, for me always The need to channel something First, at the time clocks tell you, the moment you look At them you know . It was In 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 needles And 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 mouth Ask 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 loins Gadding 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 right Turning folds upon its folds for to break its own insatiate light And each a cue to stretch that strength more in glitchy spears I took it the sun to my unbelievable desk For 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 spontaneous Waiting and receiving and denying . I was working when The fomenting of some unbelievable chord in my mind Made dismissal unanimously Of that curse and state And drew a picture of the sun on it sprung from breathing And made for myself a needless needle-gatherer For to breach the attitude of these unwilling walls And still I know not, shame, shame, shame, Whether that great brink was fallen over into blankness Or 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 .

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ITEM : MAN AT PIANO - BANGING OUT STARS : While the drawn-faced master, in his Brain, fuels a dreamy brainless Demoiselles nausea: this 'her' gets fueled By the depth of him, in him: yet this some Nuance of his too much motive. It is Expressedby herin a pretty Sickness ofprettysunken 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 limpid Perspectives of others who might munch audibly, better, more delirious On that fabricated half-mystery. Others on her, or her, or her, perspective On this girl in the man, and both unreal for To stomach the upsurge: and that sudden: to the point Of panic, the unreal mind, into view: sickness-thing not ace In hole though thought so at first but outlier instead, who in seeing pretty Notes a cumulus done to shock her into aggrandizement, or her from The youthful hypocrisy: of a youth judging: a puff darkly of harmony To silly, abrupt melody, to gentle fugue: a stink Upon impatient brains of listeners to the man At 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 longer Will yall be all soaked in dotage, someone Says. Eyes, someone thinks of eyes sunken like odd girlies of the brain For these we wetbrained stargazers to recline upon the laps of, laze Our 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 as A beautiful horror, hairily stretched like a contrived movie Plot: arch the neck, who demands it?: we are Afraid to do so, and feel it Snap ugly sounds down brutely the spine; and all just to gaze? No way. At glimpses twinged motley in notes? While he alone Recognizes the impatience of himself, feels observed By himself in the room that is dim-lit, filled With 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 whats one In the pleasure, an instinct of massive pain to rise The observer on himself, seeing his hands cross the keys like fool stars Slumped batten against the sketch of the skys netted threads, As if by hammer, hammer, he hammers Keys, and then the fugue, a gnarly wave from nowhere Landing 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, orGodsome voice, proclaims Me to see it that way, instead of himself, or herself, I dont know, Can only listen to him, not feel alone, I am alone, I slump Against 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 verbiageGodsays it is the stars too Dawn 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 World For 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 thrill OF the slumping stars battened to a fabric. Somewhere Here, a lesson, a reason to crick pain into the head Just to turn it upwards, just to gaze, end transmission. . . .. . .. .. . . .. . .. .. . . . .. . . . .. . . . .

RENDITION OF THE STONE / WITHIN THE ELEMENT AND VEIL,

I wish me liquid by the seasons 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 with Prolix, 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 tides Of 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 feeds The finding wire: ambagious as the telos of the seed To plant a new breath, floor the marred flagellum To take a wakefulness the colors give it, before Resisting 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 regarded Incorrectly, 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 be A blessing of the fire upon me. To see blindly As being-delicate myself, to see An unrelenting friend, to bring My 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, could Remove the feeling I am high above, a special Case, to soothe whats 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, as Concrete a thing as falls to the floor, an open door .. . . . . . . . . .

Swung by wind to clap as if a cackling somewheres In the nights 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 thoughts Of 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 bliss With words for once: an element there is Unstraight, 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 concept To less a pitch, a watery, dissolute Thing, still within the element and veil as-An sorta unrequited lake with surface-green, The witless veil of algae over rotten Lakes. Surgeless as opposed to froth on sand From 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 love For flowers there, or growths at least. As canker-The love remains, manic, jovial, blind: It is what I have done to smallest rind OF absence of the truth, not able To be held: an impertinent collapse Is this, a sour taste of thoughts too thought-like For the lake to green over without Putrid smells, buzzing with Some gist that is of what I speak to, here: I Do not handle it, for it is too frail, and I Am on the wire high: best then To not risk anything. And then, I find myself within yes The shady sadness of a reasons veil: not behind, Nor beyond am I: to luckily burn on: to liquify These mordant colors of a greenness gain Sans sun, the hue of sun no murk For plashing waves. My pen is still a stave To pierce the heart of me throughout the write (These elements are meant to be defied.) And then theres This name again, theres this fine veil Over the preliminaries, waiting hunched in some dark corner, Theres 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 dont 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 fast A 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, as The selective queries needing referendum, business to business,

Taking their Taken the motive,

voracious corners to cones of space, taken the replete time,

So slow time, drag it down to Earthly scariness, take it Brought low, to the lowest throat, take it from manners To 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 the Livid, 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 face Out 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 dogs Down, 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 reflector In darkness, representative of causa sui, the Liminal illness of heavens, heavens and regressings into emissions OF extra sense, a fevered trying for saying, saying The dream, the dream the day, the day the absurd, the absurd No 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 expressed Haphazard 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 connected Ancillary interest, And all a metaphor for this quotidian, this metaphor, this mirror In 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, viewing Happily the rushes on the beach, a veil the sky, grey veil, grey preliminary, Grey spring, and sour leaves the bane to wreck the cane, for Demons to make remonstrance in our brains, valuing too much What 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 a Thing to be measured in strikes off: be OF disbelief: but what in moments of relic-tears here, that tear Across the planet, are to be felt high above, in your dignity, from Ships all the way up, up, up into the great, beyond whatever is lain Downterrifyinglyin this breezeless Hereafter?, 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 anxieties Your 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, Theyre still there. Yes. Disasters reign, still do. Terrible incidents happen daily, after all: this great blue sphere One of them, a superimposed,

Moistened anomalous figment against The great black figment, the pain of this. This lowly place, we feel low in. ...... No,rankling pains 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 towardswhat: could be this the lost andromeda To catch on, nail on thread, in The hope of some Blown grabbing, some haunt hulking The windfuckingforth? As if salient like that, or like Glass plates against the walls of this throat: hurled by who: but then, What identity doesnt disturb: a whole tub of conundrum, here, Now, so far in that way already and to reckon peace In violence, burning; paper The one idea, flung on through nodes In this blacker sky, this rheum?, Not quite, but quit at casements, windows into This night that has knelt upon the hands of eternity To cause it pressure, naughtily vacuum, this salience, crazy glint, This scene of a daunting boat thrown headlong Into space lit ruefully wary Amongst the quiet, indelible the-Stars, large one, furious balls OF hydrogen, unhinged As eyes, pointy ones that ravel significance Out of beckoning anything ever, at all whilst eyes in a flurry of spasm Demean the ghost they writhe with. And they unhinged from the wrist OF a tough mudder, renouncing what it sees In large countenances, nubile clouds and oceans of nothing We travel towards ourselves in life that way. We travel, long in merry Multitude of head, the sequence-exact of the many clouds, On earth, down absurdity there from us, as long And swirling in our heads and as much The hibernated song to sing our weather For the day our militant gestures, rendition of the stone our Attempt 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-relics Of that milliseconds 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, Whos 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 means Of transport, unalive as to this Rejuvenating: decree: this unaccountable, And meaningless in doting too much On 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 never To cherish their final dream, but in the struggle We cherish what is naught, not them: Not them what followment, what eradicable, What lissom, what obscene frailty expends Us: what moving in the poundage OF years pleases us: what Marriage mellows, not grossly, With time: and if in time the quadruped deceit Is made out, this martyrdom . is useless: Why have it: we have come to see Us well, well enough: and in The scatter one out of them all Betrays 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 better At having no opinion: naught but a babble-tower: Freefalls, loops, linger reticently In the ash-like snow, falling in Rotary: 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 shit Makes imagery for one to wow off the spectacles OF chance, at making what we see no blankness But 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 out For omens in this brig: we push our buttons Know ourselves somewhere not where we Should be but theoretically: they, animals The stars chance while we know the earth the star, The stars broken, blent in easing to the groundless As 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 thus As men as monkeys, we trail down where necessary To evolutions perquisite: but there is towards-sphere, There is much in thrownness opposing thrownness, Distant dictions laughable haze and then Draught: one of my own dreams like snows Of ash: In being the broken cell, the one Strand not fecundly straight: the one Brand on our asses, red as shit With embarrassment for thinking one As you would not quite understand, In the immediate dream and the awakening A laughter thus for both, as both the gorge Between stars, and stars the postal savagery: And men, looked up to them, a merest longevity In the face of The one cherished ember there, There: fleet off, you, you you of Morality: I had a dream this afternoon

About a party I had on a bus: it Was a great occassion, but I woke up feeling the apocalypse Again: this tinged the reality of The dream, that is, that that was My first reaction: death: vacancy: Spite: we have immediate opinions About our dreams to spite them, Keep them too close to the reality OF waking thought, so as to loosen the bounds thereof. Moreover we seem to do this, between States: What of dreams extended?: how can One take his dream by the nosehairs, And call it a whole bluff, A reprimand, for sure, of what is meant To be for there, that place of this: This place: this obscene, This command to Be obscene, to waive the frailty, as if That were a huckster: nonsense: But, then, these lackluster opinions Of dreams just follow the dram: The naught, naught: Pool in together this, This speciousness, dont ratify By the dozen what is meant, Immediately: like dreams: let No opinion settle in the minutes After one has woken up to us: For we, reality: we all are: objects, Images, people: metaphor strips The reality of what to me is a Lascivious focus on itself: see metaphors Like a just-awoken-from dream: See the raveling out into focus

As more beautiful, and do not connect The bus to what I am: grand occassions, A loose bud hanging round after all These years: hes shifty, shifty in The eyes, and struggles to cherish What breaks the habitual down Into religious exercise: its not: Waking up is no ritual, tho We realities do Stuff, to make it so, later. We attuned, Rough selves of thoughts, connected, No, not connected, not grasped, At least, immediately: yet If I forget dreams, no big deal, No sensible place for sleep Is the analytic: Namelessness, Better namelessness, derives This and that from what Motion, what generality, what space OF conurbation and waves, leaves Sinister proctorship for philosophers, Leaves one weeping and waking For realities, poetic ones, left and right In 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 what Loose 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 cheap on the sides. And this is frightening. That origins of solutions may equally abound or not abound is the fault of philosophy, that there is no longer surety, and that which would have lived if unaware of, chipped off as scum under the deck, rendered valueless slowly by a question at all, which forgets a few, naturally: a quite many few (I speak of common man) whod never know yet participate in stellar consequence, graced with absence at the slightest deeds, notably there but still adroit in relief if stressed, if on the brink will have herself as friend. That gives them something of belonging somewhere. Even if it is fabricated. Even if the common man and mind is surrounded by a crew of maligners, demons on her legs, her arms, she will retain her own and have it be that while eaten alive. What the philosopher hopes is exactly not what it fears is: the disturbing puzzle a graft of patient loitering thoughts around the ones buzzed off into oblivion. The mistake is in caring at all if it is fabricated. This for the philosopher is a grand discomfort, the existence of illusions. Wanting to get to the bottom of anything is, indeed, what this is, after all. Philosophy. What makes one the weaker is philosophy staked on high emotional involvement, grounds for the soul, as if it were on trial for the act of living. So easily a philosophical act of mind can crumble beneath a fear of existing in a patchedtogether WORLD, the entire WORLD of it, and yet made of so few, the truth of mind a mien of minds, reactions ! I would as well make a psychiatrist a friend, to involve my 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 are the telling a moral to the story; the faded star from gossip on its flames, the mildewy host

who in craving what was lost, had been, had forgotten where I was, so lost in the drink, that he forgot the poison poison. Who would be analyzed then? Myself or the friend? But the common man is a gift, enjoys a harem and displeases whores; marks ruddy gifts amazing, lives and dies a disaster, a lonely master of her world, her contra nothing, seizing nothing but of breath. A scenic feud breaks out in the soul, and I drop my watch in 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.]