I want to [un]bracket what I recognize; space hangs from the hooks, covered from head to foot in white veils,
Add the web-like structure that forms the (baryonic) backbone of the universe to your leopard’s equivalent. “We’re dealing with a living thing”, someone told someone, “visceral mind, expanding and contracting, an orifice bleeding. Someday you’ll feel the agony of it and abandon faith for the grace of bodies in motion through superimposed eternities.” Time for
a tune, a ? [a question mark], afloat on the DNA foam. There are the victims, there are the events. My god, so far, so close to
a new verb. Only I’m going to ask your multiple versions to help me. “One crow flying before his faces signifies …”
home: “We closed the house, cranked the Model-A, and started out, … over stony mountain ruts” …
Ω ©. The nouns have all been wisps for
talala, which has something to do with
ages
in formal bodies or memory structures, or in animals, the cunts of paintings. / [slash]. “… Sometimes I think the future begins
a new part of speech. Listen. My ellipses are your sure footing. Listen
to the sound of feedback in the morning. Follitude = follitude = follitude =
follitude = follitude. Reads my eye was in here somewhere, so I will extend my gaze – the blaze lays low.
(Please tell those gods to quit
pummeling. CLOSE/CLOSE/CLOSE
PARENTHESES. Noon whistles, and he eats alone each day (“he’s in good company”). Am I if not the fox, at least the raven?
Pass
a giant through an electron. No hay cami-
nos, hay que caminar. (e.g.) (i.e.)
(n.b.) (The village idiot was, of course, a wise fool, in the best literary tradition. A former butcher, he returned airily deranged after years of internment in a Nazi prison. In his madder moments he would introduce us to his hundreds of children – the flowers in his garden with whom he would carry on long, if incoherent, conversa-
tions) … O baryons bar-
yons, and you, too, my dear dark matter, in one of Anderson’s tales there’s a picture-book costs “half a kingdom.” In it, everything (the head … on the night table, like a ranunculus …) is cheerfully vomiting. Naturally I kept my promise with regard to the AyAyAy*. There was no ←↑→↓, but no ↔↕ either.
An iris rots in a vase above the fireplace. Each comma ticks like sleet against a windowpane.
Or if not the raven: some infinitely stuttering thing, like a traveler who’s never before been in an airport?
“Humble is the charity of early mornings. Everything that happens then must happen: to you, to me, to the whole world.” There is
no name for the earthquake that threw the all the words
off their pedestals. How do they do it, with no external organs? The weather, too, it is and isn’t. Ergo, vis-à-vis, we ascertain that that thing in the mirror is closer to life than appears
& the participants studied the internal ceremonial code
Hand
out bread.
Eavesdrop politely on
the
bright converse
of yellow-flowered
grasses.
Talk to
the birds in
their
own languages.
My body knew
I
was anchored
to your bodies.
Bread
is needed.
You know what
I
mean by
bread. Lissen up:
If you poke two holes in a piece of clay
It begins to stare at you
If you drop to your knees in front of the sea
It washes all over you
If you spread your arms wide on top of a hill
They will call you an angel
Everyone is falling and we all begin to rust
Everyone is wrapped in shadow
If you fall on your face
You will stay where you have fallen
If you fall on your side
You will stay where you have fallen
If you fall on your back
You will stay where you have fallen
If you stand up straight
You will stay where you have fallen
Is there a man alive who believes in his erection?
It is very hot inside this suit
There is no work to do inside this suit
There are no books to read inside this suit
I cannot eat an apple inside this suit
Lead Snow Concrete Silence
No face no mouth
No mouth no tongue
No tongue no words
The air is full of no words
If you poke two holes in a piece of clay
You will hear them
Psych!
Not.
You
decide. I
am only thinking
of
the journey
I did not
take.
Who is
this fucking “I”?
Nothing’s
personal, but
still, zip on
those
legs, anything
you do, smells
alike,
but still,
a wonderful first
kiss,
as in
those movies, one
long
grin, everybody’s
great. Psych, not,
you
decide … someone
told me recently
he
has two
rules when he
teaches
people to
write: no one
cries,
no one
dies. So why
does
this “I”
need to say
“… helpless, as blue roses are helpless …”
“… so fragile
“Honey scorched our lips …”
“… why
“are my hands shaking I should know better …”
and
It lasts
all day? (Cf.
means
‘compare’ &
‘leads to useful,
interesting,
or related
material that is
not,
however, essential
to an understanding
of
the meaning’)
The world is
round
& falling
down & don’t
look
at me
counting nineteen humans
plus
eight trees
reading Anne Waldman’s
Manatee/
Humanity did
this to me.
That,
& having
two ribs out
of
place. Each
reader writes the
text
and no
one steps into
the
same crosswalk
twice. I continue
shrinking.
I am
taller, taller by
far.
When you
click on the
remote
the whole
picture comes alive.
I
keep a
lot to myself
although
as you
say. Is not
a
good shit
a true pleasure?
Are
not these
houses a form
of
dis ease?
Will the seagull
eat
peanut butter?
What was it
that
arrived implicitly?
“O my stone
God
quicksand Eternity!”
“When I came
across
it on
the piano …” At
the
end, X,
you were so
small,
playing with
a stone on
your
bedspread at
the edge of
the
ocean. A
language of one
consonant,
a vowel,
various as any,
[Note: Sources: a mashup of “Autopoiesis CXCII” and “Autopoiesis CLXXXII”; Anne Waldman, Manatee/Humanity; Peter Jaeger, Eckhart Cars, in The Reality Street Book of Sonnets (ed. Jeff Hilson); Elizabeth Willis, “Constable’s Day Off”, “The Tree of Personal Effort”, in American Hybrid (eds. Cole Swensen and David St John); David Antin, “Yamaguchi”, in Selected Poems: 1963-1973; JBR, “The Sculptors II (homage to Anthony Gormley)”, “I Still Don’t Know What Came Over Me” (quoting Ted Berrigan), in The Beautiful Distractions; Noah Eli Gordon, “The Area of Sound Called the Subtone”, in The Area of Sound Called the Subtone; Kelvin Corcoran, “Seeing Hilton”, in Roger Hilton’s Sugar; Ted Greenwald, “Anyway”, in 3; Ronald Johnson, “The Different Musics”, in To Do As Adam Did: Selected Poems; Bernadette Mayer, “Max Carries the One”, in The Bernadette Mayer Reader; Ron Silliman, blurb for Gil Ott, Public Domain; Gil Ott, “Figures”, in Public Domain; Martha Ronk, “In the Vicinity” 27, “Closer to My Natural Voice”, in In a Landscape of Having to Repeat; Ron Silliman, Sunset Debris, The Chinese Notebook, in The Age of Huts (compleat); Jean Valentine, “The Child Jung”, “Coltrane, Syeeda’s Song Flute” (quoting John Coltrane), “X”, in Door In the Mountain]