:depth as p red i - ca m e n t by d.

c demarse

: a canvassing reality
the empty skull that the sun is drowns down and out somewhere in the heat of clouds blanketed over with themselves a grey feeling, grey, grey purity behind the dimness, the sun itself in front of that front, behind a face of the clouds themselves, not their feeling: being a face though too, the sun still peeks through the dimness well enough: mimics the paternal clouds and gets past the feeling of them to illuminate justly, delicately: but then when it proliferates the sun is all cataclysm and weal and woe, like a judger illuminated by discovered hidden news of what is is up to, is being reality, and then that left for rain to trickle down to frailly, the next thing over this, this circumferential pallor, each where that it goes a place that had been, from a di!erent focus, the master of that place, and from the side a misery. And from that side a misery. Do not fetter your sense to this; it will clearly go on around the skull to wispy kings, dragonies in the muck, broken birds hanging deftly in air. What can I see as this that is is, without wanting to y myself? Thus I put it in a place where it cant move from, it, it, what is that? And how by the bubbling of bassoons our reason defers us from the sunny skulls of sun, the sun behind the sun, an immaculate fantasy, as all fantasies are? They twirl realitys temples in a duty for spaces to be lled, want them lled with rain that ies like insect or like bird, utters away ickering, like a thing the made man turns from to nd, an absolute tantrum of the sky, the skys is, while ying realities buzz rather to take o!, and meanwhile drift, from yet another angle, back to ground. Back o! in distance, I hear a thunders sound.

: the miserable aesthete

And I shocked at miserys new-residing face At having seen her same before this time, looked As she let her garment-esh y to the oor, whatever Had romanticized itself, had hued that shed skin Exposed thus as the myth behind what? Her Consternated rubble, just bones and nerves. She Rambling all the while that it was green nally, the Feeling was, once released; that it had been disease, As marble to gru! stone dismays the tasteful sphere The aesthete thinks in, if hearing another think them same, If stone. But wheres the telos, where in the discard Could I see beauty purveyed like the keep of a store, If not in what had been immediately beautiful to me, At rst? So did her dichotomy mingle her and the Garment-mask, the source impartial, the question Then presumably of honesty, which one was it?, yet That would be assuming uncut granite for the marble. I out of shame always beautied my misery as much. To distance it from its truth by guration.

: the last microscope

My, this somber hour, held in mind, replaying To the moment before sleep, too tired to be more than a moment, In this case, seconds made briefer by not acknowledging them Has cost me reminiscences of the spirit once in thee, you Say, who saw an infant in the lighthouse of ones eye, an imaginary Dark saw, they playing the dunce, legs arched as if by wheels Out, sitting pretty in a chair. Having the bored kind of thoughts you Have about existence. Once the retina falters a bit and ones Dipping of into selves once gets lost from that spot, angular wisp Of light, that housed soul, exceeding simple, eets Away, martyrs childhood entire, and your glance gets cold In the shadow of this tree we sit beneath, wishing the spirit back Until I wake up restless in sweat beneath the eider-down, sneeze At allergens, hauled the sheets over my crouched frame, wake up For work with a rash the next morning doesnt balm either. And BLAM! back to the mindless ease of every day ever, but still That memory swimming like ice cream in malt, bubbles there Quivering in thick heeds to explain of something. Sea of all the guilt and disease swaggering my jaw out of Concourse with tongue, deluding myself and what was in my Eye, and hers, what glory is there though in slowing The shirked cogs even though theyre gone? As if you could, Did, by some weird cognitive trick, tip over the forgetting Back, with drink, before a futile rest, and repeat Before you sleep, he says, I say, as if to provoke it. Eventually the memory of us warmly beneath the oak trees On a bench becomes a slow boil, a slow regression into The sleepless delirium comes, and I turn a child As if thumbing the grave already, examining it without Deference but with sadness, brow upwards yet the eyes Cast low, as if needlessly groping a thing forgot whose image Was in front of thee, looking through the worries to the boy, Cloistered in a crypt, just to suit a mans ideal of himself.

: one of the magus

Blank tundra. And spruce trees up to the tip with Frost, taken by the snows moil. Miles going still to The icy gorge for him: place of respite or death, that Avalanches have basked over over ages, letting nothing In ever in trails of snow. And an insignicant man wanting To get there, aching his axe and snowshoes through the white Plain, nearly violet plain. Where goes he? And the beard Specked too with white ecks. Where goes he? One of the Magus whom is blessed by having journey, one who rakes The at frost. Go to him, inside his head. Find A particular shelter in his going on himself, for what plans For favors could he have in doing this, a winter storm? He favors His right leg. Holds the pain in dominion to still it out of aggression, Which would have been, if the left leg ignored merely. The spasm Of a cleft muscle buckles him at the hamstrings. He hunkers, Makes a little re out in the wide, white place. How must he grapple upon receiving one tough question After another, from his heart; how must he wish to leave this Spacious brokenness, seeing his own; how meandering the slate Of these conditions; how marvelous the head between dusky, Red ears, hovering over that single light!

: go!
Dismal, what you all have enthusiastically done So far, to bless the route with your own padding Feet, each step to shake in your eyes, you all, there An oughting of the dust itself to revelatory command At the impact of your feet upon a ground that is itself, To you, and this you recognize, a crust all over the planet The planet, more supernal than any desire, and more You grasp, yet with your hands instead to heavens, feet at And you still, and this still less, much less, than what My hands have grown like trees already down; When reaching plains have wrought me nothing here, From there, and yet impose upon direction and the psyche With a wile more than ngers, your nubs at best a bush; Have never wrought more than what a thought Could fetch. I should have made a di!erent planet, One less grand. I should have made The mountain-span a mind.

: this pome is called monstr

Compelled upon the license given him The monster then expressed a seething for His maker, doled a pain there, for swift release To be at the end of all rages under the sun For that was all he gave that was enough To clarify for daft gods in his head, and Nod to some weaker sense of feeling so Within there, to be a stronger load of pain And useless as the serum for the well that only Chaos would make shrift of, to the task I, the Monster, made complaints: to suit a merry mask And wreak a split, I turning the remotest key Into atoms, hear the tinny churn, queasily Erect a minute, mar it, dwell in marred salute for that, Yet favor strikes of everything but result: couldst A ower in sun, for seeing honesty in him forgiven, Give that, to whom brave existence in shacks And live hu!ed-nosed under the brim of hats? Hats? Am I the ower in sun, or am I a sack Of shit? So the key of atoms escaped us in again.

: orchards
In the words of the perpetuum mobile What copulation ist, spreads a linkless ood? What could the orchard create without seeds Nor source? Am, am damnable human. I make No place to place my placeless, linkless, then. I shove a retrospect into what lives commit To as place, after all no place, all seeds folly. Andlooking backa jettison for the guration To murder, after all, beyond regret, and I Live reliquaries now. Best to get back to present. Give me apples to work with, something a Little further made. Color it with zeal. Peachy Keen. I push and push my memory. What Detours could tell me to stop, before I spot The road to the farm downstairs, caught luckily In synthesis: a clear frame for the chu"ng ambiguity, Held strained from my head like water, this Strange, delicate place where the head stops Turning back to seeds at the beginning of time, And makes the fruit the steam o! boiling memory, But no such link to causa prima, more causa sui, Deranged and slow, the paths to the orchard Raining pale, refractory appleseeds up to the sky, Initiator, like the turning of us along the path, Yet to the detriment of natures rm rules for The sake of bawling grounds the beginning of time, To be swept as though by a powerful hand by The cosmos, our perceptions feast headlong Thrown like silly comets to a better seeing maw While the normalcy in retrospect we obey From earth, though it much express a bit of tooth Chipped o! at the Good Fucking Lords rst Bite into sounds of something further made, singular, Not the apocalyptic innitudes of possibility that Make us after all hate a present whose Mundaneness oats over the unthawed glance A wizened gizzard made at me on the bus, while Whittling away at some wooden pick or straw Saying a saw about his tired hump. He was doing What we shall do, once the time comes to reect On the times spent, since they are mostly life And what it is to one, at this point. We, rescuing the Flood, taking our thumbs to one and every drop

Like a sponge. Rescued the lucent water from The bobbing prison headlights as the reverse-rain Broke yet another spastic unsaid, the sky giving It its chemical spindles of memory, like noxiousness Emitting from a spilled beaker. Some tosser of a Physical impossibility would always break something. The orchard rests in peace, and strings adorn This grave of apples, the bough thin, the weather Weak and cold to waken thwarted sensing, or something.

: swell encounters [with the french]

Champagne-soaked cigarette Left to dry overnight. Children embracing A stoplight pole, chiding father. Lost dreams about palliative thinking, what Gets us comfortable, our thought-bias. But that Passed when I woke as I said. Something about Onanist thinking too as a term, to imply having The opposite e!ect, as if objective, unleaning Thinking were a preventative measure To keep the thought from impregnation. Stinking socks? No bag to put them in Either, all this laundry. Shit gets soggy. Mysterious, nameless girl I Approached on the train. She knew my Thoughts, lent me a light. Graceful, Knowing hands, too. Fat pigeons Disturbed on the sandy avenue du Champs-Elysees. This triumph has no Arc, no mind gathers it; a vacancy which I prefer. As mindless as the name for That girl? Known briey. I have my head Nodding o! past my stop, that is all. And Things I cant pay for. Shadow of A great time. Yeah, gimme a break With that one. Im in Paris, for godsakes! Went to bed on New Years, too drunk, At 9:30 a.m. Didnt know how Id pay For my hotel room. Smoking on the porch Or rather trellis or something, stone escarpment With owers. I still dont know if this room

Is smoking or non-. Listening to random Songs before my battery runs out. My shoes Ragged? With some mustard-colored Stain on them from Indian food. A man smoking meditatively, probably French. These people know something I dont, I say. Immured within this place gladly I am. On an eloping with myself. I Smoked that cigarette later. Felt French; Wasnt. At least, mostly; I think down The line I was, once, though. Calling About my funds when its raining, customer Service inept. Lost in the Cemetery Montparnasse Trying to nd Beckett. Some woman Asks me about Famous Americans in French When I just wanted directions. Getting drunk O! the booze in the mini-fridge. Ill Always remember that nameless girl I got The gall of asking for a drink. Tapped Her on the shoulder as she was walking away; Later, fapped alone in hotel room? Am I Peevish, or are the people I call peevish, like, Like the French dude in modern glasses Who was very nice, really the ones? Meditating uselessly. Trying to see value, I Escape bounds from anyplace till my moms Credit card bounces? Yes. Is money a place? Feeling rather on hallowed ground As the Ei!el Tower springs forth from the ground Like a giant abstraction, a simple, gargantuan Form on New Years. That girl though She said she was a dentist. Just nished School. I want to write Till the music runs out.

: lines written outside of bradley airport, ct

Like swearing on an anonymous grave, These vows at any time would never care To whom the risk of injure went; and so As such, I straddle doubt with what I am So sure enough to say in its entirety, without A blink at the usual oundering emptiness as Pushes into everything I say. Well, indeed, I Meant it to a grave, my own. And even then, I was still hopeless, to concede, to gure Whether I would pass the test: I knew From pain a wiser emptiness than just Hiccups though: ringing doubt into whorls Of my ears, something not a spasm but Deliberate as sound to focus on so sure What I believe, that naught and naught And naught would be the same if left Of you was only some rare emotive knot Only, some sulfur aborted in the mud and Never kindled, And no ame to light me up that void in my Eye, wherein I think I know nothingwhen In those quick moments I would know it best, If only reexive, like a muscles sad refusal to Go down in dins of multiple vows for some Useless corpse of meaning I had made More than the callow I assumed I was, And bravely I killed o! all resentment

And lulled an eye of surety on that imaginary ame, And heard the sounds my old ears had Disposed in youth to hear and feel the Freshest: that abstract, sunny erstwhile Of the yet-developed minds complexly Gnawing doubt as something to take with Me through my maturity, nd the muscle Fresh as all young sensing of the right, And never even knowledge of the wrong. And with this vow I keep my painted heart As young as when I started and then swung Expressions, meaning amoral youth, when Is the game an only grit of consciousness, And essentia as I truly am, if I pass, to never Go beneath the dirt, where I am sense And beauty something to depend on youth, If I can be serenely rightfor always and All ways to know your truth as true as mine

: this is what is the freckle behind his ear

Out where I laid an ending thought, Corresponded the blade or shaft, in that room Of a snouts courage, in - unsure The freckled lights freckled paw. That mingled less, on down the wicker Walls [?] as all was a weave, elongated By a long hunch Or shrug of big, at seconds: this fades As this light will, in an e!ort to spread Billows forthwith, as lesser hues come, Especially neglected the objects Toward the center of the room, This. A famous Roaming, this knwn thruout the world, The suns intrepidity, suns path, illuminating w Powerful re and neglecting, then again coming; And made a - right wager for the mending bark As much it could, and worthy, sturdy as a Compass to tell only the point xed beneath Your feet as if it were direction from and to, In other words, clear as there : parallel what? Dimen -sions . many too, tho too hurdle-like The hurdles. Blown apart anything coming, Warning. As it does. Densities fall mostly to garbles But yet a kind of width of control is them and a controlled Declension can be -come them, but then well I would say that is Kerosene gambled over with a match . but, on To the faster corrosion of the plank at sea that Is a lm of algae, a helping oer my thin ribs Like vaseline, amidst I tell the way away from A colony, vasty screen of color, of coral, somewheres Vanishing, probably; remark, this is not the transience I signed up for . hah . roast the kill, hes already embarrassed

Himself to death, prob., abbv., ah well dont Then, see if I care !! doo-doo you: you got that ?? So then, predict the fable then, yo, rsomething. Then You are onto it. Get out. Before DEATH arrives. Blend Caves unblanched By sun , deeper to the deep-set guts, blend All of their number into something that means something Hidden; something that indeed caves, unless a secret And so then hideously guarded, but that caves them in Internally. Roast the kill, matter of fact. That is, before any Of that happens. Plow the victim of all herein like A mechanism. Ideas = danger. Friendly bully, for you Gave him the gift you punish him for Seeing as a gift, and using well. And yet, for one clears a way For us, yet that only need one: Unity and questions About it: whoopee: chew The placative nitrate: but really I want the words to be you, and you And you What if all power is in - right Conniption. Signi-cant feats Of diapsalmata, Broken smells of the fragrant towels Aloft and to look loose, oaty Even on the silent chaos of the tile Floor. WELL they are on the way To being smelled, arent they: could, Could interruptions Flow as clearly as - in a world of personication The reality holds up wherein a freckles Dismay is clear and worded in the head of The freckle, mine maybe, someone elses, well: Dismay of the very smart freckle, owing freely As a mind accepting and even examining, prodding Interruptions thru an abstract, cranial microscope:

O to be in lacking accordance with the rest : being Behind their mates ear : now that I think about it : So much, so very much want - to tattoo itself Onto the oor of my skull Like something you give To remind you why you gave all back . . To reasons ogre?, I say to todays special: Omnipresent voices. No, just Wonky yet fastidious blnk pages, rather-Articles all sanctimonious removing The clothing of a crime, sometimes, Or - useless horrible thing that happened, but that Just makes everybody cry big and gloppy tears The size of monstrous subtext, nearly that of common sense, And we get sad at overweight mothers of seven And poets like me tear them apart like this But anything to ll the blank page, carefully w intention placed In the garb of a prodding want. Bummy grapevine-hearer. No sense to consequence, you, say somebody to Somebody else: hell if know, if I know, sorry, corn Stuck in my teeth, dooh. All duty to do, therein Lays then at the whims of a limp grasp From that other, whom is still less thick than who would Say you didnt hold life as real as ever, grit and all, hah, No common sense, laughable, thinks other, then he thinks he Should march on thickets, nd blobby ectoplasm For some Cambodian infants food: faceless horror, So frequent, it all blends: well: problematic, not atypical Either : but who wouldnt : or say other to himself, Calmly and insanely : I should I guess Hear thick whistlers land a blemish again On the cavity, ah, again, so get ready to wince, say Ah: ouh: Ouh!: le this under LIFES ARC . and it wasnt Safe to be around me, bc I glare at you like life taken Spoonful by spoonful of - morphine - to glue me To gasping, my gullet to some amphibiousness glued That I mistake for a mirror. That is what I cant stomach

: ideal from the packet of anarchist

Cloven by the light an aether brings itself despite around you In loops, and hinted aureoles are then all I can speak, and Yet to say that is what is about you is not but for picture Of its experience to trace di!erently, and is not as what her Face is herself sans comparison at all that which in stillness Is enhanced by these her glowing strands betraying my tongue To ooze out aureole at best, and just as much any anarchists Ideal couldnt lock you in my eye clearly, and though the wild Feeling wages more war then than by comparison couldnt pluck A stack of papers draft a mandate for its purpose, and Working along with peripheries of sun still not nearly drum Out of any existence what vision I could see of her to blur This reality out of the real, and liminal images like this One anyway but a sketch of her glowing but a rare sketch made With judicious strokes that say themselves as best they can Out of control, and the scene of her face the same toil for The souls anarchy itself to relish in having pumped through My veins as all of it unprejudiced to reach that delta the Spectacular, and which in you are more than halos only, and Are more in what I look perhaps, and see you are, and is still Default to some inaccuracy, and is nonetheless what I can try To t here properly, and tell you honestly at least though my Language poor of an exceedingly gentle scope to that pale face Dragged to life by some outside strands of hair refracting sun A few but long each, and hovering o! your dark head singly Strike o! from the dip you bring your baleful head to in Chin to neck with a force that even in this crooked shape Still this image takes a member of the muse still, and Loops your head in those few little strands so that your Beauty draws itself in them, and is a toll of pleasure for The sun to give you that in his work, and in soporic Leagues imagines not but to clearer spend on you what Everything is, and by sight an ankle or a dismissing Naked back to the other room, and a smile as crooked as

Any shape for poems. What can happen is though it be Figurative, and once being, and seen makes us go on To speculate as to the divide between what hyperbolic Imagery roused by what moreover pure but disorderly Experience, and if whether possibles create of this A phenomenon, and a phenomenon at that that makes Us dream in the sweat of possibles till all of them Are fed up with being how they should in place of Where they end in imagery, and we thinking an eventual Collaboration of none less than the wicked stars to State the end a few yards back from where wed all Taken to stop, and pointing a nger like a gun ahead to Aim at a distant certainty stie a howl in our throat.

: the human comedy

It was tonight others in my head made a tree branch slam Into my face, Rilke this time, telling me he had liked my recent Poem. I said, Youre not real, and ran quite punctually then Through the branch of a tree looming over from the park. It was then: I examined the other, a voice, saw words of dusk Reveal a nature more elaborate, a kind of divine cognizance even, something That told me to write down my remembrance of this past, a dirigible, That told me to tell you what I had seen much of in but units. For a time. Thats the predilection of any vision. It dismisses the Ephemeral though, prefers to concretely say what it wishes to, Prefers the corners of mind to say it though. I have my wishes, Dreamily, coughing out expressively, an old man in his chair. But whose wishes are mine and whose are inserted: well, tough Question. Id know. Id have to answer it myself before some sorta Inated conundrum burdens me: obstacles thinning my hair: rough Screams: that take my blight from guts to air, to reign in place. So I sit here now, typing out my region for to hassle the stars. They have lifted me to them and thrown me o!, best then to leave My abrasive, spindly life: but I wont: Id do well to beast the rush and Make Shelley like me: hes the star-beast, the one aglow in rage. And so, you see: these visitors trouble me. They quake with what

They expect the living to understand; when I dont, make a chain Of approximates, each one more wrong, out of inferred bad blood: A fool they take me for: The Tsetse, spoke as well to me. I was listening to Radiohead and had my own medium there, in The songlyrics. He seemed an anthropomorphous gurine, wet Lips, soggy sayings, a beetles voice telling me where hell got one, He who bashed his brains into words with sco"ng, peculiar generals. What rots the insides? Love for art surely. But enough of that. I sent of course myself throughout with little heeding to a place And drew memory like an agate of silk bled out, from my head, And considered muse: therein, my happiness in check, I lived her out. There demands brought on I saw pink owers in spring bloom On the hospital walls. Had woken up to a tranquil breeze from an Open window on the right. There was a pain at both my sides, Soon after I was told not to get up. I spent my nights in pain. A few weeks and I was taken to a psych hospital. But then, the Memory fades, as if suppressed, subverting that terror out of need, Blocking it out to the farthest side, near the temples, whence they Burn. I remember scales on the silk now merely, sadly. So let us start over: Shakespeare a hooded gure in the corner: Joyce speaking his pedagogue, trivia: telling me to never read A bible not your own, lad: thats wherefore the focus comes, in A dream of terror, not the terror itself, a separation, paring nails. Hart Crane was disappointed I didnt use his fame sooner, his name Sooner, him hungering for poetic immortality in such a way as to Appear sheepish, but aggressively, innocently rapping on my life With persistence, as his words have always done to make abashed. Let that be all I say. I have no energy left, my esh sits on my bones And my head makes a racket. I have driven out a loose bit of silk, Sketches, dooms, personal tribulations, pluralities, before. My head is No better for it, nor worse, is at least painful as the bruises I squeeze. Let these ghosts speak myself to me, and prove a sake for my own, My own reminiscence sing, briey sing, briey traipse the scales. Briey I tell you briey, let me end a looking backward, I have a mind to chuck For all these histories that circle their pithy forms round the carnival of life. I have a mind to dream up a nothing, make it a truth, truth doesnt need To be something that exists to be true: but would it remain the nothing

Id had before I dreamed it: thats a truer nothing than the concept Itself, the ontical trait of nothing, undened, its shadow dened. That is, the clearer nothing is anticipatory, is a bootleg once the border Into a guration is crossed, or a shape of it made in the mind, so, then, It is always eeting o!, because it is before the rst cause, since There is no logical way to gure whats before a rst cause. Without putting it in a context whenas the shape loses out, the truth Behind the contradiction, that is, and the value of the statement in terse Becomes redundant. We can remark on nothing because it doesnt Exist, and if it did would see it not as what it is, once given words. As it can be anything, and retains the possibility of what it is, because It is as permanent a void as anything that is, is as permanent as what is And balances with the power of life to procure a sort of omniscience, A technical incision of nothing made into each thing as a member too. Of that. Nothing gives us the chance to be applicable people to the Highest grade of existence, we are realest, we are not dust until we Are dust and even that is more than nothing. But we see the lacking in Individual things, that lacking of relation to all; that is the relation to all. So then my contradiction su"ces to explain a nothing, since it cannot Be understood logically, what is before a rst cause, that is, somewhat Like the inverse of Stevens-GODs nal embellishment, that it is Impossible, besides as an explanation that is as impossible. Take me. Take me there, before life named life, even that point Id be ne with Knowing and would be a useful approximate for nothing, for I saw the, Or a, nothing once, made myself see more than I could have bargained For, and wonder now, perhaps thats why these visitors come.

: thing-things
The daily obstruction that is The day itself. Well. Some notion hidden-By an enemy, stashed like tools for some Ambiguous prot, or revelation, teases the Idea of nattiness, without being natty, fully: thoughtballoon into missive it goes: it goes then is Delayed, made tons upon tons of balloons Into the thoughtless air: to consider what is missing Is about the same as considering wind sans air, Which it needs: thus, a nameless thing-thing that Is wrong, we say, cannot be without some Ocean of rightness beneath, delayed like an ablution Missing, cornered by the hairy nits of character we Do not usurp: this leaves us all a barren will and Jugular hits us there, guttural, a bled state, that We in unknown travelings of mind denote so As to better pilot the burst vein, a breathing opening Committed to space out of existing and back To the point that really does, is something Like a heart attack, but more copiously spread like Ladled au jus over the big steak, the big nits That comb out of us, the day-by-day till then is-Something of a command for us to live, despite being Within All the while these bloody notions, these distorting hues Of better, better, better make a mess of my hairstyle, A breaking of the blood made follicles of ether-ideal, Because there is something else, A spherical black shape along the ground, amidst Bland orange and a wispy, muddled beachs yellow sand, That is not included in what made us work, after all, To just paint the sea. We feel the mellow froth And, seen once, hold close the picture in our minds, Wish a perfect symmetry and nd that too, to test What careful eye of strange reality that is realitys perceiving

Of us, who look on and quickly renege to the black sphere, To what is more the realer shape, observed, But not at rst. In this WORLD of ours we see there is much to be had. Whether all the thoughts come forth is not for me to know nor to nd out, not for anybody to. But in this head there is an upsurge that can no longer take the knots, in his chest. Each in his own terror, I suppose; each in what the libertine commands to breath, blink when, blink forth. And in The erce a lowering sound revolves And in these chambers I have writ a space That columns break in timbers on the rail of the sound Each column a whispering tree, wind blowing To the clapping of branches; of timber strewn by Sharpening bears. On the path A rail, from a birds eye; far enough out, All curvatures seem to straighten. Try To break all three in chasm grace That lingers, stubbornly, vault as space in darkness pale With desiccation, twisted by the wrath; throw it though Of darkened embers vault it. The suns that, Too, a veritable matrix Of the heart, its soul a limned conclusion The soul leaves squared, quartered down way At the edge of this deep cli! From three booms my heart has vanished, The place of triple-thrust, so then to each I say tricks That mingle motley With some summed profusion The paths take: in their meaning for the spi! Of my design, each word a soul to bind A manner for the level of my soul Far, far this time: The aether blows, this, This dark, hymns of The ame, the white rancour

Made the chasm in the Chest, made the fumes Way, made the Way thru thorn again, wam-bang Back to rose, made all threatening Out of a yonder. Softness. Of The cheek. Far wonders wander That place, In Autumn, the sky red as the Leaves, now stoked to dawn as we in the car driving Silently to a place, by nightfall to have gotten, once last light Dimmed out and marble shafts No longer freaked the whorls of muddy atmosphere : the sky Wind, insistently like a clamorer Commenced and dropped at the site of the graveyard. Much Had been done to plan it through, derive a thought From the hassle, make due, Tell misery to o! itself like that hanged man with it Who was no less normal than anybody, Who lived and died himself as not himself some such that Nobody could get him out of it. The alienation was a Familiar touch. The church bell o! in the distance, What fortuitous rupture in the evening melee perchance that Would crack out of sound straight to the minds lobe Through the ear, though so far away?, clang, clang, seizes The ear : the great sphere to speak and then passed in a city, While I think of this hours after as we Arrive to unearth the man from straddled beneath Two deaths, alive in being that he had always been dead, Since not himself but by experience himself, Even while alive, had seen his heart stop, felt no pang, Just a blind caginess in the receptors, lost to nally Mean what his mind had always hinted at. I think of this. And grab Us two the shovels, hearing everywhere that clang Throughout the city he left, This faint milk your brain remembers thru to there, 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 o! 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 nd 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

: the reasonable muse

Master against this. I have not a drams forbearance To get me to stie my gorge before the dust kicks up Around my cachoos in the silence, in reality A chugging train full of crickets, the last terminal a Terminus my Bored brain salutes: or will: train the train to train Down a complicit entryway: see it in snips OF white musics lapping like mauve on a Shore: brighten the commensurate plot, a sanity, And nd, and you do not derail: kiss the ass of Positives, make demands like this, really Demands for yourself to follow: slice the Truth: make a bowl of truth and put it on Your table for guests: say, this is the stu! I made, I hope you like it, its a bit fruity, But after alls so every punch: theyll drink It, maybe yak up a glandular missive complete With pulpit-pounding aggrandizements Of their own Lords, just to Strike your yammering from the record . . . But dont see this as anything so bad, just Another mountaintop to climb, another Bad obstacles redundant badness that Any trains kilter draws into, once in awhile: Dont fuck the train, you just did, Its too big, could rail You like a line of supremest blow, white as Music, snortables: drugs: cacophony, and An eccentric symbol that, odd enough that People might then want The punchy bowl of truth more if cocaines Mixed in: but you have lines of it on the table, An obvious shenanigan: alright, Already: what happened to

Those demands you were talking about, are They nothing to you: have you followed through With any of them: I am tired, need nap, dismiss The rotten o!-kilter, will upturn the bowl, will Look everywhere in my house for the truth, but Probably wont nd it: if only maybe I scrolled Up a few lines to see what those demands were With my broken eyes: broken rivers, broken, Damned carnivorous meanings, eating the Leftovers of my jumpy self: hes gone, the thought IS, and remains, and delectable as punch, An image, an image as the idea of an image, The image a Smooth white porcelain line, A drama of statements and bless-yous, To x up the great creative sneeze, this: Ask next time, you, before you just Jump onto the muse: dont plough the muse: Be a sleek train, but not sleek like lines of yak: OR was that vomit: common colloquialism For blow, coke, beautiful drugs to sane up the mind With misty mistresses, dames of truth, but Not the truth: MRs Reason misses reason, The male blowhard though approximate and rough Closer to the logic-target: but get rid of knotty Not and replace it with nothing, that is, just make it A positive experience: ah, theres the demands Again: good to see you: good to see you too, Muse: Youre welcome, he says, coughing, And I aint a dame. Crickets.

: depth as predicament
KEEP ME NOW AND EVER IN GOOD STEAD
Father, dreamt I of you as being a child once. The locust-heat Humming behind those drab glasses, looking at a poem of mine, I the arbiter in the little manor where we lived Awhile. An evil saturation persists like humidity In recalling it: some smell of electricity In the wake of heatstorm. As I remember the place, think of it deep Into the night to the rhythm of the crickets. The cicadas too were audible There. The way the dream started, see, you were reading a thing I wrote, had pridetherein the wounded eye, staring upon a salience, Or, just a knot of words, a few words or so: kneading your shirts cu!buttons The while. You retrieved a solipsism in that empty place, that manor Of the mind: resolute a thunder trailing quick over landscape Vacant as moon, and dreaming likewise of me, the son of you, And yet I see with tenderness your child-mind, have if you Like, a poem for you, a new place for the thunder, I think, A new place for the marker between us, like a sort of beacon, Flashing instabilities into the contrary night I think in again. Yourself the child, a man of mine, descriptor of the free. The child is an image, these words the descriptor, you the Free. Tell him, man, that you have played games with Locusts, have cornered them beneath your eyes, an orb Of hurt; have dreamed me too the maker of your child-mind, And wish me well to place you in the place where you are Born from me: a plumb-i-the-uprights kind of guy: a seam To connect the seams diligence, reasoning-hygiene, might Mistake for needing cleaning. The big house, there, you Trail a divining rod made of birch through the thunder in a Garden, feet clopping happily on the cobblestone of a path Through, t with dead leaves, leaves full of children to Master a riposte, a keen eye for a dead hand, quid pro quo,

Yes or no, just to hear some silence from the lambs of Innocence, I also looking on as father on the words I wrote, Amidst a darkening storm in the corners of the sky, a ash Here, will-o-the-wisp of some design for locusts of the pain, While manors matter much to the spoken grunts of reason To roll up like dirt under the ngers into contiguity, you Playing in the mud after all, as it rains, gets muddier, you Child, setting once a left hand for the priest into the window Nearly severing all the nerves, nearly rendering it useless. That actually happened. My father, he was asked to open The window into the classroom for recess, and his left hand Went straight through the glass. I hope I am not so lamed. He was catholic. He went to a Catholic school. The nuns Put pressure on the wound. And I hope Your stain on the eye, a wounded eye behind Two frames of glass, responds to these words you read. Sees himself the child again in big manors of the mind, Dashing into stormclouds pridefully, having pride in what I create of you for you, and naught but I the bezel at the Tip, for you to chisel in your own remarks on youth with Your mind, my mind now wakened to the berms of sky-That ll the manor with impertinent locusts through the Glass, as my left hand shoots into the glass of strange Weeping coagulated sti! at the beauty of a playing child in storms, you, I, reading the words of child-mind, tenderly received.

You speak of your father in abstract terms you Are not speaking of your father, at least in poems. They, poems, make of priests Their own delicate concretion to assail, be Assailed, by the interpreters of sayers, as if to soothe Climates of ambivalence regarding what is writ. And if, in the hosing-down of meaning you-Grace the spectacle with a few minutes of ba#ing The climatethat isa timely, pale, imaginative, Grim about the mouth, Meditative spree of words for the junkard Dissolves you in proliferations of it, Down, creeping the man up, into a place Where his hairy head blooms like A space where who the man is is, sitting In a chair, talking of being bullied

And how the play isnt going well, sitting In the chair in your room. He takes ngers To some stickiness about his mouth, contemplatively, Probably a grim, physiological remark On the smell your room has, hu!ed with cigarettes As much you do them, him no priest of rooms-For the hosing-down, only himself, proliferating, Eyes no longer aghast but drenched in the pale time.

A LANDSCAPE AS VACANT AS THE MOON

Well, As of late, let me just say the poetic animus Isnt so easily captured: it demurs, it Sometimes croaks out at the moment I would have Decided to write something. I nd myself easily in the poems I read, I nestle there, like a sun in clouds, I remark On the shades thereof in my mind and know Then that each bristle of a one is in that Aether still, is merely theory, a theory of Circulation and redemption, of timelessness and The relief of that despite transitoriness: the Relief of being timeless, really, and a steady Hand, steady will: the poets I nd myself remarking On in bristles, pocks and pecks: Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane, T.S. Eliot, the modernists, imagists, so on. But the Romantics get me gutturalespecially Shelley: Prometheus Unbound is a monument to keep The man, who apparently was most humane and Kind, despite the fact he left his wife and family In lurch: Wordsworth matters to me so far for TINTERN ABBEY, which I think is one of the most Beautiful and readable poems in the language. Keats HYPERION too; the questioning eyes of Moneta On her poet, and of his creations sternly, Will always stir my heart to a stillness of the body, As though again thought lifted itself up in That subliminal remark, those consciousness Feeds, that naught imprisons but sets apace to Make the laws of very nature stand on

Their head. To me there is always a chronology and a way that Things sync up throughout the lineage of poesy. But, thats all well and good. I guess I would like To learn to think in verse, try and nd a way to limit Myself enough, askesis, in order to get beyond Limitations I would have had had I not done that. The WORLDs an endless circumference, and whatever I remark or fail to remark on might just get me to a place Where I can. I think the work Ive done since I handed You that manuscript so very long ago (do you Remember? Maybe not) has elements of something Transcendent. So I send a poem or two here, speaking To the void of cyberspace, hoping for a returning Glance. That has always been me: ranting, ranting To a void. I am but a waif, at least as of now. Somewhat tragic, Mostly beautiful; similar to KEATS tragic acceptance Of what cannot be done, an ailment of Romanticism But also a strength if used for the sake of controlling Ones daemon.

Why will I not seem freed of seeming forced? What punctual Nature ist, that in time I lope between to somewhere else, A charming turn, but for the better? I let things stall me. I do. And I cannot hope this to be any better than anything else. And how is it that these shapeless matters bend, like lifted things, Accepting the partition and betrayal of hemispheres, that once They locked, were more than burdensome? Devices splayed Beneath my feet like locked birds. Given, some e!ort must Have got me to the place where where I had been got me where I was. But now, these seem like empty pardons for an imminent Death, an absolute societys degrading in himself, for godsakes, He says to himself, I do, I say, I say I do, some dusty franchise In the bones. What makes it better then than now? How in perspective We lie to ourselves: but now I seem a minister at pulpit, pity me, I beg, I beg with all my ignorance pity,
martyring the mask with tears streaming as if we gave up cosmos the men we come to know ourselves as meaning to be bless themselves the sudden abrupt epiphany talking from the crypt as if anything dead to begin with mourning the loss of someone or other

temerity forges in testing the grounds more something like dignity given for oneself never greater than this feeling when to have no special wraith upon thy dreams anymore each night , and never the slid ooze out of the mind could truly dene your solid state could make the wheels in turning recognize the turning sense of one himself to himself and still we feel ourselves the martyr despite the grandest of reckonings , that we have lost none but in fact gained all , gained what never the doubt and doom could touch , I suppose its about seeing oneself fully in the light , but it is enough it remain a subtlest prophecy to me to understand parts of , the parts of the sense of a man and his assertions , and I suppose whats lost is condence , knowing the bane of assumption , but this is humility , emotional humility . No mask robs someone truths in what theyre feeling if even they never took it o! were ignorant of it yes this is a sad case

Well, To bring oneself into the realm Of understanding a poem, requires A needed mist, a veil indeed, a way of inference The brain strikes out of to the rst light it nds. But who's to say, the connection was made, Though it is there: this is what I mean by being Plagued by Pound. His is a poetry of solidness, A fragmentary voice, contradiction!, many voices, displayed Not as a belching out the res of historys warfare, But a record, somewhat like a deep thrumming sound. A pulse for it. It is evidence. Theres mistiness To what he does, as The Cantos proves, hes Hard to understand. But there is no ascension Into his own fractured light, because the chronicle Makes this too much an object for art form, as Opposed to a needed shape to discuss the Confusions of prophecy, he reaches through The mist as an act of deance against what founded Makeups make up of what we meant, as things having The ability to be pinpointed clearly but Still abstract. History is scattered, But the higher notion in the logical leaps of faith Isnt, and this is his strength. As an act itself, However, an act of freedomthat What a poem can mean can be many things

Not objects, yet the rst light an object like the rest, the First inferential. Poetry can only be an inferential, Full of symbols, so who's to say the found Is where: expressing this as a logical border, and The grief of this inconsistency, nearly Transcends the inconsistency, but youd have To be quite subtle about words conscious Of themselves to do it right. The mist, guration, Remains, which is why poetry is in pieces, Suites, fragments glinting through fog and not Able to be told far o! nor close. But perpetually Proving this irascible limit, and also remarking On the limits of modern free verse, while You write the verse, is such a thing that eats Itself, you are an example of what you prove Which is contrary, since the substance Is in a lack of contiguity. How to prove Shapelessness with shapelessness: make a simple Shape, a circular, elliptical one, that never Falters, almost the only found there could be Anyway. That is the nature of the limit, which Is why it works, that thoughts turn back on Themselves. To have the thought in turning back on itself Express the woeful jumble of thoughts, lights, Removed from immediate seeing through the Fog, in other words, what you lose in the ellipsis, Makes the Whole Piece as I describe it an elegy For sense. That if the same fragmented reasoning Is employed for each point, that is a contiguousness Quite strong. After time and patience, the way I am wrong is reected in the declension or Behavior of the words. The only thing fragmented About it is the structure of sense, after awhile, As opposed to what this is proving, which in the Manner of this synecdochal excursion is quite Permanent, by at the same point Moving on to another, that is, perhaps, to express In a bit more concrete a way, a metaphor as diction, that is, Something to be seen as the produced contours of sense In a ripple. But perhaps not concrete sense, which through the fog Would be too bright a light to not dissipate the fog completely

And leave the poem in the blatant obvious. Pounds Problem was that he made the fragmentariness Blatant, as I said, an object for an art form, as opposed To a philosophy in the daunt of applications Throughout the shadowed halls of reasons house, Pristine universes dont exist. And to make a found out Of something so oblique is foolish. The Romantics Chinked a piece from the whole, the moderns Discarded the ideal of the whole; so then, all thats Left is, regain the ideal of the whole but discard The whole at least in terms of its perceived Objectivity and absoluteness. Make a whole a fragment, Innitely speaking theres always a circumference Beyond anyway, and thats crucial to get: make the Circumference we inhabit found in a di!erent context Than of something to lament as being only mocking What we will never have in never entering the Circumference afterwards, a wonderful ellipsis Of death, but rather the fragment itself a use most Useful, an expression of the everyday bits and pieces We peck together, new seeds, old seeds, ever realer, that. Discover the humane necessitous in raging for order, And going farther o! into ones own myth Of order, not an order that is but The rst one apprehended through the fogs, mists, Of ideal and guration, and lunacy.
the portals drastic. the gnosis or Lucretian swerve in the mind as to ones own sense of person, being an individual smallness. the ephebe conditions his heart to some aggregate of life made of all of his life as if it were every life, the private matter externalized, wrought slapdash and wickedly, as if penned in manacles, the frustration a shake of a su!ocated wrist, and this privileged to resonate with all who experience the product of one entering this sacrosanct, this chasm, this darkling zone. usually stoked, great poetry is aggressive, attempts to correct a feeling, bring it straight, which involves ephebe seeing precursor as not quite right, and valves open for theagonto place ELIOTs dreary outlook to inspire pathos, in a place of pathos without the drear; as in, an american epic, celebratory, dithyrambic. CRANE. and, and parking in a recess, the necessary angel tends the feeling like a ock of feelings to keep there, in that place there

of a deadening quiet everything that made you feel alive is compressed into those few hours and some of it never to return. but thats just my take on inspiration and the poetical a#atus if you will.

HARBINGER FOOL
A re broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. I think thats just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe its a joke." - - - Sren Kierkegaard The fool comes onstage in full regalia, painted Nose, oversized shoes. He tells them all that the World Is over. They applaud; he repeats with severity, Not A Thing Left To Do But Pray, People. The Worlds Coming to an end! The apocalypse! How ridiculous! The audience applauds, gu!aws, resolves into a maw Of cheers, shaking the ground more perhaps than crust Of the planet fracturing apart. Then the fool say, Outside Of this Tent The World is ash and gloom. We are doomed, He says, somewhat more serious, his head dipping Into shadow from the stagelights. What could have Made a di!erence no longer will get the chance. Say Goodbye to yourselves, say hello to dead loved ones When you get wherever. Me, Im going to nd a Safe spot, call up the family, tell them Im going to Go live on the moon, for you see the World is re And rubble as I said. A moment elapses, The audience, well: they boom with laughter and Throw roses at the fool until the moon falls smack Dab on the tent, promptly crushing everyone inside And everything and everyone for miles. The fool Gets on, having layered himself a niche in the moon Just the size of his body. For when it fell to get him, A giant spacecraft. But really he died with the rest, Dreamed with us all of the moon capturing us Away from this. That was the last gift to us, the Eternal simulation of a rescue, when were just Embedded in the ground like a crushed spider in the Carpet, by GOD, who then is left alone, in peace To make a new earth where people took life not so

For granted, salvage meaning from the fool even, make The quick disappearance of all life appear when it Happened a long separation, of each nger of each person, From their grip on the planet. By their cold dead hands, That seemed a better motto for the valuing of life Than guns. People on Earth had a tendency to Do that, enclose the heart in things less abashed, Or impractical, such as when holding each moment Close as a rearm. The blue creator, rugged roy, would Make sure this time to make people love the sky. The blue creator would start at the basics, The blue creator would make all men fools, And the World itself, more splendor than the Handsomest head, the mordant thought. The skill Of life, to this new people, would be just a love For a vastness never to be acquired, requited, Love back. Theyd know what sacrice had made Them, being each one not just the image but The soul of a creator, they the creation and place For the soul, a vamping clown to listen to for news. Since that is at its base what is most honorable To recognize. That we are each of our souls mere Players, clowns, to that which is so goddamned Hugely unassuming. The rugged roy would give up His post, leave this new World his/her/its better Expression, and most importantly, let the mountains Rather than religion, loom over us, for we are That newly generated people, I believe, the moon Fell long ago, I believe; the clown dreamed long ago. And we are just as paltry, though more than the Bluest creator. We are the relishing everyday as The last. Each day some fool, clown, in our heads Makes threats of apocalypse, but we do listen then, Do not indulge the clown our own wicked dream, That we know he is not true. O when that rst roy Made this called, Anxiety, the dream of thickheads In the dome, spitting brash the end of things again Through mutilated teeth. This was just the way The cosmos reminded us of insignicance, invisible Figurations, dull hints of doubt, unfull doubt enough To get going a whole berth of causality under your Feet, and all a dream: for we are still embedded: And dreaming, spidery pirouettes of thought enfold Us, take us to the moon. We carved a niche, eternity; And insignicance, the comfort of an unbelieving audience To the fervid gesticulations of our psyche with the painted

Nose. And its uttered words of doom, at least of doom. At least of something that is grand as doom. At least, We are the last members of this solar unit, hold that place. We tell ourselves. And at least we can be ourselvesday By dayby timeless minutes, that is: that is, before the joke, Anxiety, resolves itself again in gripping minds.

My day my superior day my solace-day Ill have, even While all the others trail out of sight. Id have that one, yes, And prefer it, anyway, even if afterwards I made a bowing from the stage, Made leave, mind full of hawking by the lenders beads: attesting Carnival-possibles, di!erent contexts for that Soon: Id go like smoke, like wind emitted, to my waif Backstage, with his lurid logic-counters to my self-hate, I breathing Them in and like the past, they are a blowing-out of rough cadavers, A place where reason lumps, outstrips itself, stripes itself lousily In inicted storm, while blowing still the audiences gibbering hands, In the wind a sayers contumely for his prophetical leave-taking, His scrawl upon the largesse, a masti! for some pages epistle o!stage, Telling the page to take it for the beads across a timely abacus That anks just right out the rest of life for the sake of some words To those as much aware of life as any dictators heelward up Into the ass is aware of that pain that shitty cranny of deceit, Regicide. I am made blind as Milton. Blind as bat old hat And grey trousers, a king mentioned here and there, made Gru! as wind, and slower than terrapin: only a musky beak to digest Algae. Go, page, Ill be the algae-gulping. Ill be the state of things, You tell me about the boos of after-day. When I have gone Myself meaningless: sacriced for the sake of lakes: at bottom I will Have remained pious, a meticulous devotee to Meaning: Ill be shelling out my beads of time, to dictate solaces Like this, by time, by abacus, by the shedding of another, And another bead, another brainy self, another bang to wig out Smoky blight of bigwigs, whimsical, ciggie-heaving people watching Stages, watching people bow out, bowling over with laughter as I fume With my cleric, telling him what is theirs to do, I the nubile priest To break the silence in my head, the result of criticisms deafening Howls blocking fucking thinking in the head with nausea-With laughter: me merely standing, him waiting for my stage Onstage to end, waiting for the audible pretense to nish itself: Then rave I will to them, a dictator-turnaround, the Audience an audience of tartu!es and lickspittles, And him the only member of the truth behind his own gagged,

Unremitting howling of the hell of my foot, distinctly up the ass of abacus, And yet thisabashed onedictator? No I am the dictator, he the page, Merely, a sayer, for the sway of august sense, logic-serious, and, And demanding address. A speechmaker, for wires Of people, who will live on into their wiry old days of old age, while this, Me, a man with his diligent scribe, awaiting to or to have already told, Performs what the scribe has set him to do, or Merely recorded what he has: for when that last day comes, The last speech, or monologue, the last viable ham, and then a look, A death, or, a look on death, and living still. This is, was my Desperate choice made, after all, and locks the watchers in: in Silence. They are, remain quiet until the end of the mind, A mere performance, for the jellied fables to induce As cataclysm: which the waif, page, scribe has written as Memoriam: and ending one at that, leaves The fate of gawkers, watchers, audience-people, to be One of dragging days, and on, to suit their cowardice in refusing Anything but what could be a bit, plane-food, complimentary peanut, A lonely lacking, and no piquant clown thereof to be chained anymore In chambers, anymore, to their laughter, anymore.

AFTER THIS SO BECAUSE OF THIS

some dead angel decided it would in three places encompass the life ofone who smokes, he guessed: but it was no sort of decision: deliberate as fuckin hell, in fact. The encompassment went this way. Just once on the ground, an angel then; once in the mind, and again with one other, a girl, that time the happiest; and the bleakest one in the head; on the ground a fumble, it hadnt meant to cause as much pain as it did: still by the dregs of that memory of falling the one who smokes feeds himself: for the brightest of the split angel got lost because of that: the angel in his mind, a dark one, came about as the result, later on, of that lost other: they all threeto the one who smokesweave still in and out of his life, via painstaking examining of memory, taking him to places where the whole angel dwells, his memorandum of words the representation of these three spots in his life:

apart, contextually: and which I, being the observer of this poor little man, for so long, cannot but help to think as somewhat a genius way to symbolize the very split of his special parts, and which hethe one who smokesviews vaguely the same as angels, an itch in the center of himself saying in ows worded that there is something more to why this happens, his poetry a slew of fragmented stu!, at times illustriously worded, at times paltry and at times humane, at times realest of real: he found this out one day, now, that is, and addressed us, up here: thinking himself for so long as not a test but a willful thing, a will an eventual purgative to bloom him: but he was, for the heavens: a test, that is: they wanted to see what a dead angel would look like if it was given autopsy: I can hear him laugh, and say: well, thats a bit grim, dont you think: sos the part when you jumped: fell: but who speaks now, to me: dont ask that question, dont: it is too fraught with meaning more than you and your ganders at the sky could weave with solitary blocks of phrase, redundant pilgrim: one too much, three the perfect human, that was the hypothesis: but dont go ruining it: your spines spoken enough of the ravel: your back is owering: Mr Frank, he guides Monstr: he tells him back to his place on the ground: when you jumped, before you could know you would lose wings, say Monstr: Mr Frank hushes me for now: hes a frank one, thats why this is for him: you need more time: for what: giant questions to reveal themselves in cloistered answers within the tired backs babbling up the throat as it owers: another for the memorandum, I suppose: another for Mr Frank to support, he seems kind of like a psychoanalyst: well, I guess he is the observer, somewhat of an observer: but Im not him: and the proper noun changes: I, he, but no we this time: that other left after the jump, as was supposed to happen: everybody on the planet learns about loss, some just not so cuttingly: well then, rest: but you seem to be able to notice me, speak to me, so I suppose I shouldnt label you a him as if you were

some kinda story to tell to the hoots upstairs: youre not a joke: youre the most crazily vulnerable individual for being the guts of an angel: is that really true: it is: and your works will recognize it, perhaps bring you closer to the situation: on the way home, you thought about saying goodbye to something: maybe, say goodbye to the symbol, before it goes hideously constrained in waiting to be blessed with acknowledgment: you work through the crisis, you, and nd it to never have been anything less than a wonder: a grand wonder: but the blight: the blight: its too much for me to see as anything but ugly: whats not said bye yet is the minds angel, the angel in the others already disintegrated, but love hasnt: the angel in the jump, still on the ground, waiting for you to go back to there: ground zero: I tell you this because its important for you to know, the minds anguishing whirlpool you experienced that night way after the loss of her, that other, a thing that can wait: so, Im supposed to destroy all the pieces of the angel: thats right, so we dont dissect them past their use: its quite practical, really: end the conversation for now: maybe write a poem later about this, but you need to go back there, back to the place where you hit the ground: if you had never met that girl, I swear, you would never have done any of this, never would have done any of this: it was worth it, then, and was never a problem, then, if all this is worth it: so the future goes, for the one who smokes: after this, so because of this: post hoc, ergo propter hoc