chalk editions 2010

What Are Probably My Memoirs Ivan Argüelles text: © copyright 2010 Ivan Argüelles
cover art: © copyright 2010 Jukka-Pekka Kervinen cover design © copyright 2010 Peter Ganick http://chalkeditions.co.cc contact: Peter Ganick pganickz@gmail.com contact: Jukka-Pekka Kervinen jkervinen@gmx.com


What Are Probably My Memoirs
(i) begin at end of old supposed to be , waters running through thought and thread, a section , hyphenated, gives us the collusion between flesh and blank so much trying to sleep, so little left to wake, so I , nevertheless in old bookstore rummaging, is that mine? chunks of rhyme and throw them into the bay , listen carefully to kerouac reading or ginsberg’s “America” , what is it I am doing reading writing taking walks and thinking , no, “reflecting”, when I am not getting dizzy , or when love’s illusions everywhere, to get in touch with the various, women, let’s call them, teleportation of the tender and vivid , viscous ? portions of a mind doing itself in again, and again, if you will, the wedding last week, remembering my first time, such a mistake! Listen, dog-ear! that was thunder down and no inkling of the, a future in re- , annihilate the (your) self all those attempts, nostalgia of a kind, the errant latter day, a light, some light, married like “that” all crumpled in mid afternoon heat wave, drenched the saga about, and the talmudic references to a book of genesis, instead of today counting from backwards the years remaining those probably 20 or 30 left, and to the right below the smudged print, a hoof ? a fiction rather than the definitive study of, ash pleat dividends from a reading of pliny, lucretius to follow, then some, even as claire reforms her judaic community and the dean martin song wings into “volare”, eastern skies trembling with holocaust angst, down the stairs a baleful , a less than hopeful, we are in the ruins, a basement of classical antiquity, anguish, dash entries and liquidated “frissons d’amour” in an unlighted sky, dawn cracks the envelope of liquor and barbiturates hoodoo downers and peyotl jargon, just as if the world from a rooftop were “real”! jazz omicron tilted in a felt cusp dancing cheek to cheek with death’s swarming girlfriend(s), darling “you send me”, darkened theater thoughts before psychiatric swirl fuzz membrane issues solo for recording device and greek verb forms, later on the gastroenterologist will have his say, as will the black (“negro”) photographer on his way to denmark, 3

forward when really means “back” a few years to mayowood nights a softening then claire de lune, mensonge de vie, italian lessons beside the summer pool, unreflecting or of the future what’s to know, gathering around the darker skirts of the Persephone-types to wit mary lou, etc. how much more writing there is, french and abacus and sophisms with a secret omega, delved into the cretan back file to immerse the by now polyglot in his longing to, compose the perfect response to all that has been read, a walking, library? grammatical interludes between episodes of pseudo byronic, a flamenco side to his darker other, shapes without hands to form them a fantastic, a mexican actually silver masks and pyramidal constructs leading to and from planetary houses and the greater mysteries, the rains the tropical siestas the, not the least the abysmal lutheran cavity, hives and subterranean intersections of syntax and depthless water, how would it work out, I mean the women, the obsessions, MOM, walking on some soft night-earth head in dream and sleep in glove, the fades and reveries and listen to kerouac again, carefully, references to san bruno and hollister and to the “mountain”, this mysterious san francisco bay where is now, Now, the past has come to eat its own vomit, voluptuous annotations to drinking and the darker, who was diane porter? subterranean angel? or tony robinson was that who, all suffused with names the outer creases of night spangled faintly with gilt ornament, overdrive and headache, concussion and snare drum in a whirl horace silver quintet (se~nor Blues), the book I will come to write just born in 1958, elvis in the army, plateaus of, dusty vistas of an imagined latin origination replete with conga and mambo jive, jungle rot intertwined, a few inches to the left and the entire sanskrit dictionary caves in like an army of elephants trumpeting taking with them in their fall the whole cliff of intricate basalt memory, listen to kerouac again, innocent revulsion, to go cross country thumbing it with girl in faded gingham plaid whatever blond tresses and angelic, remember the deathless night sleeping in the desert beside an abandoned machinery, suggestion of a falsified marriage, again, wasn’t claire enough, beatnik episode invented for its own sake, fumbling with spanish keys in the city of monterey or evoking a lafacadio hearne ghost dans le vieux carre, swamp jail tank with dry out ceremony no legal recourse, all days become the One Day over and over again, the semblance of a life a whiter shade of pale, when you/I will suffer some kind of


epiphany beside a juke box with ruby and the romantics (angel baby) basque pimento strapped to headband who would understand that? afternoons on north michigan avenue psyche-shoppe, doctor telingator if you’re still alive, forty floors below the backwards winding river disgorges the penultimate syllable of the prairie in a wash of cyclone grass and dead cement, what I have been if not aztec pachuco submersible raiding from latin psalter the drifts of the, dead, the forbidden fruits that live just next door, remember? sundays with uncontrollable libido, runaround half naked just to get a whiff of Nikki, again, opium the perfume, exclamation marks that justify nothing, and head a dreaming ineffable longing beyond the classical assault of, islands cut off from the, void, stolen books, staring into the stucco sicily that slowly merges into a japanese, dhyana of the holy fuck, so how many blue sky eternities ago? we ought to encounter death everyday, it should be a way of understanding, who we, are levels of detail, minimal comprehension of space of No-Mind when what else is there, that faraway traffic at land’s end so dustily conjured by kerouac in that phase of, the Dharma, sadness but not regret, and to realize each day contains within it the fullness of death where were we? an assemblage of scatter shot memories leading to what epic first, draw the boats up on the mental shore and ignite a blaze to the unknown god who delivered us from the fateful stanza tossed by tempest’s can we go on without a glance back, larchmont westchester county where the full image televised and rebroadcast brings us no whit nearer to the, widsith, what shadowy longings cast upon the watery surface, greensleeves, dragonflies flitting invisibly winged, things alight, disappear, have the advantage of existing only in the imagination, release of, tension to what epic first wine dark sea culmination of cinematic and perfectly scansioned, metric quantity rhetorically darkened thumb filmed agony, ours, finally, and the only one, really, matters red kimono desperation against the wall in mimic of orgasmic, to hyphenate reality in thus wise, to second guess the rules of abandonment, to alter


one by one the inches that separate, to endeavor to “recreate” that first moment of sublime epiphany, showered with a dazzling insight to, here and there the monumental efforts in their ruin all but unrecognizable but for the gift of intuition, epic by definition incomplete and misunderstood as to intent and meaning, a music implied a, infatuation, yessS, “there she goes again”, draw the boats up the sandy strip and night awaits, us, tents unsavory with human offal, the gods riding their distant powdery vehicles tossing showers of withered bouquets, to whom the victory, to whom the loss, a risen and a sundered, been so far up, been so far down, etc maze of stars invoked in an almost drunken blaze, adolescent and disheveled reciting mournfully the first fits of verse ‘pon Thy gilded Tomb, the ancient queen in a faded white and platform heels a shape of rosy pink dawn’s altered finger tracing spit and sperm across the universal canvas, hieroglyph and tonic of urge to “write” the alpeh and the gimel in subterranean folklore, of the, and of the, so forth unto the hour of the Supernal Bride, while some few square meters below on planet earth they are designing a football field, memorial drive, outer suburbs reaches of, the span across the unthinkable water, who have engineered myth and bridge alike to, lay the thing down, take a break, was it claire who first ? anatomy of a, her indecision is a window, whether to fly or to shatter the base of reason, then took the diaphragm and “ran”, while those who were toiling to haul the rough barks on the sandy spit and called it, an atlas with indian names probably algonquin scattered with anglo-arab toponyms and the like (44 underwood street NW?) in the background a jazz bass exercised the restraints of joy, trobador and flamenco, the distance between the imaginary grammar of and the realia fixed in their ideational spheres, content of discontent, the bed spread like a sea and nostalgia, reefs of smoke the lingering, totem beast at the back door willing to, whose form will it take? ulysses weeping unknown in ithaca, morning streets fresh with wet and the hawkers just off the boat, palermo or naples at this hour forbidden like some oriental gynecium, regal stuff in the mind only, chasms of the unthinkable, air and cloud, the lute tuning up, darkness in all the corners suffused with the cluster of perfumed hair, virginal moment of time


I was “there”, so it is says in a monumental tongue of the sleepwalkers, the dazed and cigarette, the solitary and weird searching for their “prophet”, or those drinking just to feel it get numb and laugh tossing off a suit at a time of the finest, until face down in lathered sawdust and the consciousness that does not relieve a fistful of, sample of dead flowers in either pocket, myth and umbrage, the cellar of hell where the “king” gets it, Laundromat and suspicion of elemental, forfeit the tomb, Brother! mine was here first, millennium edition of mystical poetry, sold at dealers everywhere ,”Madonna pictures”, the subterranean blues with mexican rolaid adjunct, two by four wheeling in the back door of purgatorio, until just enough shows to reveal the pornographer’s intent, so sad little girl with suicide on her mind brown eyed and beneath green baize pool table her was a, can’t call her up any more as phone line is dead and mom cant get wired like she used to, the ploy about the “et dona ferentes”, big wooden, while in other suburbs gratuitously added to the northeast of the existing map, in mind just a few inches between us and hell what summer ago was that? the recall system is on the blink, dollar a minute and flush the goods down before the law gets here, on the turntable some mingus some miles some coltrane, etched in disappearing sand the “la vida es sue~no” utt- stutt- uttering loudly in diapason, marginal notes fingered by the wakeful nestling in his fraternal strife, to whom does it concern the purloined rand mcnally atlas showing all the proto urbanized regions south of the sierra, Caca Madre! , while those good enough to merit a buddhist mention please startle in line to the formed left, misinformed and dolly whose ruin is a circular potential, and if claire would just show her eye liner to the dream merchants wouldn’t that be a, yess indeed, sharp focus of photographer’s studio with black and rose curtains, up, how am I ever to get it straight, again, ? struggling to get out of those wraps, to become “pure”, land and water as they disappear, so do we, a bedazzled something now a reduced other thing, we were, then and are becoming at last reaching into a portable sky, does it matter, whether the words which mean and the sounds they employ, which? mingled with the long syntax about the void and the inbetweens and the outsized consonant system, fingers and switches toss back the light, soil and old patterns vary behind the shut lids, iron through which we receive the word for “blood”, and, to repair the wounds a


hallowed stitching a, attempting to make a reading of the old french version and make it modern, Parzifal aglimmer, or in the lucretian interstices to perceive the at last realized, the unofficially annotated, the imperceptibly reconditioned, nightmare, water and weeds, the choking sensation that this is a, fabric of dense so we begin talking at times not really wanting to make a sense of it, the other night for example, when the dog lay down and played dead, and you at the door shaving, trying to be what I remembered you to be, amigo, pellucid skin and autocephalic memory, ash down dust pulverized grass ions brownian particles, movement, from planet to planet nothing but longing and if there remains any, doubt, the lingering white aspersions dashed on the water full text (ink), version in night scope, as I was telling the “other” about my shifting attitude towards death and dying, the small red filigrees highlighted by blue litmus, extraterrestrial intimations of the umbral port, to be attained if ever, buddha nature barely manifest, today, a tale woven in grass and spit, dew falls on the farthest side, to reach it, to darken in that sweetness, unconscious but fully aware of the descent, at one’s beck and call the body in the glass, the shape shimmering firelight winged and aloft before you know it, a music fills the ether, choirs of, questioning nothing among the masses of cloud, many will have failed and lost, plunging through epic lines footfalls a sodden echo, thud, thud thudding in back mind’s predawn, what shapes inhere, what dirt what stains come with being born, whorls faint yellow swirling to the vanishing point, no eye kens, no ear, lisssss pretend it’s not really “you”, but someone who resembles, watching that “self” go downtown to deal with life’s burdens, get involved with women who tell you all their secrets and you go on in the rain, riding a small line into, horizons of dust and the meager compensation of “love”, postponed the battery wouldn’t start anyway, a tight headband and black circles forming, the train rushes right past the station, not picking you or the others up, neither to the left or right, pay no attention and insist on your, ticket frays, isolation, crumbling edges of a once grandiose scheme to, could we stay for at least “two” years? the gods unkind in their fedora broad brim ethics yield not a whit, toss dead paper flowers into the brink,


wait for the isolationist clause the long airport ride to a tramp liner, swim through helium holding someone else’s breath, how did I get here, the din the roar the falsetto on astral stilts, pages of obsolete silence, follow me, it says in the fine devanagari print below the bhakti hemline, visions of swirling masses of, hair, improbable denunciations of one’s own dream (s), arturo & childe harold accidentally combined in the cyclotron, fission and porter ale, recess to the third degree, bearing down on the trunk line, oppressive hemophilia borderline insomnia catch all for linguistic recidivism, trekking through and past buddhist hotspot tourist traps in gauzy silk trousers without spats, a grueling session in remedial math, the monks in their ochre suet nodding off, as if one could ever catch up once life has gotten its start, leaving me in the wake, a dense surf pagan and somehow, melted spanish gold all around the frills singing that old trio los pancho number, to You my heart cries out Perfidia! down in the basement unraveling his tapes papacito in a divine melancholy matches cards with the devil, obsession and replay on the dog-eared scraps, for whom the bell Tolls, the faint suspicion that this is all it ever amounts “to” , followed by me, required to fill out the first three paragraphs, doesn’t matter how yellow the ink gets, the chinese soluble fish going in and out of father’s judgment, the inset shows a blowup of fresno county with its inches of armenian and mexican sloughs vying for favor, mood indigo, long distance telephone, riot in cell block nine, the additions to the urban landscape increase exponentially as the karma precipitates, I was your “used to be”, look at me Now, car in hand like a god with no place to go, listening to kerouac dharma big sur recital as land’s sadness augments the, blues, over the edge the utter whispers to the blooms of night rushes, sedge and mimicry of clouds border the lid’s interior where the eye scrapes its own image, other, simply green flashing into pale corresponding to, whiter edge of, the various “girls” go by each more the other than the self used to be, ultimately unrecognizable paradigms, smattering of pidgin bat-talk, hospice sleeping hard the ginger tufts as iridescent the crown of heaven sets its shine, hills of longing downy disappearing into the inked fog, etches of, in signatures read disease,


matters of the heart, crimson is only a shadow of, hair and, the delights of “seeing” for the first time, shapes of illimitable “things” as they fade, as they fade, as they fade “mother”, gingham robe as seen from scrawled distance, unable to understand, but intuit yes, the fragments as they go by, in a delirium, kaleidoscope going up and down in uncle’s recently motorized vehicle, the cartoon drawings of the family unit, disposable fractions of water, as air gathers around each blade of grass, the sky suddenly pernicious in its atavistic azure, more remote yet the rumored death in africa, where beasts evolve from a music of nerve and color, and lay the head down, windows patterns like snow billows, who will narrate the feast and who will recite the dandelion wine, in his coffin of intimate red a grandsire huge and empty with longing (“sehnsucht”) sells insurance to the mouthless phantoms of the radio, a ghost as such traveling from gospel to gospel, long black streaks that simply refer to summer, other heretics border on brown with a guitar and a, chiseled from a slate roof the enormous medic of rain goes about the plumbing, as if nothing, and the shelves littered with the appalling uselessness of science, where the stars go afterwards, and with whom, a potential infirmary as to what passes and what does not, the memory able to capture that, snapshots in passing of a so-called life, a recondite thought an ardent passion a, to connect these what seem like random and the green turning to blue, water into sky, flame into ether, the whetstone in the garage and the furtive bottle, a sampler of future mindsets turbulent and at the same time transcendental, accompanied by a music of larks and sun shot clouds, wisps of anecdotal, in the heat the black metal cooling, vague vistas of, only a hospital lawn at once grand and solemn where the figurines of distance come and go, unsettling and opposite to the candy and toy shop on a trunk line that seems to lead to the very hesperides, taking with it the first greek dead boy, chthonic dialect to be memorized and immediately forgotten, stolen wares haberdasher’s units barber’s tools, scraping the bone for a sign for an intimation of anything that resembles permanence, but this fleeting white passage, this enigmatic foray into the photography of shadows, this emblematic sleep zodiac encrusted and, awesome


shivers, darkness around each root, to come into being and pass, from the light where it was first planted then emerged and green submerged into abyssal, infirm and feminine in shape the intense and remote, distance equals longing as dawn equals loss, to go back to where the root greens its oblivion dense ropes of, pallid obscurities like mansions of etruscan foliage darker than expected, the underground lapping of a water beyond ken, languages of the vast meridian unknown untranslatable with funereal siestas and enormous empty verandas where enactments of passion and intrigue, and suddenly in the one sunlit corner a painting of day flowers its emergent tropical, a cupola of heated brass and tongues like bells resounding catholic and wafer thin echoes, to how far it goes to snow flake distant pattern on marginless window overlook, such as a frist winter a following, thin red traces of, sequenced in no random order of untabulated data, monoprint, filth, scheme, dotted rayon lines, altered space, for breath read “light”, for light read “death”, and et cetera, shoes won’t fit idea, chromatic symbology of shattered scope, links to the turgid and dehiscent, text books of total despair, reading in order to die, in order to influx, shape of things never really palpable, first a then a then another a, blank heterodox wedged into the library shelf right next to the book on submarines, algae disposable waste futurities fern hoof wax demolition, the head, aches, to know a substance and to be “transformed”, that is translated to heaven a wonder, first star I see tonight indra, indra king of the gods, paltry figure that he cuts sitting drunk in the back seat of a cab, alternately whines and exults pounding his breast “soy comunista”! treacherous causeway to tenochtitlan central where a goddess immersed in aztec see through grows impatient, silver masks forged from pure air glow ethereal above the impending disaster, shift to memory about, transfers in thin blue litmus pasted to the back of an oneiric chevvy, an entire city destroyed but for the map it is based on is lifted by dream levers into the northern sector, beige croupiers in shades mark the various exits with an incandescent chalk, burn into the mind’s reflux the two bit pistol shots, dust and clattering hooves around the cinematic bend, rodeo drive, beverly boulevard, however to wake just to dive again the lot of one’s existence a show of a death time, a


various piecemeal and fragmented shattered sections of in giving light, chinese on the wall and submerged ingots below the floor, hemline recidivist in gilt plexifold with centerpiece by vivisection blond over ash strawberry, tossed her flirt into a hairstyle much like an early spring rain, one eye there the other, in the middle of everything memory just “goes”, mutant celebration of time if only to arrest “it”, zoom to 80’s photo of “her” captured clandestine online with no advances for the undertaker, we who are so careful to be personal when hunger stimulates and hallowed intersection, put a hand in and seize the likeness! mary lou rediviva trying to remember how the first charge and the soft dark warm dancing to a slow ballad number as if melting and wet, spanish arpeggios thrill the spine with corollaries of dying, “you belong to me”, moon shots over frozen waste tundra bluish pale absence of the, exactly who wrote the music and who the lyrics upended depths of expanding emotion blossoms into french verse becoming bitter and angst, twists of april the fiendish season trying to reconstruct that ever gone moment of day rapture when the lark flew into the sun, and what was the early roundelay trying to say, what language intuits its own form just to become “other” v a s t and slow, beginning to move through holy mounds of immateriality the serpent flame, lust, laying the body down in a fever anguish exultant trepidation cemented to the image on the wall flickering to join and be joined, vomits sitting on lap and room swirls phading light and fast dark finishes its first session with, how we will know each other if we never have, the resemblances are of no matter, it is simply to “recognize” what the mirror gathers and does not give back, pointillistic shivers of eternity shadowless and, immersion of the godhead within the profound mouth of, summer’s gay entrance a bodice of fluted cloth and fiery blooms tossed around the hair and how the swelling gentle doth, vomits again, red the halo and freckles, redder still the giving mouth, reddest of all, my love’s recondite and suspicious, egypt, the furrowed earth, a delta where nothing is exchanged, a lapping undersound where ground swells digital impressions lost, who is sleeping there in the lattice of darkened leaves a murmur, a dreamer, someone’s missing “thought” where it begins to move from red into the palest hue of vermilion, the part in her hair that color, dancing, within the glass like the


sibyl in her spoken latin whispers, it is the first lesson that separates us from the rest, after that we all go lost into some tenebrous future always anxious about the grammar, a labyrinth of ideas, no exit but, return, return, O grieving, like an invention of style, the mouths of the so many dead echoing their desire for a last cigarette while the prophet in his anguish topples from the stair, what cannot be promised and lacks reflection, the so called sands of time, that bloody egypt, her first menstruation dotted and checked in the inverted pyramid of the grimoire, to get it back, to bathe in its refulgence naming the small cities of the highlands after her, reviewing the sections of night holding the brief candle with its smoke to the fine print of the guttering stars this is no imitation, madness, full tilt, glorified wheels burning into perpetuity the mind’s dross, all the summers in their blackened wares smolder ‘neath phaeton’s kindled axle, mourn Ye daughters, veneres cupidinesque, from the mount traveling south to hell’s vernal entrance accompanied by the birds’ sweet latin, in her cups and vomited forth all that was in her both good and evil, crouching a shadow of a shadow on the cinders and embers to make water, the defiled of the holy, the anguish and trepidation, to touch “that” to know, “that” goddess, how in a single month consumed man in his meaning and tossed the desiccated skin to the dogs, me, the apparition of me in the conditional tense, the absolution of me praising to the skies the “queen”, homecoming and nostalgia of the ulysses-type, the blind bard-type, the listening to the greek as spoken in the fabled restaurants of one’s youth, tossed into the ditch used and abused, the fatally and totally troubled male, bent over the photo of the picture in the mirror of “her” who summons, “her” who destroys what, creation and fields of endless, of grass, a single red stripe hidden there somewhere bidding, enticing like a siren, woof and crazy spell into the labyrinth burnt by the ineffable, skirts like clouds billowing angrily into the thunder green depths, heights that no metal production can touch, ear shrills the profound and melancholy song, I am not over “it”, no not yet, til the day I die, sentence to be parsed inside which the latitudes of all beauty beat almost menacingly, reverberations of astonishing blue and finally the tintinnabulations of the threnody, the greek face down in his offal speared by a single mighty coruscation, iridescence of the seen in a single instant


flashing, between the ears darkness takes hold of consciousness and the ideal goes “nuts”, hundreds of likenesses of space, the One, hurtled into a minute cavity itself the vanishing of time within and time without You, MOM? passages between ice and the furnace where Father huddles with his angry can of, for just a second blind in the holy way of “seeing” then returned to his body a shibboleth of paint and ire, a catholic suggestion of afterlife that simply crazes the “thinker”, and for a furious alternate moment a life seems to occur, a rug pattern an easel clean slate ready to be embossed with a zodiac of color and form, a dream sequence with twins and elder sister sequined in gypsy rags and moth burnt, mysterious passages often subterranean between the pyramids of the sun and moon, the letters that attach and that cannot be pronounced, the vowels in between that later inform the shape of the name of the deity, jungle and wax of colliding cloud forms, a havoc in the basement reappears later in white withering dress with breast and snaps, coughing blood on the freeway in anxious exit from metropole café dotted with excrescences of extra planetary light, the mayans have landed! the mayans have landed! otherwise, an aztec prefix adjoined to the missing motor parts as doors yawn opening swinging lazily from an invisible, who will study the maps laying them flat out on the floor while a radio intones a distant sutra conjuring mexican buddha forms bodies of dust and ruptured ganglia, a measure of, a distinct syllabary in itself a guide to the lunar months hovering anticipation of, angelic scrapped out in drunken vision near sun porch, latter day conjunctions that attack syntax at the root, an alphanumeric beast visits sleep indicting the dreamers for their loss of fortune, I will be there, amalgam of street number and soul coordinates, watching the distant avenue turn into summer of massive green thicket, alert to the sound in the earth bearing the rapture from its hive toward a definition of light, eye on the highway that certainly will process the immense empire of longing beyond the paltry suburbs of reason and decay, take me There, refrains jigs a bits of song a, the half asleep, who isn’t, as always until the theme develops its woman with her grammar of white mystery, with her cloudy proportions of grass and death, the various and varying grades the steps we must climb in order just to


reach her hemline, and how many simply crash silently having obtained only to the third grade, multiples of green and pronominal forms in the neuter, vast disregard of the enigma for all living things! swarms of contradiction arising from the ancient river systems, irrigation and implant of the human mind to ken devolving, digging up the clay to shape a this or that a, small gods with lustrous and ominous portents, a sky fills with nightmare, incubus of the never returning on time angst, in the closet the muffled omnivore with her scythe and teeth of immense impropriety, who will dare to, who will simply ignore shelving doubt on the tier that says “marry me”, tumbling down in caskets of rain and dead laundry to an earth unguessed below the ordinary surface of schoolday and math, today with us are two translators one from bagdad the other from damascus, the discussion turns to “aleph” to the wedges carved into sunbaked earth, to the entrances of “her” to the exits of “her”, metalanguage physiognomies of, plural notions of air and color re transformed, debates about how far it “goes”, shuttling though an inner space with a single idea circular in content and irreversible in form paler than it is broad whiter than it is narrow, of course the “her” waist, a hand can, around it and in the pages of banned magazines, of course, or drug store intuits name of bride, read all about, cursive latin moulds into which coastal inks are poured, no confirmation of data received, tidal spools drenched lunar blanks in mid sections of light and depth, ghostly images on the retina preceding the invention of the camera, who that is “you belong to me” assignation at nile hilton ca. c.a.1952, dancing in the dark with a bullet for a name and a mind, full and dark blooming petals once white shimmer in moon spill over land source, distant recognitions in unpaginated chapters of water and text, stu- stu- uttering (layla) as one drowns in the fathomless name of the unformed deity, on this side hindu on that musulman recondite, lal kila, borgo santa maria, the pleiades spread out on their vertebral lawn content of shade and, childhood assuming distances between “snowy fields” what seems like home, memorial winters immemorial summers, thongs and attribute of dust flies magma of torpid deliquescent, a situation in oil and dead batteries the rundown, for example, car, what was going on either in a tubercular sense in the way that we were becoming palpable but indefinite, forewarnings of dying on


the radio and sudden july thunder storms hail stones the size of, huddling beneath the metal of someone else’s condition, planets unresponsive at first then slowly spreading out their mutilated maps, for a section of medicine lake or hopkins, see verso of thumb worn effigy, chinese ideogram meaning “sister’s fled”, and the immense influence of alcohol and pimiento rubbed into the ochre surface of a still-born canvas, hot thoughts like lips to be kissed, or retching out the rear view mirror on to the endless gravel path that leads precisely to the infernal spot, standing alone holding a thumb of oblivion, ready to ignite the sky ready to fire away at the moving subject, and being careful to remove all traces of the transitive verb in order to, yes careful to look away to render obsolete the drug store and the girl friend at the same time chasms, unyielding as skin the song, what will come of some comic book obsession with, patches of highlighted by pale, and bruises as a natural course of things, the twigs switches swaths of color and blood lined vessels the obvious never superficial, inch over inch of meat redefined as a matriculation of sorts into the higher “orders”, the never approachable untouchable swank toiletry of certain hollywood Persephone be-alikes flashed as ivory soap and curtailed by a monolithic punitive system, lunar attributes couched as a first “poem”, gilded tombs haunted wombs, ‘gyptian glyphs carved in honey sickle mart, hives of contradiction yellowing blind the first, owls of impatience haunting night fleets as scudding clouds, thud, green shades deftly into black at pool’s bottom, dreamt illusion’s span generations of painting and stitch, the reordered wardrobe spinning celestial and somnolent to the upper left beyond the shoulder’s most human feeling, a spasm or two and I rediscover “it” nestled in the parched republic films hills, a forest fire descending casually into some childhood encyclopedia version of the greek democratic system, spears up and the lonesome regression into some olmec recording device a mile or so below the county line, is it that arrested for drunk and disorderly the Sire will finally confess, on his knees and pounding his chest as only a lonely communist could, movie reels flicker unending sad tombstone finales in tinsel false gospel tone news hour narration pismo beach, escalofrio, villa oblivion academy awards fiasco with two drinks left before death row rebate, a cold


cell in olmstead county’s link to hell, chattering hallucinatory dividend about to bust in j c penney’s basement overdrive, will you convince me this didnt happen, will you also consider the grammar book version of mother’s long losing battle with cigarettes and mexican, or The gypsy in the Mirror who wouldn’t come home, to be released after a long thought out debacle with the brain censors concerning right to death, fictions, ficciones, finzioni, purgatorial afternoons in granddad’s coffin, lapping soundless waters of the once known as Lethe, underscored with a bevy of longlegged swellhipped and you know, girls, each with her own studio contract a glass in each bill and an eye on the disappearing zone, becomes fair to know which is the blond in the casual and with whom is that Bible going out tonight, lazy approach to difficult languages at, best, you wouldn’t say but the hill dialects pose their own sort of market dilemma in a green french chaise longue about to be discharged from the “state” hospital on east center street, primordial rains and chills that a window cannot endure, forethought and bitter aftertaste running one’s finger along the slate margin the other side of which is the Unknown, school daze, pornographic prototypes in long vomit gowns emerging from dime store candy wrapper, and if this is the light of day! re phrased the organic soon becomes the inert small minds, bickering riverbanks in collusion with draught clouds scuzzing shimmer just inches above the dragon fly’s brief carousal with life, who will come to know as Orlando Furioso teenage, other indications have proven false, some regulatory actions have also failed, to keep one within bounds, why, on the back cover where it says “as I lay dying” fraud, voices in the grass rushing to embrace a great whispered entity, blissful was otherwise a recondite salvo a proposition about hollyhocks marigolds and dashed burning in the driveway an angry, vestibular reaction, mismanaged emotional, hospice for the damned of heart the mutilated of passion the bruised of mexican the, secret drinks cadged in carlton hotel backroom, snowdrifts multiply the opaque meaning of it, all, thought follows thought in an irregular pattern of nascent freeway overpasses leading to some massive desert baked subdivision called “golden hills”, the radio knows what’s “on”, ghost renditions of movie star fashion patter chattering on the breakfast hour about korea and the subsumed manchu dynasty, waiting for elegance to manifest in the shape of a carefully manniquin, whiz whizzz whizzzz


! becomes morning somewhere else a body, electric, hill slopes carved from tropical fruit warning suburban did you also know? that, hemispheres of detritus floating yawning through “outer” space, making it obvious, the face down format with alcohol fuse two eyes for a thumb and swizzled cherry vinegar mouth parched for love, perfidia, crying out, cactus thorn memory of tortilla mornings somewhere south of the drift in the toltec continent, star spent dewline awash in diesel fuel perfume tracing pan american highway through verdigris mambo swamp at foothill divide where locust song withers sun portal, all fades in that preternatural light like an apron spread over the once fecund, notions of time travel of other dimensions of mango portfolio lush tropic proto memory of, angles taken from sideshots of a cavern where glyphs representing “KA” come alive, what is the vast and oneiric what is the, holding on to something as if it were going to last forever, flesh and its kiss elemental draught of pidgin thought about what hovers above my head, there is a light, and shimmers dazzles dims a, young no more the brain stalks its “other” for the immortal whiff, chance passing and many books later the first chapter rears its vertebrae once more and, Lo! oceans of light radiant and obfuscating at once, the remote moves of a headland cut off from the main, lapping again of undersounded waters of, brine and algae spindrift lumber of massive wormeaten air, hinges break off in a sky of enormous loneliness, you have been my companion for a fleeting instant! spears become unattached from the wounds they have created and a shaman named Manitou shakes his rattlers at the dry proportion, of this we are never sure, of the map and its destiny of, the red liner notes are meant for the blind of spirit, the maimed who cannot ever know their “way” how thin it appears shattered doesn’t it, ?, violence of the remembered as the soles of the feet lift just millimeters above the grass, some one is running downhill towards the swings in the playground, some one is held back by a fear, soon breasts will protrude beneath the thin chemisole, plans of bermuda and the forsaken nassau in its blue hemiplegia associate the mind for a new collocation, reverie does its “thing” in the plaster of paris known as july, that is where destiny fated you for me, imagine! how swiftly night falls underfoot with a cellophane of crushed


Orion, the dusky dots around the jar’s rim, what do they “mean”? you ask and no one will ever answer, syntax is a breaking, of the spirit it cannot inform, of the soul it is the hybrid and distant ossuary of intellect and death, and if it ends so what, as the proverbial goes, bunch a’ nothing for what, languish attachment of the soul longing for the final breakthrough, out of the prison house of, into the “ideal” sphere, platonic and, whatsoever I told her once and for finally, she gestated on the rock for up to a million it seemed eons, shuddering pallid white fluttering winged bird, needs to fly, where was I why I didn’t understand what was going, on, ? and the mysterious trademarks left by the wheels of her vehicle on my mind, needed to know and drenched in summer clothes the ghost of august peering through the dormitory window to heave a, sighs of tremendous not relief but, escape from the shibboleth into the pure and only “vowel”, whose name will it be, mother of god, virginal antiques, a disciplined at best stroking the troubled male, until the outer is all white and the inner whiter still and limitless, the fountain head? mis matched pornographic and hagiographic elements with dumb intuition to fornicate in the grass denim locked to denim in rock patterns left by the shattered syntax, refer to church as a domain of the flesh, to tavern where the spirit thirsts anathema of the logos, soul searching in stolen volumes of the linguistic survey of india, forever at odds with right thinking, with trust in the fetid and blind bonzes prepared to burn for their belief, orange chasubles with crushed white powder, bane and balm both under “nightwood” drinking to the lees the origin of, not get it straight and instead aim off course into the shrubbery where annihilation devours its other, nimbus of the pulverized moons of adolescence drawn up and reconfigured for the next berlitz lesson, on this my right hand the fiefdom of bad works, and on this my left the seigniorial cavity of pronominal hell, what is desperate and what seeks conviction, what is alienated and what seeks confirmation of, what is “that”, what is “this”, the again of the lost highway, anxiety and inwit in unrepeatable locked in, to have to look “out” when it is the inside that needs to be scoured for a clue, and mary lou in her saddle shoes and green plaid skirt motel, the infinite reorganized to fit inside her right eyelid


what I saw there, what will never be divulged, high school confidential, room after lightless room of trapped emotion, what was always being said and going on, red brick placebo of death just around the corner, wind sails hemlines into clouds of hungry and horizontal poetry, between the legs the egyptian “miracle” waiting to bleed, it’s time, it’s time now to say it in tuscan gorge prose high above the windy summit of teenage “crush”, often induced by oscan dream gibberish hortatory exclamation marks in the left ear’s small radical, a kiss that seems a lifetime of distant and smoking script, “the” kiss, what is lost in the wainscoting or in the gymnasium’s secret cleft, what is an agony of afternoon-waiting cherry coke and adrenalin affixed to purgatorial window where the show-offs demonstrate their girlish attire, what is an expected evening of knee dancing shoved to lilac spray pubis, in the dark, tide pools of “her” eyes, depths in which the body drowns in order to resurface transgendered and sanctified, of what are possibly my memoirs a suggestive topic in current ancient indo iranian, or what follows future in time unseen the long invisible threads leading from and going towards, no where, a flower bed trodden under in what night, a gospel of sanctimony and breast beating (feeding?) or the lecture about restraint and order, denim bound promises in legal sanskrit, how there are many and what are the few? borderline \ teases boys in adjectival sense only, warms up to older “guys” only while pleading the piano, takes lessons in gymnast’s french in order to [censored], never top heavy but always guileful bunny soft and sweet in her charade of masked chairs and two ply twill, beneath which feel lower and then sinks a thumb into the soft inner, c lo u ds swarm investigative in pocket sky of fulminating ardor, smokes guessed happening in muffled corridor with trumped up boy scouts, whose will be done, grass and chaff straw beds lie me down gently, Oh, was her a beauty queen pinked out in gussy shuffler? troubled the male over a vacant decision, allophone or homonym? jussive versus intransitive, the vehicles by which we come to know her but not her name(s), little inklings in savage tint body make up and facial disarray rumpled in clover scented sheets with a lavender plus on the under hem, such as it was the motel was the capital of the world for something like ten sweet days, then the aztecs took over from rooftops of gun green smoldering, her was a zed in disguise, me was the same old biddle aleph, shootings were common and the


streets were a map of intimate decision making, maple and elm dominated by the topical riverbank with its immense juttings into an unknown and wary stream, were if not for the movie theater marquee who would have known, better? syncopated rivalries in march tempo banner with dimpled awning above the crown of her hair, such a light ! ovarian crystal moon shifts back to back with the “loom of language” shuttlecock and weft wednesday afternoons on one’s favorite perimeter, dewey decimal montage with dubbed spinal reference in triplicate : yellow is for ink, china is for blue, and siamese is for the two in between, followed by a chain letter to the emperors of brazil and peru cuneiformed and scribbled on the sides in a friday form of hittite lacking of course the diacritics, hard to duplicate in sandstone, this first effort at literature in a puerile guise aimed with erotic shafts at the heart of the homecoming queen, the rest is a reminiscence of vomit and shooting stars over a cupola named after the ford motor plant in river rouge, the young in their hard to get leather jackets and a skin of perfume over each lid, beer and the munich template for inebriate activity, crushed gravel and grass settings in dark rimmed afterthought, a coffin for a father and two tubercular dresses worn on a faded window pane to be referred to as, MOM, letterhead with skinned milk aftertaste, goblins of fun in the automotive hood grappling with desire and its philological antecedents, you for me and two for thee, the radio with its electric guitar be bop a lula, humming asphalt overdrive before it gets too hot and the anthropologists in their ever task of fundamental adolescence take a fix in each eye, islands where no two languages are the same and the women run naked through a silver shaft of ornamental sky, jade and quartz come through as a voice of most distant summer, dust mulch ash reckoning wake mummer, forsake thine ancient dreaming, ‘tis portents of white shapes, alba, teotihuacan, xochimilco in the lazing sun, basks there ever a country so far? we go next to the chapter about the ojibway and sioux, where the jukebox in its tinny splendor shivers a minute hennepin county into its original nation states, wampum and tomahawk thunderbelt in gravity of inconsolable and shimmering sorrow, each more of a lunar asterisk than, and for a few totemic instants even aspirin takes on a formidable shape like that of the red planet on a tear, purple clouds loom into view, girls gasp deranged, boys gun their motors


aiming aslant, cigarettes bloom like foliage in glistening window glass, how there are many and what are the few? asks again in distant sotto voce beneath candlelight and funereal display of, waters of running near place names like anoka, yea though we sink into the eternity of hell I am with Thee, and as who isn’t the many so where are the few? a gamut of question marks the final rearended section of the chapter about, her forensic tattle tale lace dipped in gesso to whiten the already blanched proportion of the dream she occupies or –pied, for example how many ditties in the crumpled overture where hair begins to predominate as a sexual symbol, lip stick traces over pizza loaded with refined sugar until the whole disintegrates into a “hey mambo, mambo italiano”, who is dancing with what in the darkened back room of the by now camera oscura down by the wharf where the illegitimate kings spend their sperm, and in the yearbooks a rescinded photo of Miss reeking of oversupplied sandalwood and the ochre of disaster starts reflecting badly on, did you ever? slantwise the body receives attention to its needs perhaps better than in the paragraph about options, digital vivisection by orifice and candle, sleight of hand with nether parts until surfaces a rage to cinder the sky, sheer see through silk stocking worn over face to better render the magdalene approach to theology, the Das Gupta people swarming in their little hovels shanty praise Om Om Om, and if you think bach started it all with those parsimonious fugues then try altering the head with a different more powerful substance, snort and drivel of the, license to drive blind in the month of the zinc teethwork, a bride in the distance beckons, her small hand a persiflage of we try to limit “it” to three at a time, crossed the eyes and doubled the tees conforming to a pastiche of neologistic hemophilia in which the main character copies his other in a deep embrace with the greta garbo type at the end of the pier, then jumps into the profound water a narcoleptic victim, aspirin moons, ponder, hollywood echoes only running off the boulevard darker than before, surf at the mouth the aphrodite of rodeo drive smashes the circular glass works, ponder, substitutes girlfriend for a dose of heavy, will we ever meet this way again? flamenco asks at the root of adultery why, pages of suburban ideolect followed by phases of, ponder, sehnsucht such as it is mourning in the pale grasses of a distant country, how many


they will be each a pointed variation of the other, asking nothing in the process of delivery, the soul, the bird tossed wingless into the asbestos where, ponder, issues a thesis about, aren’t we always going back to that, the paintings that fade the poems that remain unfinished, the and the, over and over illusions of love every where, but, simple sentences finish last, the ageless antidote to life a sample of green daubed over her once face, pale and reminiscent of the tides surge, under moonlight whiteness of shimmer dappled streams slipping through her, wearing rings of darker around each of her every locks of, ponder, issues threads of blood from the fine oval of her distant, ponder, more the few who have left behind the, us, junction and pivot of dust immersion, we all need just one more inch of light, a rosary of mexican syllables onyx or jade, and strapped to the chest the two ton function of love, imponderable, following the jagged coast line through its veritable night into a fiction of alba, day, who will never arrive though the radio be at half mast and the cable cars, watching the flicker screen of destiny packed into little suitcases or handbags, the explosives remain undetected, the heart is a tincture of iodine and marble, ponder, in its ineffable drugstore which is a mystery of obscure back rooms and chased cinder blocks, will you also? I didnt need to, but the elegant thrust of the music pushed me to it, muslin shifts of remote like the skin of the inner thighs, ponder, powders mucus hair sperm lunacy ponder this, how far back memory goes before the meadow becomes pure blank, the void of mind, the how unessential we are by definition, allocated meat positioned on a skeletal frame and given a name, dust bag bound or to the ossuary, ponder, this is possibly beautiful the wet streets of the future climbing their hill of now, into whose bed room enter, please, douse the lights and let the dark out of the bag, eating some remnant of myth, map figment, hair and ribbons of dust, tresses wound and rebound into the spine of volume nine of the complete, how handsome is the one in the mirror, No? the one fifth from the left in jumper and suede velvet hoopskirts is she? forget it, lined up for a photo depiction of a last time ever before they all part, how many but fewer still the zero at the end, calculated to make you weep the story never the less is identical, call them angels call them succubus I don’t care, ponder, the witless aging in a metal of lost back


roads, heat comes into being red and shiny, cools off on a lunar junket with enough alcohol to fuel planet mars on a plummet, divination and random house calls, hello are you home today? under the bed in her favorite rags the barefoot contessa in her mistress of hell mask, vomit and musk, argent tulips and smash of white incandescence, ponder, the valuable lesson about the growing up whole, never look back, fruit and worm, rose, hiatus devoured by hiatus and what suffers, what has space, what is in between, levels of green phading into azure pallid extensions of, sehnsucht, of the alternate takes of the basement when the time was father to all, sections of clearly invisible inked clusters of then bathing beauties, assembled for the, swooped like a hawk from heaven to peck at the divine cadaver, and the ghosts of future metropolitan asia cities surfaced like inches above the drain where sweating a, it wasn’t as I expected and the world was a giddy two-steps less than ever ready to collapse in on itself, to fall over dead drunk on the sidewalk in front of the house, we took the willow branches and bound them tightly, around and around, the sky format was reduced to a brief cylinder only seconds in length, what maps could not explain, the fission of instamatic image meal, surplus meat spliced over the bone text which re interpreted means, mythiform and angelic a whispering entity reappears, right? whose wedding long gown and talmudic mind reaffirm history’s, invitations to the ancient debacle, to the runes of indus and sumer, to the claustral bells ringing within a buddha’s ear, neural divination of nibbana within the number nine, all events canclled on the lawn of imminent gestation, green pallids aspect a, of, a brooding, ideolect and grammar of a white and distant azure, pale as she ever was, walking millimeters above the mown grasses, whose hips she was wearing whose minerva intellect she was using, for that occasion only, and the tight band around the head as if the gas were on in some other universe, frightened animals scurrying into their night alphabets to return to, maternal gossamer dust wings of, rushing in a bleakened aspect of the verb “to be”, within and without the light a form of consciousness, so to speak, and who wouldn’t, ?, belts of orion the shimmer of the pleiades first spotted when drink flushed the brain for the first time, ‘member? summer skies milled with the portent of stars gone backwards into a frame of antedeluvian, and to think and to attempt to think to


conjure the malefic and the wonderful the simultaneity of a deity halved in order to be understood (Radha-Krishna) !, dear mummy wax in shape only a digital impress with spine of velvet red, she was shooting for the all the way, y’ know, in a drug store akin to the mayan motto “seven come eleven”, maze of boulevards spreading across vast and empty fields, adolescence ‘mazing, sunfelt grasses whipped down side the long steep, when we will recover then we will “know”, obsessions and their long and labyrinthine orientations through dream spell and musica da camera, I choose you, I choose You over and over, again, when we learn to “know” then we will gain to commence, a substitute for love is never the same as the love you first felt forever, isn’t always, a many splendored thing, the walkway soon turns to dust, the air fractures into a million destroyed continents, maps unfold on eachother revealing the missing paradise of a tokyo subway system or the congress of balinese monkey gods, who holds the golden bough holds too the invalidated heart of dido, miss her no more, loony tunes of desperate, ichor seeping through the walls, stucco or gesso the tuscan villa the precious homophones, deliberations over the correct route to china, silk ropes and saliva despond, a matter of seconds before madness, really, obsessions wound and rewound in the brain’s sickle cell anemia, divorced from re re reality a po po pounding drum soon creates its own spanish ear, we learn to listen to metal to artifacts of an excruciating beauty, set sail captain Dead! hands resurface wrapped in algae, a coastline shivers its elemental spine down towards big sur, obsessions, ponder, that is way off in the future yet a furtive designation attached to the verb “to want”, lacks a definition in the present tense, neural and yearning, as all frac tures are, loss of the whole, islands adrift in a sleep of penury, space like a massive issue of tabloid ink shifting high above the plum trees, it is april it is may, the troubadour in his grammar of periwinkle and, softens his gender aiming a solitary cigarette toward the lunar minaret of tripoli, who can doubt this, who can shape a hand and have no word to link it, who can, although last is spectacular what is latest never finally informs, a real time is no time at all, we are vanished in the spectra of wizard looms and planetary ascensions, beyond the capabilities of grass to bind, beyond the soul’s checkmate and its other, beyond each fragment of embellished thought, what was never


realized what was never, a thing at once permeated by the five million buddhahoods and the death of One! what you love, what I endeavor to know, about “that”, succumbs to the many while the few remain uncounted in their purse of human skin, bolgia of fire bolgia of ice, love’s alternate definition(s) elude the seeking, a phase diminished by its own shadowy retinue of eclipsed alphanumerics, who will breathe in the light exuding the darker paraphernalia, heidegger in his roost of presocratic adventure, I am deaf to “that” smoking benedictine ossuary, or the time in the hospital laid up with a mysterious and the doctor with the same name as yours, assures nothing about chance, evolving spindles of nerve up the spine looking for a lasting name, an enduring epithet beyond the grammar rules of case number and gender, the foliage in the window bright with a distant and lambent flare, afternoons become a hill as suddenly as they lose their green, the enigma is placed squarely in “her”brow, to kiss the third eye, to devolve the thread to its origin in the heart of the labyrinth, is unfold the map, let the creases out, trying to read the street numbers and the approximate location of the cemetery where girl friend is exhumed with her monkey, how mysterious the library at first is, the length of the shadows left by the waning encyclopedia, the avenues running down the extension of all epistemology until, greece is fixed in its unexpurgated decimal system just as merovingian dynasties trace their umbratile codes on the back wall, decipher the medieval aggravation as it occurs around five in the afternoon, death of the toreador, the guitar’s azure agony secretly inserted at the bottom of page 1009 of the primer of, the sands turn pinkish toward the hour’s guttering end, points of reference lead nowhere in these seas of maze, love’s pondering, a situated gloss with extraordinary verb forms, hand over fist in ancient tuscan or the puzzling block script on the basalt tablet left in the upper window, girl friend stunned outside the circle, listen to the motor running in the idle pasture, listen to the wheels of themselves moving in the remote grasses, ponder “this” before evening, before whatever was recommended is gone now, before sun’s drowning in spanish ink, hesperides and innovation of peninsular dialects, it is love whispering, eaves dripping, a wet formation around the what is considered “sex”, while some


one else is vomiting in the garage, fornication is a byword, the deathless vowels of Oh, running in the dark against a ladder of tangled consonants the dreamer with his multiplicands of “X”, what is you, doing, here is never now, there is never completed, adding images and links to the already throttled mind in gestation in, fossils of paper and china, wherever the eye pastures an imperfect mountain cut out of an imperfect sky, so how can you expect, how can you? regarding the shape of the land under ground where girl friend answers to no one, rains in her eyes a dirty yellowish sort of, or the fogs that emerge from the contraction of thoughts, what is supposed to be the ideal is nothing but a residue of water left in the sink from last night’s, is the potential for, all cancelled longings sunk in depth of, despair, early coinage indicates no hope, who was dancing in the dark sweetness and breath, the moon’s even darker mint melting in the ruinous harbor of heaven, what other artifacts have survived, could have survived who can tell, an ingot of molten gold in either ear swapped for the talisman to some islamic garden, shifts to a future past tense, psst shhh no one’s looking, time to make a break through the red grasses of mirage, girl friend takes a lesson in old spanish rudimentary tales about calisto and the ladder, a symbology of mistaken identities at best in the subterfuge of alarms and crimson dial tones, language types in color code for the one I lost, in the dark where any phonograph will do, the shuffled meters of feet and parasangs, behold in the middle there to the left of the rusting hurdle persepolis! on the wane with virgil in his blue cassock through the burnt stubble what used to be a maze of hollyhocks bending their swoon, necks of ivory soap prepared to, slit, slit, the greenish ooze and paraphernalia in a hooded basement, vomit, dialect immersion in proto tonic, who is grasping the bottle for the first time who is dying unto the talk, imperative collateral speech system mumbling in shifts of primordial sleep, swept off one’s, impediment about the girl and the cyclone grass, hush timber swells into flame, orgone and cloud diameter, you mean “demeter” earth measure in chthonic robes dun smoking horizonless distance, she who “eats”, the dense persiflage of anxiety ruddy whorls in her eye(s), aim for and parse the enormous green leaf, it is a dream, sleeping all over again, a dream, speared by the window’s fraction of light, and


waking, numbed, a tight dry swelling, talk and ponder, walls freighted with immense indo european shadow lattice, or as alphabetical memory has it a tool for long division in dream shifts of up to two hundred per minute in the white of an eye, speaking for the teenager in all of us, a predominate substrate conglomerate of etruscan and neo post and what are probably seeking clues to the UR, faustian predilection for girl whores and tabu subjects about forensic evisceration, pulp comic strip vision of dante’s tenochtitlan revved up in a ’48 chevy cosmo dream, goin’ round and round in the old wheat field with firestone diamond crusher stylus, top forty on the ace be cee station racing for numero uno with guitar and hand going be bop a lula, can life be so fast? can sleep be so hard? how’s a man to be? shifts and incongruencies in the upper registers of the syllabary under no way to be understood, normal apotheosis halt, stop no go, flux in demand, platform shoes and high heel sneakers the girl she just toppled, over, and out of mind, borderline, when we will come to know, and then there will a kind of calm in the head, books will be of themselves redeeming, a krishna type with thick german accent relieving himself in the tall grasses, ruddy specters I am dreaming as fast as my brother is able to keep up, flying lessons with the by now pulverized image in the photograph, lessons in totem beast, the savage heart devours it, self, night streamers go out on long, are parallels always necessary? if there is one city must another one be established exactly opposite it? how do we learn to extend? white blanks in space of suburbs, girl friend in her pinafore and red suede jumper naked from the bottom down, what’s a to do? ponder the UR, the dravidian pidgin formations attached to either hand, moving and up and slowly down, mesmerized by the shaft in stress shadowy representations in the rear view mirror, what is moving is really not, kept at a distance by her dust we perceive finally the bone text of her unkept promises, striations in her waving hair and a centumfoliate rose, her mouth, a blood, a ponder, URwalking up and down the long deserted avenues, harappa, mohnjo daro, tusks and shattered urns, desiccated vomit, a wall rears its untold shadow before the bomber strikes, again, we ask what president is responsible for this, a moving image of unspeakable light blowing itself up repeatedly to the nth degree the size of ink, or a moon of china and sperm, white flappers over white shuddering a


white ,unghh, suddenly we are in the ninth grade of heaven, a prussian skirt shakes slowly side to side heaving billows of chalk, clouds, which is usually a song on the radio about pyramids and silver, the ocean is an instant in time, and we are bound in the back seat of a rapidly moving device, god drawn, and who is chanting like a neanderthal erected above a miniature of sri lanka, before the buddha came, there were many of them, in the trees, or drawing a slow dream like fluid on the, ground, the question of “going steady” was big, perfunctory and enormous white blooms in her hair, a radiation of x’s like an immersion, the soul, perhaps, or perhaps not, the questions, who am I, where do I come from, the marks of enduring in a vanished cake of sand in a diminishing rivulet stepping twice is an impossibility, remind, behold, backside of time in a small willow leaf captured by the dew, some other consolation as no other exists, a road way, some crushed ferns, the gravel underfoot at three in the morning, to You my heart cries out “perfidia”, but for the symbology of nine, and the muses perforce knocking on the brain’s fragile door, is that you? no, it was never like that, recreated scenes (seen?) of an arcadia postulated by ninth grade latin grammar books with pinkish highlight of campaigns in gaul, of yore, my friend, wept and returned to the library for, more, just who was that in the glass asking for a position in the factory where they make “poems”, seated on an ethereal dais the homecoming queen of the gods in her gauzy raiment shedding a black sort of light over the snow crust of hell, window panes bear the reflection of her nothingness, to this day, an irreverent salute, the frozen back seat where indra king of the gods dead drunk with a mop and soap canister in hand, ululating, the forensic piety of the girls disheveled who would not meet his demands, meat, vomit, cluster fucking in the meadow beneath a lurid pre-vedic sun, ponder, you don’t dazzle, you don’t impress, sops thrown to the three-headed dog parked half way out on the road to Mayowood one shoo-dootin-do-be-do night in may, who will get up out of the dark and reverse the bed in order to “see”, who will arm wrestle his brother kin of death, who will swallow lit cigarettes just to “prove”, who will hitch hike to the nearest metropolis inside a radio going full blast through a grass with the density of twenty ton bombs, who will be that, not dazzle or impress, who will try to


talk without uttering a sound, one might regret, one might write songs without knowing it, tangled up in the shadowy effigy of adolescent suicide, guessing whose brown eyes are most profound, whose dark hair is most gypsy, whose flamenco dialect is most romance, whose most body is less by a few inches before you Blow! neither dazzle nor impress, you shoved into a lateral off the highway one alcoholic evening summer, lawns collapse and are compressed into the digit of a single universe, whose face is on the other’s, whose other has no face but the, diving down into the abyss in order to “read”, require to name them, the “girls” whose july is instantly turned to a crisp, flaming portions of a sky as foretold in the diwan, this is not the “transformative” life, this is not the, but a cheap imitation of so, going round in circles in order to diminish the hour by the power of five, sipping cherry coke, wondering what lipstick really “does”, or why the picture on the magazine cover has such a fascination, fractions of a waking that don’t seem to adhere, who will go to war and go mad, who will escape only to find murder, who will reason with a rope clinging to the reality of despair, one never knows, it is the pure innocence of the first time on the radio with a song about heartbreak, you look at their “skin” and realize it is an illusion, everywhere, what is confusing is the time they spend with their hair, the aromas they emanate while dancing, the secrets they whisper to each other doing their “make up”, ponder, in circles getting dizzy book in hand, this one’s for “you”, dark between their legs, and always kept back from the suburb where they are allowed to “dwell”, you will realize then how the highway extends, how the multiples of night fragment because you have foolishly ventured too far, into love’s apothecary shattering glass beakers shedding powders and unguents all over the, floors give in under foot, the maze yawns open with its literature of descent and hell, meant for “me”, hunh? winding round, a long the down, side ways to the, re orient girl friend to her, native, basis of voice and doubt, to clarify the issue in a dormitory on the east bank of the father of waters, drowning that is in, sorrow, of self ness, delusions guaranteed out the window, will primavera know to come again, will? the solo career is abandoned for one of againbite and incursion to the preterit folio, disjunct consonants come into play, the simple hill folk in


their multiple dialect both vedic and manitou the chattering upcountry, the long trek through what appears to be the wasteland of, grammar and folk tale retold in gypsy vernacular of the shining black boot, the copper pales in comparison with the verdigris gone out of control eating leaf and mould the supplemental registers often inaudible, a radio strikes its diamond stylus and a haunting moon like reverie across the river, bridges disappear in the dawn’s hiatus, we will not get back alive, really, not this time, assures the aphonic elder in his recumbent polyphony, hedges darken in sinister clusters, reading is disallowed, a feminine figure cut out of bark and distance beckons with a frondlike hand, gestures of an arcadian simplicity which quickly grow complex, orgasmic, multinational, inscrutable opaque, the wheel comes into being as do the early letters of a writing system, phonetic apologies to the deities, the chthonic ones, that, is “I am orestes”, like a music in darkened syllables, and in the sky the ineffable quality of a passage of cloud shadow, to lie down beneath that throbbing and remote planet, presaged for the first time as something gone “to heaven”, but now known to be nothing other than a discarded water, an ancient arpeggio utilized for summoning weathers of incomprehensible green, beauties that go rushing through one ear to disappear before the brain’s tragic fold, nothing is heard distinctly on the other side but the ricocheting echo of, ponder, waters of a huge simultaneity piercing rock like a drill, how it will gather later, how the strands of a labyrinthine consciousness will develop out of the bed of grasses, beckons with a frondlike hand her, a suggestion that in the underworld we will meet again, or grown immense she will return dressed in a naked summer her mind of frigid white wine, to mow us all down, a sense that, a feeling that, shivers a glass in its tableau of hummock and tufa, what was originally inscribed on her inner thigh like a blanched earthen figure, red clay, burnished amber, mow us all down, if one can begin to follow “her”, night instead reckons its opposite in a water of dense refulgence, a matter of seconds gathers the simple white tunic, around her waist Pluto’s hirsute hand, beads of sweat mark her brow with a syllabary of ancient cognition, the “imagination” at play with, musk and the derelict perfumes of, shipwreck of the senses, to know which window to approach, to know which oracle, to know something of the “other”, instead go into the darker


self into the abyss of ink and alcohols, churning a subterfuge of mythic glosses brushed with lip tincture and carmine dyes, who will come out of the circle, who will remain like a suicide foreordained, draining the fatal bottle of all it contains, to the last drop a greenish horizon turns suddenly blank, the house of mysteries with its pornographic imagery, the girls who “know”, cannot be approached not even with the radial symmetry of an ancient knowledge, (where I was then beside the brick ornament of sleep while death’s ivy crept rampant ‘round the brain’s membrum virile ) bathed in a grammatical innocence or, so it seemed, the spines of the books peeled back to reveal nostalgias of insular purity, hermeneutics, asyllabic and talmudic both, skies with a lower register just beyond the point of visibility like infrared, how to get there, trapped in this cloak of human skin, with a name nobody could pronounce, correctly, a thought to know, strategies of declension and conjugation, a thought to “know” even more, tongues babble, fornication, exclusion, the basic lunar deictic, knotted and intense the single vowel inescapable, clauses about virtue, hemophilia, necrology, to capitalize on the summum bonum, the gesta romanorum, the the the, roland’s quire of dense tragicity re sounding, in the vale of Tempe, imaginary shores of the homeric hexameter, will girl friend follow, ?, knocking about in the ashes, asphodel fields, yellowish months almost eternal in their momentary bliss, round the rows of now forgotten names, girl friend in her plaid jumper and buttonless white skin, reaches as far back as the, never to be best of all, it came last, not before the angst the dread of the, night some lurking in the, under foot the crushed foliage of, scattered relics of a former, could she really, mean, it? ennui , fossil of identity , individuation under skin the reeling sense that, in the bower where green’s fertile engine guns down its own leaf, page after page of illegible sanskrit in order to, ponder, the whatever girl friend incited and excited in the pit of the stomach, the groin, or vomit and disability of the to, seated in the good doctor’s office studying the plan to destroy the mind, the Rant, periodicity of lunar phonetics, each sound uttered through the conch bivalve of reason in order to, whatever comes second, whatever deserves to be negated whatever, much is more than a few times, relegated


to the abyss where misunderstanding turns its electric statue into rage, could I have known, as much? seeking what can only be determined as the rune of, the various and random passages that remain (some still untranslatable) of the earliest known text concerning the relation of the deities to mortals, illegible sanskrit or hittite, the section about ajax an ungovernable proposition, the remote skies unattainable, a longing despite all, ennui, a fiction, another sort of music in its place the unconsolable, bipartite mind what matters in the small graveyard of antiquity are the musings, it is these we must learn to gather, to re compose, to re assert their ultimate infinity, which it is poetry, walking through the tombyard of night with blown candle and the spine erect with passion, regarding the stars whose massive lattice work of wintry gauze sparkling in the intermittent globe of space, sleeping with wide open, the eye scouring what little distance there is between lover and beloved, each attached to the portion of earth marked “unknown”, what were you saying? nobody hears well with the radio on so loud, traversing with a half minded intent to revolve the light to its source, again, and then a whisper arises in the grasses, a shape of silence a, nouns divided by grammatical gender, categories of lunar simplicity, the deictic of light, pointing the “way” to, hemispheres by definition incomplete, you are the half of “me” I can never join, night switches, ponder, the residual, memorial field drive through white ways of “knowing”, banks of flower, hedges of testimony extending to heaven’s brief corridor, the unlit rhyme scheme the, immortality just a bullet away, in the sand some prints attesting to the huge, otherwise the hints of carmine of velvet of subterfuge, as in the kindled poem about, her was a fragrance ready to explode, a former trapeze artist her high dives were a wonder in blank, what we could barely discern, the climbing through the undergrowth, masses of clover and thyme, mountain sides so steep the awe to obtain, half a section away in the gravel face down mouthing obscenities pater familias, returns to his sonata of three in the morning obsessed like saint john of the X, miles of tangled awning and memento of blitz with spanish accent on the under thong, muchas mercies, that supremely embarrassing moment when the truth will “out”, for what it’s worth an instantaneous excursus into the dense


millimeter where venus encounters anchises, that blinding coruscation of satellite and the boulevards where love’s heavy song, the intense situation out of which there is no way, “tao”, fractions of an intaglio dedicated to the “one I love”, copper tone blends in a significant vermilion part of the hair, she bends over, steep into the well of oblivion, where you/I will drink to the full, come that evening in may when the lawns open up their beautiful hells, ponder the knot, the escape clause hidden in the footnote about umlaut, immense powders scattering from the berlitz moon, views behind her eyelids reveal a porphyry of illicit meat, jargon of control and submission, (just because you’re going to college doesn’t mean you have to forget “me”), sandwiched between the idea of music and music itself is the infinitesimal dot wavering between the notion of red and red itself, listen, motorcades three miles long bearing the various corpse of youth, can’t bear to part, this meat is yours that meat is mine, hush in the corporate grasses just south of the meandering, blow into the leaf and you’ll hear the paradise of the despondent, echoes, of, a heated metal ready to “bend”, ponder, the will of the few mangles the many of the heart, consciousness is such a short lived thing, aint it? “my babe she don’t stand no cheatin’” what the future brings, that enormous blank of space located on the other side of the jigsaw puzzle’s imminent north, banks of dead flowers now, as a wind from anatolia bears its violent dialect to bear, we, how to understand the multiple syllable buried in the toxic substance, how to uncover the recent dead who sport with our breath just because it is summer again, each and every vowel change, each time you hear that song doesn’t it make you cry? we grow farther away from it, want to cry any way, the subtle interchange between the window and the photograph, ponder, a face like “hers” perhaps, a delicacy of and a nuance, so why try to bring it back? what’s a girl friend in the face of planetary disaster, antonyms as such, who is writing this “book” about re awakening, a, life as such, between the variable and the spatially instantaneous, equals a longing both mutable and white verging on, hands and what they shape, a confusion of letters and textures a profusion of meadows shaded and violet and the stepping lightly proserpina, lifted her skirt to look, and was a, plundering the filigree and tore the lace right open, the ripe, the


hegemony of beryl and utter shining, what matters nothing, really hops, deepen the ripe, hasten to end death’s chill of a marginless dawn, the rills of silvery turn to powder turn to rusting age, a frost akin to nothing other than the else of a prefabricated arcadia already a brickburnt hovel in the, imagination’s revolving corridor brings peace to no prince, the grasses withering lay down their white, the greens of a last shuttled heaven pale in a dim refulgence to be known later, other books ascribed to other rishis, a mental antelope leaps! to the beyond of whatever it takes to “endure” this time around, a life perceived through the chinks of a dead dormitory at four in the morning before the grammar lesson takes up its latin cudgels, hearken, the ear, ponders, whose system drained of all color shakes in the winter air, or to continue this in “writing” to summon, all the, fragments of fictions, mnemonic bits fine as dust scattered in the lost air, time’s a, wearing her last face of youth rose bud cheeked the nip of the bloom of, now a wasting dun colored hill slope to the west of nowhere, really matters, a skirt a pin a large gold piece named after the motel-of-heaven, or in some spanish grotto darkening after the next kiss, to be, elemental as the orange shading flung over the balustrade, hips and ankles sewn to a sexual covenant, who will remember? who was looking? for a reason, alibi or otherwhere, in loco parentis, when all else is dead, if no just cause the, withering and white the basis of voice, ejaculation premature in what must be the longest picture show of the “mind”, gutted and derailed the fancy of primavera now a tattered hand me down from the warsaw ghetto, boot strings and lapwing off in the heraldic distance of “miramar”, dense the faery wood, denser still then drunken, and no excises for evening’s hideous shade, the violent heliotrope sequenced into a memoriless vale, shifts and pronouncements by the undergods in their deliberation, prosperine in her tank suit prepared to capsize, thimble of pure alcohol, compression by the deceased into the “brink”, ovulation of the berlitz moon, beyond the seed dream, offensive, ponder “that”, one’s self becoming the opposite, a hell of a, darkness in the ultima Tule of “being” drowned and re drowned, until the upside is the invariable and the stellar crust, adornments of a No-Mind in search of its n’other, whispers in an infernal sotto voce, the opera’s not the


“thing”, sentence and mangled syntax of, opprobrium’s vale, cast off, ’s it was at that time, the arcadian kindled wood, the labyrinth of each vowel, construct of the tetragon, polyhedron, waters running under the surface of darkness, each planet looking for the appropriate weekday name, a creole grammar the notwithstanding a. crepuscular devoid of sense, the time it takes to light an hour the shades, a plenary session of the uses in disguise, right thinking, torment of the flesh, gasping for, a phonic debate about the so and so of parmenides, whitesides rear their immense, collapse in the meantime of the, shadows figure skating across mirkwood, in search of a wasting no, time, ponder, who she finally was, dipping back into the talmudic basement, underwood street, not far from silver spring, the anatomical discussion was rhetorical after all, visionary fades verging on alabaster pales, sketches of what should have been in their paper house, margins to the left of center turn to flame, instamatic reconditioning in gestation, streets turn into vast boulevards of radio, magic shows prop up their sigmatic Night, for a long glance into, crying suddenly in the movie theater dark, for an aristotle to employ an a priori psycho analysis, the lurid look into the eye’s Other, magma of the chilling reflection, windswept tundras where the brain in the movie theater dark prepares its own devastation, auto-flagration, each idea tipped with brimstone, the chafing at the underside, underwood street talmud lesson, fans to ponder, letters to bore through like an abcess, timid to ponder “why did I”, ?, periodic charts where the hand encompasses its gesture with a, like a fusion of illegal metals, chrysalis and adobe of the cyclotron, chained to his mast the inelegant “ego” maddened by the sirens, how to proceed to the next quadrant, latin books a vague notion, greek hammers its gamma into an illegible, formless as it hands to shape to have, a the, followed by another the, and all the while I was making eyes at someone I didn’t really know, darkhaired hungarian with a jewish sprinkle in her death gaze, to make up for the pre socratics who thought water was the first element a studio surprise, a check with the doctor, yes, the divan with its quantitative metrics, stanzas of immense


obscurity, the dante-esque passages about the “descent”, attics in the meantime filled with dead flyboys, ponder, the antiquities both sicilian and ionian, the seas in between staggered with marble and eyeless gods, who will direct the following passage, who will conduct the orphic sarabande, who will propose the who, will the, I am begging you “please”, to understand what happened in the dark of the moving theater, which was the actress, which the acted upon, acidic and incredulous memoirs written in a mechanical backwards shorthand, to being born what is better than to having died, ? asks the fledgling, the heliotrope message much like the hyacinth one, just drowns, no time to reach it and read it and transcribe or translate “it”, is there, a blue subterfuge lined with red litmus, vermilion part in her unremembered hair, a chisel deftly applied to the cinematic semblance shifting slowly from sleep to sleep, a bower’s dream, as if to activate those street names and hence re create the original “city” (Ur of the chaldees?) a hunkering goddess naked in the thigh, a bosom heaving replete with, roses and white aspirin moon signs, beckoning across the aisle, to the dead korean boxer? to the ineffable, at the northern gate plying her ware(s)! tattooed and sectioned into the various sometimes only faintly and paler than white in the orient of her burgeoning mind, budded with, and adorned with aerial distinctions of value and class, red turns to blank swifter than black, in her goddess eye where imagination springs green at the root and shuddering shakes heaven from the branches, snowy dew like crystals of falling matter from the topmost planet, structures of space interlaced with celluloid be-alikes freeze framed to imitate stellar progressions, until, silence and the coldest imaginable her staring me “down”, volumes of anti matter, the vedic dust shh, night quells sweet murmur, held back then exploded in psyche’s ice den, rapture spent, agony simulated in cold beakers a life apart, thin blue leaking streams, a fluid version of the topmost, when will the buddha come, from the trees many of them peering, then chosen the highway down through grades of tropical, sensuous “the”, calibrated among the literary fens and bracken, the empty house in its dreamt moss, the spanish the hibiscus the collateral behind the white man’s church, jail with


the sleeper of choice in patched gingham, the uneven flow of something just “becoming”, a literature in copied alphabets, be “there” for me, you will, black top speed zones with mile a minute girls fresh from a hell of french laundries, days in the glazed atmosphere, trading pills with the cartmen for a trip to the moon, the wrought iron grill laced around the brain’s heliotrope, where it will go, following some subterranean death wish into the desert, baked and re codified memorials to the “never been”, in anticipation of, where it will if ever go, ponder, situations in a mexican patio of former dimensions, the missing relative, the twisted explications for a grammar, a syntax of roadways untraveled the never, to be, like that ? wish you were or would have been more like her, in that singular and pliant moment of sex, imaginary bride in a sequence of faded photographic “whites”, off color becomes blanch a pale swath cutting through sleep’s vehicular ink, blacker than at first a china, some planetary discussion about the, reaching forward into and over the borderline, the abrupt dawn of the red satellite bursting the window pane, a truck stop near frijole new other, someone retching in the ditch, or else squatting in the moon’s intricate and perpendicular shadow, when water becomes an imaginary, or the unrepeatable heraclitean flux, adjoined to twin situations each as unlike the possible as the latter, intermingling of the divine and the chthonic in a plea to mater perpetua in her guadalupe raiment of offbeat sandalwood and chintz, driving or being driven through what seems a year of thistle sand and haze, into the aurora of phoenix in glistered tawny metal and black chiffon, mirage shimmering on post modern golf lawns with turquoise awnings announcing the “new age”, uncle in his pool green habitat of loaned onanism and puttering, who will not be deceived, who will understand rightly the identical crisis in its mirror-like siegework where backward script determines, a postulation about art history and its discontents (style and formulation of beauty as capital), a mojave, date frieze, inner mobility and depth of the woman inside the man, who is making this trek with literature in mind, with nowhere in sight, with hollywood and vine what becomes a white adjective a


superlative without a noun, a distance of purplish cascades and perhaps two dozen suns setting, ridges of mythical childhood, you will be mine, No?, or the fire near the fox studios and the ranger on his mission to devolve night, unraveling, a labyrinthine structure no larger than what seems to be a speck in the eye, who is wandering into the coast line, surf’s never up, or sleeping inside the peeled grape skin of eternity, awash in the dappled light of a cinematic code, soon it will be a removed china, walking streets just cleaned by the god of alcohol, ponder this, a bruited white taint on the otherwise unnerved surface, her, deserts me, gone again into the darkness around the corner from, how bright the glass and the revolving sequence of maze, tapestries of multicolored air, fan dancers and the Logos! what will wake up, staring at a terse azure ceramic sky above Union Square, talking rapidly with death’s true other about the extreme possibility of, is this amphetamine dream of wonderland as speed tracks by at limit of celestial, Being, oceans of flying in colors of speechless blank, ampersands compounded with crazy quilt sonics excused for lack of vowel, quantity of consonant clusters fucking by the bay, a Diana of unheralded proportions a, pleated skirts billowing off into a snowy japan not yet sighted through fogs of silver and rust, compact and miniature the vestibule where skin hangs to dry waiting for identity to come forth, “I am in love with distance”, of unclouded dimensions a “diana” of, myself her beheaded angel, a section seen crosswise bleeds into a pallor of indistinct panorama of ocean and hillslopes fade away, all, who can ever get back, who will ever try to understand that, grass and sensation of ultimately “nothing”, aleatory divinations with eyes shut, pinwheels of transmogrified light penetrating to the, core fade all away, into a, like a dex spansule nose dive into avernus, with no visible guide, no cloaked vergil no swami no dante alighieri, where nothing glows the everlasting dust, no foot marks, no vermilion cast off, the highest point is a shoal where less than pale the underglow of love’s, her was a relic of a pattern cut out from berlitz moon shafts, shatter principle and the renegade desire to utterly, you Know!, followed the coast highway up through night brush, pastel ferns and


rot, swamp dreams to leave her be, by the acres of alfalfa and unmown grass, shapes of a furtive accident, and just afterwards lying there without a compass nor syntax to, where to next, shove off into the ego’s small egress, desert ruminations hoping the next greyhound will, trusting in the flocks of winterdoomed clouds hove the above into view, and a passage to hell, no less than more, pockets emptied of thought but for the myth whitening its manhattan transfer, you were never mine, at last, a library, some uncounted shells, a music of distance a darkening, to write about, that “ exhausted interim, swept memorials toward a snowfall hush, blankets of, the fierce fighting at the northern frontier, chief pow-pow, many deaths in his wampum bag, alcohol sky and a sieve draining all thought of pattern, scrabble monopoly checker chess board flat out dying on knees to resolve fate, tissue organ donor named babuJi, encounter with notebooks and invented characters, for example one Bolnav, flight of fancy through the maze toward what conjecture, fiction will not save, will poetry,?, through snows of window the whistling cutting, all the way to manitoba and beyond the mental of everything, one move and you’re as good as, the slick icepacked roadways ending in darkness, ultimatum nowhere, life’s exiguous and brief prime moment gone in a shaft of dreary dust, library and back again daily, to discover by reading what, Thoth and the mineral density of the ages, ending in darkness, ponder, the what was once sweet, the brown eyed frail, the whiteskinned tremble lipped outside the dance, never to re enter as appropriate, to move on from “that”, writing, longing, closing the book of birth with, a to be continued, education of a primitif grammarian, soundless bells in the cloistered dark, toward a journey east again, ruminations on the banks of the father of waters, a music of clouds and inkling shades darkest at the core, goodbyes, hunh, while some passages are assuredly fatally difficult, others are the simplest, with ease through a tunnel of light, into a siege work of granite and glass and sheer, sky reaching fingers of thought though nebulous, spirals fire-like circling in the apparent gyre of inspiration, myth in pocket, hopes best who less thinks, Ha, one’s self picked up from the subway floor, char women tsk tsking at one’s mortal remains, a glottal stop or a pony of caesar’s gallic


redoubt, fashioned and fused to a burgeoning idea that all will be retrieved in the final moment, or taking classes in lucretius, fiery “flammantia moenia mundi”! nihil ex nihilo et cetera, one is distant, one is in “love” with distance, one circles the evening’s tavern with a futile isogloss, perpendicular to everything else one’s heart, a stabbed, a shaking at the nerve, to the belvedere to “see” what dante saw? , who were those girls tall skinny things in the dark drinking, what dante “saw”, ponder, their elegant necks thrust back, and chattering nothing, saying nothing but whispers of eternity not meant to be heard, divulged nothing of their sex, round and round, evening‘s network of dead fireflies saw next to nothing, in gyres of black ice, the flow of current stop, stop and ponder, below which the null and void, anchored to lack of consciousness, end of all, be nothing, the No Mind in all its lack of gratitude drifting into, awash in nameless space, an entity is what? you were about to say, crashing in village troubadour nightspots, a whim to be a daring reckless, streets of the brain mingled with bazaars of where arhats die in futuristic car crashes, vegetation of the thought process, indeed, and ponder this, dante too! topsided in violation of the unities, doubled over the lucretian hexameter to make out the thin venereal vestige, wavering pale green a frond of passion barely covering her breast, will it be summoned, will the virtue (everything mixed up here) breathless and totem beasts peering through rank jungle foliage, patterns of sound and footfalls in the ear flexing sleep’s inherent muscle, a job to consider, ponder that dante is on the “way”, somewhere in the library where a germination of between poetry and prose, a subtle waving black alga, lichen over the inner eye, indra king of the gods backed up in a late broadway mood writing is what is, to be and put it “all” down, page after blank page, the semiotics of, the semantic consideration, to ponder, the code-switching jungian mnemonic “system”, archetypical goddesses dredged from white swamp, infernal tickertape in brain’s relentlessness to “know”, to acquire what is to know? iota subscript and infinitesimal footnotes in crabbed proto indo aryan, ruminations spent on islands yet to be named, watching with the third eye in some incredible


distance the vedic priests descend through hindu kush, amalgam of homeric and hittite, chipped horse bone and depth of indecipherable text walking streets of mohenjo daro, anorexic twiggy-like dancing girl preserved as bronze knife, memory has defied this, ponder, exact means nothing, random and the waters rush in, biblical passage about the drowning with the bride, the in pursuit of, knowledge means nothing, nouns marked for gender and number, when did that happen, in trees waiting for the “moment”, to drop down and become, wearing the skins of what they have killed, in context, jargon -phagy, what the buddha will renounce, what effigy behind glass staring will tell us about, ourselves, the long kiss goodnight, and whatever else it takes, come to our senses re telling the same fabric narrative, who got it, what was the passion, what was the loss, what was the gain, ethereal and red the vast outside of the universe, originating and sustaining and annihilating, shores of light glimpsed and at once receding, out of the fortress of consciousness, will you be mine, ?, necessity starts naming streets after the numbers of the alphabet, and we pace them, wondering at the end of which one we will encounter the “ferry man”, Moon River, the big anatolian swap, damaged goods as usual, tag ends with references to the forbidden love, the distance of memory monitored by a spanish speaking radio, into what wild plantation southland the dead gibbering in their famous patois all about the time beyond time, dead boy and the comets, come to me with pearls of melancholy, across the deep still water(s) of, as if a return to the beginning, were you the One I meant, one world one girl one love, running back to the place where it was supposed to have started, mexican jazz radiophone in the dead man’s ear, lousy recognitions, a catholic muffler with two vowel system, amo amas amat, y’ know, exactly like lucretius, would not have it any other eye, ETYMOLOGY OF THE WHEEL, a course in new york linguaphonics, ancient & decrepit professorial type spitting it out from chakra to cycle to wheel, in his gaze the unmistakable vishnu deity all indigo and vast as the universe itself, standing on the world’s very infirm plateau to ponder, ponder, the ink stretches as far back as the routine of grass in wind, threnody supersedes paean, like a mystery with a piano


in the invisible back room, inner sanctum where the goddess peels back the skin for fellatio, a section of the undivided mind, uncategorical, philosophy and dwindling, riverside drive watching spring’s white flowers burst into a bluish chalk, write a name there for all the sky to see, You, maybe, but where in the talmud have you disappeared to, underwood chases death threat, type script of the question mark, “s”, flavor of summer rains rush into purple sedge, harmonics of cement and distance, all the ways through and around the minotaur’s metropolitan lair, what is agony probably with thread in hand descending, as always descending, ponder, the infernal zones below the thin mask of order, upstairs the pushcarts full of dope and Bang, the illusory meat house where we have taken the lesson of birth and put a face on it, baffling suggestions about the girl’s home coming, telegraph to confirm, some one exactly like you stares back from the fifth avenue plate glass, beckons to a book spine to be read with infinite care, that is what I meant, here is my, signature illegible something a date perhaps, what year are we now, ?, masterful strokes from the dying christian scientist, up and down the stairs over and over, carrying the same increasingly heavy baggage for what, a symposium on charity and the practice of giving, holland tunnel, what lies west over the jersey hills, what lies beyond in the algonquin dialect, ear to the stone, a cirrus cloud shaped like a tomahawk, come marry me, it says in the thin revolving door of evening’s carrying a brickbat, without portfolio, Our Hero, face to the linen and ponder, streets in and out of myth, scope of magazine gloss and sheer distance, temenos of “being”, there, or how to get out of “here “ , as we were saying in the alternate dialect, a framework with platonic additives, spheres of brightness way above announcing the life “to be”, as if it could ever, the wavelengths turn into a dirge, palm sunday’s worst manifestation, to be born again! whiplash and vociferating a trembling Ur-Sprach on the tip of the dandelion stalk, quivering symposia of harrowing hells, a darkness covers the loam, rich as proserpina is, her is nothing but a glossy magazine gestalt, what will come to be as Vogue or, paging tranquility’s moon as if to calm the down, gesso artifacts and museum redundancies,


hello bells ringing this old bride of mine, for whom she tolls, death’s furtive knell, why do it again? but for this time do I sail the paper sea, magma of coruscating iris, ‘scapades in sleek monkey fur coat and a diamond of imaginary proportions, walls shake down, broadway re visited with a flank of torrid beef, fat boy for sale, tad’s steak house three AM with saint john of the X, vizier to the doomed walpurgis nacht with cuban accent, free floating syllables that spell out nuclear threat, whose will be mine, thistle and burr in the throaty descent, to go there again, rose and irish coffee what resembles riverside drive on a sunday after thought, cross the broad stream to the palisades of radio memory, lay out in the ether ward one by one the various cadavers you have been until now, each with a volume of latin structure, a mouth will swallow all, agape the left corner of the map upper in its silence rears its horrid spine into the belfry, chase of definitions in subscript, mirror rejects image, what to do, ? mucho, and after that the effects fully speaking of the lunar berlitz formula, will’t ‘ou be mine, ?, asked in the third plural feminine of course the rebate is less than expected, (see ya in the grave), Honey, madness before noon followed by the usual reiteration of vows forever, and ever, Yours, sincerely, I promise, yess, do please, Please, me, this has already been one long dream, a cycle of skies and grass and wind and clouds, each the shape of the “other”, mounting willfully into a category of infrared, before what else, suggestions that pale is the purest color in the scheme, your long waistlength brown hair for example smelling as if always just washed, what flowers are those, scattered petals over the white manifestation that extends beyond the southern “rim”, you will be Mine, then, a course of action that always reduces us to the state of mere spectators, hand in hand the mutual fit of darkness entwined in the kiss, a study in planetary folds given to sobbing at twilight, alba and the dulzura of sheer longing, sprouting wings from your graceful shoulders, or a spanish gesture around your waist, without which there is no translation to heaven, without which there is only the intransigent passage into darkness, noon, spellbound, the islands of remote glass,


which is “distance” in the various dialects of the upcountry, we go round that, we skirt the infinite hoping for a rebound into green, a section cuts off and we go floating through a grammar of light towards the imponderable, like a first plane ride through the stratosphere where imitations of the city of philadelphia tear off into sheer gauze, white filaments wisping off the celestial spindle, bear me to You, again and again, asleep or infirm in the chasm of the Hour, which are the vows we have spoken, sotto voce in candle light within the grotto, what depth of waters, what utter insignificance, !, landing on a wet strip of tarmac near nashville tennessee, which is the logical december as predicted by the radio just minutes before, profanity surrenders to profanity though you are Divine, and what we witness is what we are, semblance and syntax of the inexplicable, going through and round the variable song that unties before it unites, bonds of fire, links of asbestos, chain of Love, remember me but forget my Void, tissue of inactivity and despond, interlaced through and threaded as beads of fine pearl finish, infrared ponder, the illegible writing below the moon’s sanctum sanctorum, pinkish cotton strands withering thoughts of, ivory and stained nicotine the, a pondering beside the waters, river’s depth cut in half by shine, arpeggio shivers silvery rust music until, forget my Void, singularity of the instance for example even at the end there will be nothing not even, sub atomic particles, extrapagination beyond the margins what cannot = be imagined, a pond beside a temple, to whom is the temple dedicated, to the god Vithoba, references to which to occur later, see index, and ponder, what my love is a void, in far off Cipango or Serendip, where the temple whores practice bride ceremonies, robed in deep saffron wrappers, writing in moonlight secret poems, sighs and mint breath of passion’s inner suit, some meat here, a poignant arrow there, a riderless horse saddled and, in a banyan grove or wearing lotus fringe a semi deity who will summon from sleep the hours of despair, meet me in washington square, tomorrow, then such as it has been, a depth and some regrets lining the avenues of the “hidden city”, green scum covers the pond surface, beneath which the illegible waits, in and out the attempt to define the labyrinth, the immarginable


with its fuming clause structures and pendants hoisted high over a french sort of “classicism”, how can anything be considered “modern”, ?, ask and ponder, as life goes on, the rituals the and the more, pale and flaming at the same time, a literature of conceit and riddle budding within a delicate green pod, will be, mine, a bag of skin with bones inserted and a name tag, nominative case singular, only, known to the ethereal as “mortals”, in fact it is ancient, archaic as the now faded hills of arcadia, the faun footed and the nymphs dew damp drying out on the rockaways, nowadays an electric train will take you “there”, if we sleep for the moment it is to regain, consciousness for a, restaurants where we linger waiting for the lamp to flare, the libraries brood in a century old dark, who will be at the gate who will be nodding against the outer wall, who will be, moon beams strike the scum green pond, an epiphany botany lessons seconded by a gesture in proto romance, a fling with bertran de born or jaufre rudel, you Know, when the lark flies against the sun’s rays etc morning of the world somewhere near toulouse or, if one could get back, if one only, a snatch of verse torn from some aerial pedestal, a column of the invisible, dedicated to the Muse, white and porphyry intermingled, the sculpted robe fluted awnings, things seem to just hover, before the weight makes its presence, moving on into the corridor where a dim light or perhaps none at all, move on or back unaware that this is life, with all its fast little feet, that a buddha type is lurking in the hedge waiting for that one “false” move, I am, ponder this also, am, “can vei la lauzeta mover de joi …” Wings!, seraphic incidence when least expected between yellow covers and a plain map showing linguistic borders, beside which a small tunnel marks the entrance to hell, “sas alas contral rai”, the gorge at the bottom of which lies the dissembled corpse, the exit to latin syntax, the void, which forget, a wonder that the light is so bright at this time of day, whom you will encounter when the moving body stands still, come to be “other” the ordinary, what is a function of speech is actually the Hour of, soundless passages when only flickers of color, paler than imagined at first, then a dionysian flame on her brow touches the hair and turns into a conflagration, identities pitch into the small ditch,


one moves from leaf to leaf, looking for the source of blood, or the moment when “recognition” takes on substance, talking and talking into the night, resemblances of matter and space like long lost platonic coordinates, on the rail which is the daily routine, the “job” with its cavernous dictates about alienation and death, to embrace without consideration that moment is to “fall” from grace, the cocktail hour becomes a summum bonum, looking with straying eye towards the entrance where goddesses are supposed to manifest full born, but either end is only the suggestion of a painting, a likeness to, = a simulacrum of, the infinite regard and longing going through utter space in search of a “voice”, you will know me by, strolling through the art gallery with a no known of choice, until hesitation and the wallpaper of “their” skin, think about writing about “it”, “them”, that is, is whatever, the ink drains to the left, while topright utter sections delve into the half that cannot be discovered, ignored the template where it says “right thinking” goes away, we are, left alone, to the right a portion of sky where Mummy Nut in her spangles blooms starbright, what approbation there is flickers, a wrong purpose, a passage into the tantric episode with, the mere idea heads drift a realization that this is life’s exceptional moment the, horizon where Cipango stammers its backname shifting syllables, vision of skin (the “song”) such as never before seen, touched and felt to ecstasy a frame with void of references, as sunday afternoons are meant, to be, in central park head down below the nostalgic cloud wisps, green on all sides verging on blue, the night spies in the undergrowth, warning, when will the moment Be, when, the right size of ink the shape of an ethereal, hollowed insides of the book about legends, the mythographer blinded in either eye by beauty’s ephemeral gloss, hod carriers and shun the right thing, to pretend to be other, while looking straight at “her” knowing the train is headed for the same destination, hod carriers ponder, each window becomes a luminous planet rushing toward destruction, speeding thoughts an end to the ticket, bearing no known to a previous resemblance, and sing song shifts her skirts into tight abyss, I am alone, then, register yellow on the frame, hello hello, thought the phone was off the hook but it was just the


rodriguez Girl, the one with the distant and echoing hair, the shining at four in the morning beneath the map of hiroshima just seconds after the blast, who will come to know this and others like, chasing that after-image through wabash avenue cocktail lounges, or duck on below the trestles for lunch on the riverbank kissing lips off the highwire, every nerve tingling with its own radio battery, incandescent volatile forbidden, dehiscent sections, carved from a map of meat with exploding tickets in high range, geared up and racing to go over the line, “can’t get No satisfaction”, whose target is a written ceremony in dissected prose opera omnia, flammantia moenia mundi again, ponder, dactylics and spondees, in her hair the remnant of a terrible rocky mountain lock up, come to know each blade of grass each cloud worn in her eye, each, change the locks and suborn the hands, multiple keys regarding the orient and oneiric escapade, numinous kisses below the margin with exactly what extra orgasmic parameter for being “off limits”, NIKKI, mysterium universale femininumque, ad astra, !, that thick braid of indelibly black hair, a ghost story in mansions of dead cloth and opaque matter, just next door where the eye shines like a length of water into the dusty void, have been seen going and coming like a thief, a fiction rolled up under the left arm, a prize of alcohol and the bloody thread that leads beyond greek revenge, in subatomic particles the narrative seeks its own displacement passing Alpha Centauri in distance microfilm, should I also tell “you” about, throngs of the faceless lining the main thoroughfare to just a glimpse of, caught up in the samsara, to toss off the body’s identity and hone in on the, does the soul have a vertebral column, does it think on its own, superb and catches of hair in the link, lead me back to her, telephones were invented just for this purpose, as were maps and combs, attributes of the divine in a succinctly worded radio voice, runaway and the doldrums, chaste shrugged off as innocent despair, must I always, and to settle down and raise a family and brood on infinite, can there be salvation homesteading, invitation by hoary gurus to hide in the forest, thibet calls its singular, a blue faced god just landed in hamburg to deliver us, from evil the karma, hanging on by the thin air of life, to die just once!, call her, Oh, back just once again,


to thrill of meat and illusory dread in a six pack of sex, or else dial “dante” for infernal discharge, waiting on you “all”, a trecento prose redaction of the infamous odyssey to Cipango and back to where open spaces inundate the heart, to the core, a message about the devil, intake of dead air and release, moksha, moksha, moksha, where be it? , a salutary glance at the forbidden behind the neighbor’s walls, a sunday morning excursus into the prohibited, can’t get enough, maps spiral out from the crab nebula, her brain tossed in some african heliotrope, a storm of ranging from the lowest to a divine and subtle issue, much like the invisible ink they use in making isoglosses, where every thing means something else, or the distinctions no longer prevail between word and word, I think this is “right”, love is the pronoun employed in sleep, a devious and labyrinthine lexical unit, darkness to ponder, and darker yet the subterfuges the tangled masses, her hair growing by the mile to block the doorway, a, black and dense enough to strangle, no comb to combat its wild luxury, a, in the finish there is a very small photo inserted with a red projectile called “cancer”, you will know it, then hostile and enigmatic, life’s other juxtaposition, child rearing behaving well suit and tie, shoes polished, who will put them on, if not the father in the dark, who is abiding, who is musical on sundays and drunk on mondays, who is recalling that cancion about perfidia, who sweeps the dictionaries inside to locate the source of romance, a light on his inner shelf life, a tool bar settled down to make amends, here Honey, I’m “home”, half believing the symphonic code, the extensions of fiction in the wake of so much dreariness, ennui of the eaten ticket, the windows that travel soundlessly through night’s bitterest hour, and yet still unable to correctly identify why that is, what it is, seeking in patterns the given and hidden face that “shines”, for You alone, mythiform and wasp waisted shrunk to the size of a, still there with her intrigue of hair black and dense, waiting for the re invention of the telephone on the other coast, subordinates of history, amalgam of byzantine faery and shapeless hands, whither shall we travel, on what arcane barque o’er what temepesta del mare? asks the one penciling the “other”, a narrative of sea wrecks fraught with linguistic dilemma, a


ponder this, also, using dante as a guide, a lume spento, the berlitz section in unequal lunar halves, going backwards on the cristoforo colombo through the straits of gibraltar (jib-al-tarik), fumous disregard for what has gone before, set sail over the glassy into what hazy horizon, the eglantine as a prize, the caves where the wildmen wait, the One-Eyed, solar offspring rant, ports of call, parthenopolis, messina, panormus, where dead gods lie waiting for re assemblage, re vivification in a bottle of priceless white wine, borders of hell, intimations of the religion of isis, horus shattered into his divine fractions, eat me! eat my Self! obscure effect of the moly, radicals of the most ancient verbs imaginable, to be able to see straight is not the point, to be able to see at all, through the layers of entelechy and ontology, sperm and root, on the sunspelled morning hillslope enormous white bullocks unyoked pasturing on the communal landscape, etymologies of the “wheel” sent spinning through clouddrift, with only a map of the sky in faint yellow detail, to which houses tend we, to mourn, to re joice, to which lunar mansions to bed the soul for a night, a pondering of the illusory a, where lies mighty “achilles” now, adjacent to quarters in the vatican, opposite the stazione termini, heliogabalus wearing the sun’s forfeited diadem, stray half blinded sheep cropping on amphetamine and brick hard by the temple of Janus, take achilles down a notch, surrender some of the night stuff to pasolini’s ragazzi di vita, werewolf of the trastevere haunting pedagogical bookstores, for a hint of the platonic, for a gloss of the nicomachean ethics, with a letter from signor berlitz of the new york office to signor berlitz of the ufficio di roma, an’ it please you to hire this young man, labyrinthine tracts extending from the swallow littered heights of gubbio to ancona’s dusty port, a section in oblique oscan with remnants of tufa and sandstone, porous as dreams “are”, long snatches of untranslatable etruscan prose, all about tombs and the shadowy after life, sitting at table with the ghosts of mencius and kung-fu, above on the dew wet branches of dawn the birds in their small latin, what is their memory?, a


song about, lasting and longing for as seas go far away, lonely rivers “flow”, take me with your weeping hair, dance away the life-long hour, mark each time a minute in despair, mind every sound with a, trains wheel going through appenine thrill, a device called “purgatorio” and rolled around each thumb two or three times, the effort it takes to drink that liter of chilled white wine, mezzogiorno nel blu dipinto di blu, what inch of crying wood, no relief but in the imagined grotto, placards of paper unfurled in gesso skies, a marble deity twice over in rouge and pale summons with a single finger the array of antiquity, azure flames into white the almost indistinguishable where philosophia naked in her cell pastures on “thought”, chimes in an empty afternoon verging on meadows of green so intense blindness results, climb aboard the divine cart, hauled back and forth to and from luna park, the juke box with its sad and melancholy injunctions about “my lady fair”, from afar the roman laughter of petronius, fables about and bruised on unhewn rock palisades the enormous face of Momus musing on, so much confusion, labels and paint chips on the forgotten peristyle, a senecan tragedy with at the center stage a medea type with lunar signs all in disarray, divinities in white face peering through russet reeds to tell a tale, to tell what’s it all about, a sung song dark in remote key of delta, ponder, swinging a soundless through the predawn factory, waves a dense waters rushing sleep’s lost corridor before flight sways, a single or a double, partitions of space and light, sub lunar geographies sectioned by dialect in uneven hues, skin and texture illuminated in the semi obscurity of the, hours longer than a thought to remove the fine line of vermilion, and we are in the mountains and gather within folds of a conditional purity the sameness we felt after meeting in the dark the first time, who was “that”?, a claire a –fication, ponder who, a pale absence is the rarest of a, and then in and through the labyrinthine water toward the bright green turf, toward the child’s map of london, saxifrage dogwood hawthorn hyssop jasmine, the prize is eglantine, to write that poem through windows moving, darker tensions hill mounds of mystery, sequenced the berlitz section into the uses of the infinitive, far off the


roaring southern seas, far off the plummeting planet, and still farther, off seized by the hair, and dashed against the blank, shuttles small as grammatical connotations can be, a nuance in stone, or the tiny pink shell where the sea takes origin again, fishes with enormous and languid eyes, priests rush to the defense of glass, a radio sets up tea time with a bitters, a flow beside the embankment’s diminutive summer, we will be there wandering in the maze, love’s illusion, every where, what is waning in ten minutes what passes forth, into some buddhist terrain of slope and tangent, paddies where submerged the hungry ghosts wait, wait and ponder, where devils in the formation of wings and beautiful as anything, ponder, their sub lunar activity, corroding the human element, ego and snap wired to the crystal of dissent, where I will be, what I will be doing, in the folds of vedanta, notting hill, kensington high street, hyde park, wimbledon, the chase after the book of the dead, to prove a point, the poignantly beautiful terse azure sky of a thames afternoon, a finger wet to catch the wind in its glass, chambers where brown turns to gray before, the, ginger softened plaids shifting ponder, a passage toward maturity or its already atrophied definition, from no certain vantage point yet, enthusiasm in a music of beyond the clouds both drugged and sharp as a diamond needle, recording device of the “beautiful people”, metaphysical “realities” as such poised on the promontory of despair, disappearances in books of an elaborate decimal system, learning despite the rose’s conundrum, apex of a situation which has us looking at an eternal “youth” even as the blocks of ice, ponder, issuing soft tickets and an imaginary cubicle where engines of passion, dense smoke between the lines, leaning southwards and cryptic message in the librarian’s pocket, tundra of print, isoglosses of automotive disorder, diapason and fragrance of a yearning universe shaping its intent in the bosom of billowing and perfumed, a sort of prose annotating the mind’s rapid discoveries within the inner sanctum, clouds in massive banks gathering above the invisible cities of, yellow and green motions as if a hand beckoning, me


?, I will promise you “knowledge” if you but give me a moment of reflection beside that pond, green scum and the temple of the god Vithoba next to it, shadows, ponder a language that no man understands, a silhouette married to its corporeality, moving slowly along the dotted, continents have gone under while we talk, who has not realized this has not, how many kinds of flowers there are, what is the nature of stone, issuing tickets to an imaginary paradise, as which is not, a paradise that no man has a language to understand, knowledge locked up in miles of unreachable shelving, volumes of systematic reconditioning, a poem, in the perhaps of the vaguest chaos, inches to the left and you are dead, inches to the right and you are, dead, fifth avenue walk up to instant hell, next to the large granite structure is the exit, if you can but find it, newspapers and water fountains, girls too, littered sections of a stolen berlitz icon, in neo provencal sunscript, with a nod to those who understand “texture” and to those who have embarked on the subterranean route to, serial nominalization, promise you knowledge and the beyond of “that”, ? what you don’t know, what cant be known, the other side of the library’s black funnel, re register thought to, ponder, illusionary scheme to, wholesale paradise and chimera, soft as everywhere, are, saints named pulchra or dulcedo levitating inches off the earth, in an effort to combine with death, the long treks through the ferny underpassage, to the blue light beyond, no known name, no known identity, just the imaginary and rotting corpse, tied to no celestial tree, foliage a banter in the lisping mid life wind, who will wear what color lipstick when the right “moment” arrives, charon at the helm of his lugubrious barque, a solemn and bell warning tones in heat colored greens sometimes rife with ambition and, tropical disorder and the pure semblance of chaos, itself, a verging on the imponderable, the “you” versus the “me”, in idiotic dialogue somewhere deep within the infrared, a situation develops followed by a smoldering pale, infix and clitic, smokes of a distance and the steel shaded passage towards, is it heliotrope that yearns? light is a “form” as ideas are actually the shapes we cannot grasp, contact nothing, touch the skin displayed in the maze, touch


what that knowledge “is”, cannot say, a purer type highlighted in yellow soft and morbid, like a “mother”, moving with a kind of consciousness what matters is the viscous, substance, we are all under the “sea” as it were, investigations of coral and sponge, echinodermata that elude typology, ramifications of the Beautiful with at the center, “You”, shh I’m still here waiting, a watch on the second floor and then, Bang,!, what a surprise in chinese tinfoil wrapped around the small digit, that means we are really mortal, after all, and lose count after a certain number, sleep dissipating edgelessly in dawn’s ephemeral pink smoke, a cigarette in the trees, a poem actually about the “girls” who smoke them, come to the ground hunkering peering animallike, a buddha, look! with the patient manner of a zoo inmate spending an afternoon in eternity, convinced that somehow it will be different, starting tomorrow, that, Is and as sudden as that, is, Is there nothing but, a passage that can only refer to “death” or some illumined figment thereof, a cancelled vegetation at the root of sleep, the demonic excess of passion attributed to the glance of some orange shellac girl on the subway, speaking some rapid kind of pepper-rican dialect, a shadow below volcanic ash, and dazzling as thoughts are and can be, what is most than silence, a lesser form of shade incorporating the dynamics of light and afterthought, moving through a volume of intransigence and infrared into the beyond, eerie and numinous as the lunar mansions which can only occur at low tide, a bank of dead flowers, a something of cement and wrought iron toppling over the dream’s infinite margin, a suppose you take my hand for a moment, a suppose, hair is wild and refulgent and planets are just coming into being, a poem about them, thin blue filaments of “surrealism” surfacing on the Ocean-of-Being, for me and you that’s a hint of a catastrophic event, singularity and horizonless opportunity to “write”, filling small ledgers with archaeology notes in a sample of egyptoscript, how the depths were plumbed in an instant, borrowing an inch of your “sex”, finished the great “prose” in a breath of despair, to go on mining the mind’s subterfuge, watching everything go by on west fortysecond street, just to the right of the small text of discovered poetry, much like a telephone


that has come into being for no reason at all, hello, Hello, master negative of the orient flashing in sulphuric tones in the large grotto that is Grand Central Station, the girl with rabies barking at the harsh fluorescent lamps, and sky itself opposed to her thin radiology, yellow overtones of a crippling disease, listening to the feet of a vast underground effort trample “art” to death, museums where clutter is order, a shape of ink rotating high overhead in place of clouds, cinematic anarchy in the heart of the behemoth, here is what Hope is, what is supposed, reclining on the faint paper stencil of a heart named “kodachrome”, vestibular nonsense in a hundred unrelated dialects all being spoken at once into the oneiric ear, Christ resumed in a volapuk text, “hello, Monkey, I’m home”, probably Manhatta in context, wampum and strung beads of imperial ether, everyone heavy with drink announcing the Prophet in cedar tavern, visionary and excited the lorca-type shaping alternate islands with his manifestly dream like hands, (that’s me on the far center of the photograph in orange t-shirt and eyes of spun gold), or the time we rung up the “other world” in a taxi being hurtled across the Brooklyn bridge at one in the so called morning, her was a irish gal, soft brown tresses and drinking out of the same bottle, all I wanted was a, sections of her kept re appearing in used book stores for example on schermerhorn street, or up in the Heights the voluble presence of brownstone and, gazing dreamily across the water to the jersey distances where the West “begins”, if only the right radio could be found, saturday mornings wake up, Monkey, I’m home, again, buddhist parallax in loud underwear looking for a hit on atlantic avenue, Times Plaza Hotel fleabag across from the eternal Laundromat with its dehiscent all-night lamps appealing to some nostalgic sea, greek comes first, then pizza then the williamsburg bank building with its hurricane winds, or else face down in the filthy green sump of gowanus canal, sunday morning wake, UP, Monkey, I’m home again, you know, furious yet diffuse salsa music coming out of nowhere, who the drunk in the basement is, who the tightrope artist is swaying from lamp-post at this time of day, sun goes bonkers, death is trite by sunday afternoon, a wrapped in skin little girl knocked into the curb by a passing chariot, where is it to come home, hot asphalt and coroner’s robe


of dirty yellow smudge, two degrees further up and you are in the fancy restaurant where they serve octopus dish and mafioso corpse, how the children grow up here, and what the riddle is, can never tell when the dance class begins or the clarinet lesson, fandango shifts in re evaluated back yard with renaissance statuary, dead ended, how to watch for the certain daystar pivoting above a catholic homeless shelter, walk the eastside streets feeling betrayed deceived, suspicious of the off broadway actor in algerian dialect, or the wife made up to resemble the ancient lady of death, or the least, in earth terms white is paler than most, green remains a fiction, poesy’s consort in bare breast, sectioned into fractions of meat the ideal suffers its more, we re run the circles we have already wounded, we re wind the hour’s lapsed cycles into easier vaster emptiness, absence swallows presence & the nether orients a symptom further north, library divides into uneven hemispheres, the one for the identity I never had and the other for the ego I never wanted, into and behind the vast stacks of arbitrarily classed books, shifts taking turns with night in order to read the stars’ fine chinese script, better and ponder, a symbol comes in weighing seven light years in length at its cone, other worlds flash by in what is known as “instamatic reconditioning”, a matriculation of infrared and limbo with the italian middle ages sorted out through a map of lower manhattan, will we ever get it straight? mulberry street introduces its children’s literature to the dead of mind, parks are subtracted from the whole as master shafts in black and incandescence re produce the intense instant of birth, envelopes go forth! I am the mis begotten , a, whenever the sun locates its tunnel, whenever the riderless horse issues from the tumult, who they are, questions, abstract in hyphenated spanish with greek redaction in quarto, leafing through the missal’s lost pages in a sudden quirk, light sunders the open dark with a lesson in tibetan, we are learning buddhas, faint re collections of the animals we wore at eventide in crimson, slant wise the lingering water sheds its darker portion to reveal a moon of even paler hue, dance with me, !, saying doesn’t make it so, each is a lesion in two-step sanskrit, mossy primers with antidote in white fray, asbestos spray in the wake of a hudson river


afternoon fully deeper green than expected, and around the corner each weaving a speckled skin the “goddesses’ aboriginal and distant but, suddenly yes, within orbit, and the poetry readings which they attend in disguise, how life assumes them, quixotic and the equivalent of a, get to know the secret form of the lyric, the cloudy shape of the enigma, the way the thighs part for the moment of truth, hidden realms hinted The, a glosses over the unprinted matter, the unspeakable thoughts, pattern, ponder, chimerical hooves on the gauzy turf, every is where in the prolegomena to the “invention of spain”, wrought iron apostrophes that pre suppose the ultimate circumflex, disposable units of “being” and the deranged gloria whose mechanized vehicle plummets towards Monkey, I’m home, on one’s knees praying to the madonna of the toilet for succor, back issues of inappropriate and bad thoughts congealed on the wharf where used monarchic sperm gathers, at bay the andalusian hounds and drugged toreadors, a fulminating line which is the reply to gongora’s polifemo, angelic vistas wasted in windows covered with black tissue, a blank recording device renders solemn this moment in hell, while backwards the opposable thumbs of a transylvanian bard bear an apostate soul towards its pornographic beatification, west forty second street comes to “life” in its dark tumbler, noon in the apogee of sulfur and heliotrope, whiter petals yet drifting through the buzzing somnolence, this is the “it” of Desire, !, so-called, silver wrappers and rust, dumbfounded paragraphs laid to rest in a thin patina of skin and talcum, the possibility that a brassiere can manifest through a telephone, amalgam of impure and serene imagery pasted on the backside of an envelope dedicated to petrarch’s laura, but then the city takes over, the impurities and beauties of anguish and disgust, torched by an unslaked passion, intoxicated by whatever thrusts into view the oneiric plasma of a debauch in hell, consecration of the “house” with between the legs obscenity’s bird of night, something like a poetry to “know” but will not be settled, the cheap end of a conflagration with dido as a gift, and whatever sea drifts off with aeneas somber cast into a viscous reverie, I am there with “him”


reckoning accounts with a magnificent white tide rushing, overhauled the lyric for a transcendental moment when even green pales into the referential blank, ego submits to ego in a distant plain, buddha-like the semblances exchange pallor and for a hand to become “other, for a breath to take place and in the next instant, the bride is a transformation of skin and sky, limitless, ponder, hiatus and delusion the enormous subjects of the unconscious, when we are in fact growing old, taking each winter as an afterthought, or wielding the invisible tongue within its diphthong, luster of massive star clusters cone nebulae black holes impending, Doom, to love in that maze, the incongruous, as years flash by in the instant’s tricolored domesticity, we will take “lunch with the angels” then, a proposition to live by in the future’s secluded eyelid when all of france becomes a pastoral watering hole, and spain itself explodes in a railroad station on the portuguese border, on our way to casablanca to the dead aquarium on its watery hemline, what is there to visit if not the hot & distant ruin of Volubilis, or to get lost in the deception of the medina’s tannery, what striped brain in occlusion will out of this descent return? longing, tripoli, the white lady of feigning in her argent rust and slippers of berlitz moon dust, awake in the immense pre dawn of a new cognition next to a febrile skin, yellow begets yellow, the doctors of salamanca argue pointlessly the “distance” She has become, softening or terse or otherwise what is lengthening out towards the phading horizonless, a section splits off from sleep, another devoured by a remote mound, a darkening brown worse than sump, huddles an angst deep in the mid zone, lessened by the fetid canal waters, hieroglyphs beckon mantic and, fusion of Monkey, I’m home, with epic delineation of the strife most distant, as if fifth avenue had more to offer, the walk-up to heaven’s gate, a paradigm of “lunch with the angels”, signed “yours truly”, heaving pointlessly toward a void left behind by crushed stars, more than vague emphasis on the woman inside the man, where claire left off where others, begin by announcing the “form” with no hands to shape it,


is it so much that sorrow, snows that cover the empire of mechanized metal, languid detours into fantasy of the unspoken, sense of perfume and jungle of hair, ships out the meat to ports unknown, cadavers smoking their remains of a life, undiscovered languages with a phonology of metaphysical ruin, I know “that” but I am not “that”, (yet), miasma without caution springing into the mephitic winds, helen’s twice raped carcass dumped into the shoals near jersey city’s municipal morgue, that sorrow, ponder a meal with the, lunch is over for the moment, a quick obfuscation of the senses, Israfel with her glorious wingspan, high above the tenements of an obscure intuition, the run on jewish girls’ names is capitalized by Deborah, for whom poems originate and despond and the sliver of moon, shoved into the back of a moving vehicle off the frenzy, bypaths of Brahman and Krishna, where salvation is, whatever gets you through the night, Monkey’s, home, attributes of a gangetic despair the vast and fetid, where are we going being borne by these huge mahouts, on your left is the taj mahal and on the right the naked jain eating “goop”, salvation across that great bleak water, aswirl in the sea of concern, a smaller, a thing without replica, a the, is a bigger word possible? LUNCH WITH THE ANGELS supposed to be a longish lyric with epithets come down with a sudden bout of encephalitis dust storms in the brain’s core, to the left the mid section painted a bright vermilion “whiter shade of pale” linoleum brickwork in the fade english tea house you for me and me for , You was ever and the lotus feet incarnadine soles dancing notching stairs of literal “light” spaces in between where the comatose we will seek the stars together the Huge Vast the Black, “micronauts” aloft in the Vatican version the child(e) divests the self of hands the engines wont start, matters little when the hospital immersed in rust slowly sinks from views of the planet are hard to come by, I remember how rare it is, a spangled an obfuscated, the turkish doctor with his mallet and prongs, the so called Hope tendered to the mutilated in the dimly lit, by the way you were supposed to meet me in hell


yesterday, the body organized by units that weigh next to nothing and the section by section, thrust into a large machine that “sees” everything, thoughts about the other life, a tibetan show with street names always in reverse indigo, a followed by its other “a”, wheel takes flight high above the intensive care Ward, a the other or a preview of blank the sudden collapse, of, shifts in the terminal red in sequence of no known order, supplemented by a X-ray zaps luminous of earthly glare numinous and the volume of ether required to, Breathe, !, deeper than expected off the cliff with the hundred thousand elephants or in terms of “quality of life” as the good turkish doctor put it, a vale of tears either hemi sphere paralyzed and no shoe in sight, who will upend the table who will unsettle the wine, whose debt is this ? hyphenated lessons in survival a brief outing in aldebaran sightings off the coast of malabar, a session in the french pleiades, is crimson any better than red litmus, the blue unfolds its vast empire of rusted spanish gold, a traffic of heliotrope and dogwood stands still at last on the promontory where the brain seeks an instant of refrigeration angelic hosts applaud the, characters from mahabharata and krishna “on hold” peals longing of cuprous saffron clouds hover and then roar into cinematic variations of dying of not being unable to die, this is a vedic sideshow a caravanserai that works like a massive needle through the scalp removing inch by inch the spatial turf until only a gelid polyp seems to squirm “seeing” into the ultramarine where a shattered city of onion skin layers its threnody can still be “heard” among the cigarette smokers of earth, the veiled, the plumage masturbates high above the excoriated, a vehicle shifting, a paragraph or so later in the dark ominous parts of the alphabet glowing for a second only, a pastiche of literary allusions to the so-called berkeley marina, HABEAS CORPUS, what good are the feet, where can the bed go after all this, a legal indecision as to the distinctions between life and breath, the hereafter on its tenuous telegraph


wires home, Mom! , bursts of and seed scatters a miasma in the phone booth where so little really matters so just wait, a monument cries the Statue! racing with a hereafter less than, a tenebrous inkling that we are all in this condition, un conscious fried from the brain up, hiccoughing into a glass of italy, within a stone’s throw the skin confesses it is still looking for Cipango, an orient of flaring brass colored inks that sift through the comatose mind into a small reduct no larger than the oval continent within the inner ear, can’t hear as well as before, only the windows seem to “shout” some other names for utensils all lost, what food is “that”? mom wandering dazed in the cafeteria a ticket to no known hospital crumpled in her other hand a map of the day dido burned, ‘member that one? a dozen or so hexameters hastily shoved into the top drawer next to the it’s all so irreverent, burden of living being forced to move in mid summer with no place to forage the leaves’ greenery dies a pale amber dying, much like the shot heard in the taxi exactly one minute past midnight with saint john of the X , on one’s knees, pleading, ponder, this is a life’s time of gone, in a cinder the instant retraces its circular fiction, angels devastated crouching on car hoods as if staring into some noon hour hell, where you were supposed to meet me, white munitions out to water, a finnish expression for “suicide” we are all makeshift motors, you know, an inch of meat about to be carbonized in the metaphysical epicycle, period, and the most is never more than less, a sheer drop of blood, only one, meet me in hell, mention this to know one, not even the social worker with the california accent, blue marble upholstery in a metaphorical vehicle indra king of the gods dead drunk in the rear view mirror, apostasy of the divine in their movie theater, ash, crunch, metal inferno a gust of, can he revive for just a planets go by in slow motion taking skirts of pale azure in their wake,


a boat can never go that “far”, insists that the outer ramparts are bright red, that a green engine exists just below the surface of saturn that and that, too, is also too big a word, implying we are mortal, shells of a thin weaving between a bipolar sea mercurial and prone to vast typhoons, a mind is unstable, a doctor lifts a scalpel , this one’s for Apollo! the decoration fritters out at the end just a small glowing excrescence, used to be a child used to, be, whether or not to go, the indecision, were it not for the telephone book with its accurate scanning device, there “she” is, beyond the metallic digression of the improper medical advice, wholesale lightyears in the making this moment, “bodas de sangre”, midnight in the constabulary of hell with the japan of choice, small red figure eights interlooped with sexual discharge the color of algae fifty fathoms under, and suddenly the bath tub fills with the red sea’s overflow, who is there that can count, who is there for whom there is not a sublime bafflement, for whom the life has been wasted in this absence of light, in whom the blood bathes, for whom agony is a mounting star about to burn out before its inception, I am born in “you” then aloft like a spent trajectory, in your sex, un hunh, an airplane named after the profligate gypsy of cordoba takes me from your hooded splendor, jasmine trickles out of the faucet which you dare, a gush of pyrite turned to liquid vermilion parts your mile length cobalt hair, an explosion on the eastside of the moon takes your skin away, into song, into bloom of fissured oriental outtakes, heavy air heavy air darkens the window’s promise, we are ancient as, ancient as, did not dare to think the future would pass so quickly, an instamatic reconditioning doubled by the library of congress, trumpet vine eschews collateral metaphysic, we are meat choices only, a stipulation that the california coast line will soon wear itself down, or that, and the “other” thing I meant to say when we met in hell that tuesday with the iron burning into your skin, tattooed heart of the drunken sailor, y’ know, how can we figure it out if the cancellation has already been submitted, I am an isolation case looking for, a heaven’s just a fist


on earth, shaking and doubled over like Hercules Furens, a character from a senecan tragedy who has just been cheated by the cab driver, in old run down a lot, rotted at the timber with only so much time to go, before it blasts itself out, to ruminate on the green pastiche of the remaining, it pales aside from the italian lesson what else, there is a suburb somewhere to the north with an obligato, phrases easily elude, sky changes from distance to a thin phase blending ochre you assume better but only worsens, never as planned the wall shapes a shadow totally contrary to form, hands disappear beneath sheets of ether, vague, the pondering, which is the debtor, which the debt, etc, as climbs the walls a white doubled over its other, fingers that forget their inky articulation a visible, fires that break out in the hidden parts, recesses of an end that has to be folded over as if one last time, but the imminence of any departure like the roses about to burst in mid life, all air breaks out, a sea of green indecision awash in, what echo was that? a heard a sort of, thinking what is better than whitest if that is a shadow over the mind’s unblessed tundra, a passage to beyond the orient, a section near vallejo street eight in the morning champagne and all, a similarity to paradise but closer to hell than imagined, when we meet next it will be with cancer abloom, other situations only repeat the same, we respond to envelopes with an ink of ignorance, never opening the right one, discarding the jumble of techno-information in a wickerwork library of despair, none of us has made the correct choice in this multiple quiz of brain comes last, smoking somehow gets no better, nor the numinous telegrams to some mysterious non-existent home, it is to sit down to the “poem” and wrack and refuse distill improperly and fling at the receding, flames cold licking bay’s apostolic shore, that’s me next to the black dog “alibi”, recognize little else of what was once, the sudden thing is a great cloud that assumes the shape of sleep, hovering and ponder, that a sanskrit verb system cannot coordinate nor all the microchips stored in a lost memory, a half liter of frozen white wine before extending the epic’s demanding first line, shifts of red into a zone determined by a china of infernal limbo, sheep falling off the darkening ledge, books come and go, titles worn out in a dream of


learning, knowledge becomes its opposite in machine translation, ditto in irreverence, someone who deserves not be named in her black umbrella underwear tugs at the art museum’s distant portal, I am dunned in a firestorm of diphthongs and consonant clusters, trying to find the way out on the endless highway to bakersfield, candles ablaze in broad daylight, sperm tracks threaded through the non existent clouds, a death to go on “being”, to go on being for “what”, ink becomes unstoppable bleeding, no suture holds, equals a call from the cancer ward, is this captive of paradise, ?, thunder peals in the third ear, NAMAH SHIVAYA, who holds the reins, who pays the debts, who cancels the notes of the unwritten song, a section or two later in the card catalog, shakespeare’s misspelled ghost puzzled over the formless intent of baudelaire’s brain, or a brief footnote from the woman in lompoc who considered the structure of hell as a military camp, the third and fourth liters of frozen white wine unsettle the lesson in german democracy, racing back and forth over the bay bridge carrying on one’s back the elusive hospital, who is dying, who will go unheralded, an urn of speckled ash, a lack of determination to identify the next step, heaven is a blunder, an imperfect reading of ariosto, soon the wall-size TV disposes of the young and the restless, tickets for pieces of the bone-text, a buddhist allusion to the inability to travel to the “pure land”, semaphoric, red, and more red before green, samples of a glass of “blush”, unable to make it to nikki’s funeral, or whatever, tangle of night code and cataloging rules, intercepting the new anglo american system for bibliographic description with a bright flutter of yellow “in process”, himalayan reaches of a, living in the world of dis connect, no purely objective pose only the daily entanglement, worsening, ponder, the “so called horror”, of it all the show off poems about a, subsequent to a trip to death valley and the oblique slants of a westering sun over maps of unfounded pacific colonies, who should come in the back door but, you guessed her, jukebox and tampering with a suite of bad disco numbers, everything becomes a bad habit, pizza and pop songs, tumbler after tumbler of lousy noontime wine, fantasy realizes an afterthought in harsh white asterisk, to catalog in the drowsing shade of despair, pretending to


some kind of paranormal hinduism, a sojourn in the world of dis connect, unplugged the mantra-like lyrics, “you’re an angel” based on a green foundation of wanting to die, recur in between sessions that summon a latin goddess whose shine is etruscan for death-bait is it that we are? a fix in the wrong place, the dice turn a corner unprecedented, an automobile flags us down, please don’t anymore it tells us, sex with the improper stranger, piano and bits of red filaments, a husk is all you are, an ordinary husk to be tossed, not much good for anything else, a rant into the microphone, a dissolution inside the next verse about, wear me down with all your provisos and high-standards, a mutilation with disregard as phonetic decay sets in, MANICOMIO, most certainly trying to breathe in the light even as green turns to fade, an orient of next to nothing sand storms, barely legible protocol in perso-arabick script beneath the sutures, tear me out and ! whatever else the gods do, destruction and hemophilia, ponder the remaining spaces, interconnectedness a thing of the past, a flickering TV screen in the large and empty afternoon amphitheater, hubcaps and lipstick syndrome, chasing illusory skirts into the bar’s sawdust basement floor, and just as they’re whistling “?america” a blank others its else, we are sweating beside a juke dream of less than calico references while patterns spread out multifoliate dreams without resolve, pretending they’re “girls” who just wanna have “fun” or, haven’t we seen this, done this, been this, all too often in the glare of a human presence, going up for promotion, another merit review without success, a niche in the library’s third floor near a window, if you’re lucky, if you care, ignoring the birth defect of life, a rotund essay in recent german geo-political history, a foot over the neckar another over the isar, kinetic revolvers aimed at willy nilly, the pointless farrago of subject cataloging rules decentralization mob and the grand et cetera of a finale in Kip’s noontime bar television monitored by, exhausted by the perennial overload of a day on trial with the red head of choice, bunkered down in hilltop flat adjacent to musical corollaries farflung and post planetary epicycle, a huge and sometimes bitter pleasure, of a ponder, too distant now to relate the evidence to the whole, was born and transfigured into this momentum, divisions of a


linguistic nature only, please cancel tomorrow, or the day thereafter in the nation’s only capital, and in the meantime going crazy, slowly, involving the self in a secret photographic process, blur of “girls” becoming, one girl one love one world, you’re an “angel” in the small fiction of black and white flesh, “meat”, for ocular consumption only, yes it becomes madness a yes obsessive, ponder the white staple dangling like a human cicatrix above the L.A. city hall, or the swimshot poses in irregular blank and pale décolletage see though skin meant to be imagined pink and flush with unwholesome rhetoric, thinly disguised and elaborately propped in theatrical garages the mystery of what occurs between “their” legs, ponder and shoot, first comes the notion then the sentimentality of a complex orgasm, intellectualizing the whole mad pictorial extravaganza as a work of art, !, a yes obsessive that circular ménage of venereal faces prepared to devour the male principle, to obscure the mind’s sublimity with a descent to avernus nothing other than, sex from a distance then brought close up through the lens of the so called imagination, a brute ponders, a fiction of depicted in blood thin tattoos on the inner thigh, a, the a, stuttering mess of nerves poured through a sieve of obliterating white wine, narcissus and hymen recoil, heliotrope re assembles, hyacinth bleeds to death, noon blackens its own poetry with a fist of cross sectioned and kissing, yes the famous fist kiss, ponder a, “meat”, nothing less than the hindu tantric rudra masturbating high above the holy lake of reason, all of them down there beneath the black silt surface, promising their wares, unwholesome, reduct of pornography and, a holy awareness, pudenda and smear, a divinity crossdressing for the last time, be mine forever, be mine, tonight’s the night and the thugs jumping down from the roof, in the name of Durga! mate me, mate me, !, what hollow what pale a yellow then thinly a scansion of dubious poetics, inversion of thought process, gesticulating in a vacuum, to repeat the sacred names of, her is a, “that” goddess, ad nauseam, hapax you know legomenon, a vergil proto type in blue port manteau waistcoat doubling as a senior librarian in ostdeutschland, or what used to be the soviet sector, raising a music to the nth degree and never mind the air raid sirens, pretending this is a


“pantograph”, misnomer and illusion’s love everywhere, assuming the momus mask in a mime dedicated to madonna in delicto, hermeneutics and porphyry columns of intimate lingerie wrapped around the additional membrum virile (see verso of t.p.) as if a televised edition were even necessary, all fall down in a holocaust of paper and imitation vermin, super sales to the right and the bliss blistered knock out kiss to the left, in the key of delta a paratactic sensation undressing for the “cure”, don’t cry for me argentina, !, her white shining backside elevated and enlarged, focus on the blind pornographer’s inner eye agape, cruor imberque, dripping in the eaves a darkening, a furious rapture about to, be, being “there” is like being absent, life is Death, after all, flush before using, leave as little trace as possible with a lipstick like “that”, small footsteps, smaller still the flower beds trampled in their grace, what is meant, enigma & with variations, a sequence of asterisks and tabloid suggestion boxes, insert at your risk, peligro, y’ know, the whole thing ‘s ready to “blow”, her lips her evanescent breath, her hinted vivisectioned nether parts, her her her, a miracle was never happened to see her, not even in the magazine (p)articles and with half a skirt to heaven, at arm’s length pizza-lipstick-syndrome, head in hand heart in delta, shuffled up and says in a loud monochrome tone of a voice splintered in vicious and various fractions much like a river eddies into phade, magnificent hush and lush vegetation overgrowing the each and multiple fractures of hours in his dismemberment, peligro beyond evidence, and ponder, “this”, goddess functioning at below sea level with hemistich turned equally to the left where a vagrant I sit poised for mental communication from the “other”, didn’t even know it was really her coming at me at such velocities, the infernal meat switch blistering the hand, job, stumped up the amp with increased dosage of refrigerated bad white vino, kind a like mambo italiano run through cordless muffler, such as oswald spengler must have pre gnosticated in his evangical dust storms about the west, a horizonless event in a space without origination, her ? (?”beast marriage”)

accent on the penultimate, a middle zone dances spangled television music, so that’s what I had coming, still


reeling from that failed love affair with a piano tuner, a volitional practice saturday mornings with a large wall-sized poster of her, what never goes away is the luxurious thrill of doing something always wrong, in the chord of delta minor, obbligato staccato maverick recording artist(e), waiting for that next identity shift from alph to zed, climbing on a solo rock to discern the assemblage of arriving clouds all a-roar with defiance and tumult, no hind sight here, no epic versification but the paratactic buildup of a lifetime isolated and isolating, will you be “mine”, ruby and the romantics, angel baby, what to do with the deaths multiplied that are beginning to foliate all over the screen, the father the dog the famous poet the lover the mother the photographer, the, and getting dizzy with nose bleeds and temporary paralysis of the left leg, in a bind with a pseudographer’s notion of biopsy, stitches up and down the blind side, what a life has been, autumn leaves and a rosary of greeks run under the wheel, of “fortune”, fate willing be not so unkind, dear heart seas seething, boiler plate language to describe the failed merit review, analysis of red zones, a whiter pale of shades, a lost dividend in classical bibliography, a lucretian rampart suddenly ablaze where space has its final inch, a forever longing, a, ponder, a, code switching as a literary form, a dazzled but distance as longing, no shape to hold, no handles to grip the elusive and into the maze, fourfold and vedic, truant of love, on the wane or just revving up? what kind of poem is this, would that be, should it ever, was, oh, nothing, no matter, really does, a manufactured sensation rolled off a big picture postcard of the obsessed one, eyed really love, matches formfit skin with see through peek-a-boo head detailed with medusa figurines on the green glide, swamp of life in creole monkey suit debris, I’m home/poem suits language in electronic backfold, your breath afire, going in and out of record stores magazine foldouts sample death warrants, a bill stapled to the dexterity finger, wishing she’d somehow manifest in her ripple-type endgame of “frozen”, song, that is, how it did begin, the black and white with one breast exposed and a look, sort of terror or panic, chagrin, hopes to remain just like that, goddess/slut/girl, proportion of meat to thought less than an equal


balance, rapidly dissociating the “rational” from the dream of reason, aleatory and paratactic reminiscences of a life’s time of self indulgence, akin to the masturbatory technique formerly known as the “aulic diaphragm”, once over in red litmus with porphyry ingots of molten gold poured down the girlfriend’s yearning throat, swallowing that is the god that invented her, junk trash heap inch after inch, peligro, how this can define a life, should it, ?, mine in a swirl of obsessive self-revelatory madness, looking constantly into the mirror where Hylas went lost, multiplied in his bitter darker soul by the one multiple Nymph, Echo, drowning in the utter lack of redemption and meaning, that is a life, defiled but its own definition, a circular pattern the over, and over, again, trash and ponder, peligro junk, don’t drink the water, mutilated in his dunkelheit, shadier pale of white, Hylas, mourned in hill and vale by Heracles, who will ever ribbons of, maze, the invisible thread by which I mate whatever chance can be read in the labyrinthine daily, you plus me equals the sniper’s hell, a game of a stalking the echo’s Nymph in a hide-n-seek of cosmic dimensions, a blue a red a yellow a, love’s infernal code, city of angels, footnoted hyphenated and dumped in the swill just off santa monica pier, that’s me dead from the left in a single stitch of experimental prose, and guess who is belling the invisible with a psycho cop by her side? passion’s never requited symbol of choice in her amphetamine sound a like “skin” (the song), amped up to treble the fornicating value until sizzled and decimated the soul just withers on its onion skin, layers of death simply layers, too polyvalent to be relevant any more, or down to the wire, last night’s midbriefings about a warning no one can do anything about, wouldnt you? Mom, no longer home, monkey probably dead, or on the rocks, a cast off coat with gimlet eyes and a brain just waiting to perk, poetry becomes a whole lifetime of, ulysses multiguiled with manytroped heels at his mind on edge, penelope’s gone, chase no more, Madonna-of-the-Toilet ascendant in her hive of sirens bevy and squad liquescent, each line becomes less like the other than a boulevard of chasms, could never be “her” so why, try? trials of an error system re named neo hapax legomenon, ‘member that sweet white backside which ever, ? marks a dotted refrain landscape with multimythic echo chamber in the making, hssst


questions any makes, a while longer into the red, bordered with silver rust fringe and opalescent glimmer, a dotted refrain about “kiss me I’m dying” takes my breath away, ‘s all in the’magination, y’ know, take her and handle her mentally, Not physically, get it, ?, Mom hasn’t been home since, crawling on bended knees across rodeo drive to the big Jewelry, inside which are encountered the total sum of the bivalve virgins mary, hitherto unidentified only as “the one with the apex”, and the more it devolves the shadows only whiten the once so blanched formerly, situations are complex, the mind’s glove has no fit, feet cross a different equator than their maker, may we suggest a broader firmness of, and it’s all so terribly unwholesome, so underhanded, tawdry pornographic “dirty”, nothing to be proud of except for the more than occasional outbursts of sheerly sublime snatches of “I love You” as never before expressed, and nothing we can know about the ending that hasn’t been previously undermined by a whole of the half, platonic reverie of ideational content known as “carniceria ilusion”, hunka hunka hunka gibbering apes circling the mirror for a picture of the light, hand job extracted from the encyclopedia of reversions, hesitance, solitude, agony, longing, “kiss me I’m dying”, so endeth chapter and verse, what there is to solemnize about, to autograph about and or for, which is the reversal of life if not the opening of death, passageways eke out their own little spots for a brief of afternoon slot, grass growing quicker than in the junction of white, an enormous soul ascending into the unknown, where paradise is a small whittled away section of the vagrant’s testimony, hasn’t it been a long hour already, just glimpsed the cloud choirs husky from roaring all night on the other side of the quadrant, now faintly roseate, nubs of inky half-thoughts, a guessed a was, a only for a second, then turns into a hue less deep than harshly intimate a sort of carmine, subdued by a tempered wave a glisten, where skin turns in its patch for a resonance, could but never did, hold her in my, lessons about bleach and the slighted light of dying, day’s re run in a second hand video clip about the spatial reunion, there where the planets now become


gravid sluggish burning a smoldering, nothing really discernible but for the faded lingerie out to dry on the mind’s one rope, a white that lasts about as long as any green, blotted out then in a smudge of erasure marks, lost in the footnote about the Laundromat, faded more than faded evanescent, a hand’s small brief in the silhouette of air, after which all that remains is murmur of echo’s draining out the inner ear, portals of thin a smallish rose clipped to the heart’s, mind forgetting not at once but darkly slow a path it used to walk, margins marked “despair” and “principle” too dissolve like mint lozenges in dusky, hasp of sky arched over the oriental guesswork, partake of desire the fraction whose label is missing, now, ponder the, ponder when to come home when to leave again, when, darker a lapse between stairs, coming together a leaving time, a silhouette of the ungraspable, being born for what as always questioned, lope de vega, who the figures darkening on the lawn, dancers maybe, are, turn sleep over on its side and note the growing dense husk a, the impenetrable where no coordinates match, began to write this with an intent to, justify? sky has no parallel like death, in the bushes what prying and peering, small animals looking for a sleep, a reduct with latin puzzles, whose brief foot stepping out of the dust into, a laces untied, cannot quite make out if that is a face in the glass, ponder, a shape was born with, and the suggestion of dance music all day, so “if’s” unreal what’s other, got a second life underway but No thanks, enough of this one on the banks of the phlegethon where lurid only gets, worsening between hyphens the greek code for “shattered alembic”, face in glass ponders, only bruits his aloud in semaphoric reds, diluted doesn’t work, you gotta turn it up all the way, dance and party all day, music, longs for solo with antiquity in green ribbon, arrears, if what was mexican really started, and when it’s over don’t wake me, don’t care if I missed the prom, don’t care if I idled the motor or if overboard the bankside with its haunting trilogy of reeds and wind for flute and bother, an orchestra for pan and his like to drown like Hylas, oh Brooding Hercules, why? yon hills abound with echo’s naked little chambers, rilling and apostate with a white bordered trim next to nothing on and a flaming bodice, made in


russia, face in mad thought about the remainder, air takes a breather while we “mortals” turn the wheel, for what, a gainsaid nothingness bottoms, out find out and, ponder, what the ampersand’s function, a wheel with a light above the head, a music then a dark catastrophe, formfitting and with a welder’s pluck, what use is the diamond anyway, and that of the hibiscus and other derangements of color, blood which seems to go the other way, across a map of sprawling and punctuated with crimson headed stick pins, agony to know, to be cited for driving too fast when all along the alarms did not work, come to this or that finally in the ditch, over turn, as blank as it gets it only gets stranger, “was born, lived often a hectic, married and with kids, disease and drunk on arrival, the whole story, told”, you know, and somewhere in between the writing, the isoglosses the, various versions of hell Really, pastiche and pattern of a renaissance rendition of the ancient fable about the hairy and his queen, head gets heavy, sleep dot dot dot, microform and idiotically small until lost sight of, her brash and brazen now past 44 */*, a bullet is a sure thing a long narrative about the, who dunnit, thriller in white page and briefs, cloudy finger where dreaming on the borderline, and asks for just another one more, for the Road, double folds over

for more, see later what was supposed to have been, I want it in “writing” the happenstance of remembrance’s lost goals, mind’s intent to put in words what was meant to be clear, recall of such and such an event at such and such a time, ampersands within portfolio, parenthetical gestures aside, xray logos redivivus , kaleidoscope and membrane roughly intact, was born rose to heights dropped to mire died a quickened death et cetera, holy mars! what a plutonic and grave tale that was, hunh? Now to Pars Secunda (ii) virtue cycling bits a shore hails a captain of fumous re gard a toil long boats a shipping a sail


post coasts hauled a beach strips a Hoy! muses sunk in reverie’s dark linking fix to life with rust tenuous was ever a ? lasts so short this art of breath is light so utter? sub ended in appropriately and green waves code switching in denial\after birth I came to (be) a likeness to either side of the smoking portal snaps hawsers and slips anchor deep a gore the depths unfounded will I set sail, a ? whitened a wisp entails section by section the vivid reminiscence of oblivion’ s discharge that vast anterior yawning and while I look to other side a watery mass with spume buried planets hurls a maze with codes locked forever as enigmas are or should (be) lessened the light across long lawns of grass invisible nights of spray and snatches of song ivy colored and where red trims space’s outer rim and shapes what take linger like faces peering through the tangled of lace and lichen like, a hovering is a question flesh unredeemed of brother’ s oval nest this a twin in birth this act of light of fraction s untimed spacing inches where no dark the expanse ahead as darker the still behind a moving a lingering to “see” if it is still out there what was promised if one comes to bear alive the length of tunnel longing now when seems forever “the young” look ! seized by the parallel of despair to be winging, aloft , yes nor adrift a seized by non chalant sparks of light fevered and dreaming rushed into the maelstrom the a fact is lost sooner than ever we are come to the banks of grass the lush floral horizon asterisk & anemones a verdigris bar across the middle seems less apparent the noon


hush times what will come to be are you “there”, too , mon fr`ere ? despond and its early clitics across the vague lawn upon which quickening the forms take shape a persona or a skirt lifted above the knee stepping tenderly over the grassy ghost green and pale blending into the hedge behind the last thought who will be listening to “it” who will be covered in ivy and pallor sleep transformed into units of light into a greater transgression of hands ascending from a rich greek loam like inscriptions inherent in spears thrust into the glassy dome of air we are “inspired” and look alert startled to the alarms “within” a hundred ways to grow to go toward some impressive city of no known bridges half way there , shapes yet to come being beside the road under the leafy spreads a thought takes an idea circling its other self dimensions of shade a lingering repose before the river assumes its timelessness a meandering a through libraries of the unmeant and not yet considered a boat docks by the fluid bank the charge of sky lightning a sudden ! breaks in two the deep green thrust to know “that” how it got there am I ? shivers in the hundred degree afternoon beside a pale city of a myriad onion skin layers breathless the a sweat naming and numbering a succession of kings and the innumerable sand the oasis and its multiple mirage a duplicity of promise within a parenthetical what basis of voice learning to “read” what it pronounces across the eons shores of light a gassy re entrance after births and deaths a nod to the wary of hiding in the underbrush a buddhist “type” eyes forelorn a beckons


a forefinger held high a passages of indiscernible the inks over the a waving fronds of “recognition” a Yes we have landed it seems between sedge and rotted timber and soils give way to iambs and dithyrambs a glimpse of the porphyry futures in yellow and dazzling hyacinth bent over to crystalline streams a deep draught of clouds it was about this time that the hegemony of yellow burst a chilling you were caught somewhere in the middle below the street where the first greek got killed hauled a quarter of a mile by a big rig stone flowers sent into “got it” brassy greaves over the bony shin caught marching middlewards up steep the asian hill soft amaryllis softer still the down purple thistle leggings through mould and marsh a syntactic array seen through the mists “of time” whose will be done house of mirrors dizzying effect of the tumult in the blood cigarettes posed as a mystery and wearing a floor length appeared more remote than ever which made sundays more emphatic more at the core sick to the stomach watching evening thurst its darkening sleeve through the windows of the passing cars distance a shining sort of the emaciated face? kiss a the placard clearly said P E L I G R O wave’s length a breath takes ever so “long” a depth of distance before out lingers dying was it ever so green the placid ? we sink then in imagination’s pool the unreflecting surface a symmetry not quite perceived “syntagmata” harsh winters quell evening’s forced denial a summer where a season’ s airy flight what sounds a mere axis eyes closed and buzzzz


a death so far circular dislocation of time allows for so little\ else is blank\ some or many days indistinguishable summers in cotton fold pleated where vermilion bestows a lesser dignity to the flowing rivers of distance and the multi floral dispatches in dust and mulch cloying air’s slept fabric where no eye against the immense black marble erected perpendicular to sky’s ornate azure thunder roils and glistening tombstones upended holding avuncular and vast trying to recall “why” here among the grasses and hedgerows confused gravel of the gods forgetting to number the months until the dimensions added up to a sum of imponderable what you think one doesn’t easily the relentless confusion of a single day not to speak of its horse tethered to the copper chime noon’s solitary Hour when no sound but the siren song tied to a mast and chasing waxen thoughts into the chasm of mystery the all out daydream to surrender to shapeless and ink spells arabesques mostly or charms verging on green ‘s utter pale before the minute’s up seconds later and the diorama red and imperceptible hush the weeds fall asleep so quickly then yellow brightness and lapse into a ever fainter the former gloss a words cannot speak such utter despair nor claims any vowel to higher purity we will never be the “same” though life equaleth death and be far apart our arms that hover near sleep’s daft shore inclined whose embrace a reverie when colors side with “life” no known blank the shore’s opposed sands buckle under vitreous suggestion s of epic struggle to “under stand” alter ego quips red into gossamer afternoons plunged in delicate pastels mauve over lime quicksands the death wish


with a thumb ready to drink to the opprobrious dregs , bitter loft alone we tried then succumbed to virgil’s plaintiff in ancient tunis her wig hat ablaze with chimerical deity awash on tolls flake a mire a wish it would all “go away” nurse heaves her bosom in white aria as plans astray gone into taverns dank the walls are missing! SPACE FLASHES nothing else but the emptiness where heart took hold here with some grass ruddy reeds in desolation’s bank a far distance graying smokes less a pattern than an unformed desire we will not return to that theater , no more the ceiling’s starry crust now a paste glazed over pottery’s spanish ruin as gold runs to dirt a kind of proof mom can only be illusory in her carnation whitened deadend and hip rose sarcophagus how can we hold on to this after’s noon ? a kempt thing stared at in the shop window we are not allowed to enter no more, ghost times in the mexican newspaper ready to burn like vergil’s faded blue smock puzzled over the german cartoon version of a life on this planet , that was childhood passages in blank ointment the sunday school lesson about the dead messenger a lips and mouth like soiled lavender on his camel and waste so much can never be repeated “solomon’s temple” the mystery in the garage with its large white whetstone and rust to empty the bottle and lie about where have you been dandelion wine crushed under the pillow the still growing hair though gone all these years a grandfather’s premature death in his egyptian box with Mummy Nut weeping over the life insurance policy what never comes to fruition what only seems to be a label on a jar


what are the hooded figures remnants of a shadow play in a mock asian polity with city states growing like a feigned entity in mask and putty at the door holding yesterday’s news in wet and pumice while enraged the waves outside the window menace darkening the already nothing sky what puny a mortal what a saddened day’s shirt is bloody torn thing wisps of utter and fainting pales her was a , sister’s gone to “hell” to pay off that paternal debt and wonder what wind makes so cold the tree’s naked , a tortured sofa fallen into sawdust and a brassy reflection holds nothing intact to make of the latin lesson a new beginning then a blown light fixture nodding into a cornered , awful display of anguish and crimson with held together by bits of rhyme becomes first of all a “poem” as if to salvage what is best unremembered of the chaotic whose face takes shape on the record player’s turntable much like the aztec mask shivering silver on the obscure wall , will come to know the after life, will be known as dust of , “big waste space seems heart” forever long ing ‘s a portal a part phonic and a parted way vermilion cruises into the other nothingness the spent trail of incandescence as it vanishes into its niebelungenlied hill over dale of frost and spite in a northern state far from and what echoes is not the same not the flower not the grass not the weed yellowing in its conversation of trellis and dust , of seems heart a big waste space patters a rain ever so slight the silver disgorged from a night of rust and consonant clusters down under the skin where chills a


wherever I go it’s so “lonesome” a radio seems to play or a saw nothing when I looked just a big sort a’ encompassing the round of births and deaths with a large incision made just below the waist to learn a new grammar in order to express it “better” this sensation of rounds of birth and deaths in the trees some of them staring into the night a movie shows how people gather in the dark the plural is a composition not easy to describe how some colors get in the way around it is also abstract no longer the singular person a modulated frequency , for , example , red is a depth few can attain most are settlers on the left bank or persecuted for having “believed” at a time when science is in the bleachers watching a surfeit of stars in the west over a small hill plundered the town some dacoits in bandana and rubber , I am never sure, which , a fiction at the end of each sentence there is a plausible communication leading to the next, But in poetry the affirmation is of no priority and oftentimes the beautiful is a thing until itself (?) so one can imagine that talking among each other the same as death looking pointedly at the crossword puzzle for the meaning of “ ideolect” , actually more popular with the guys than the gals in high school , sort of scared them off with a name like that and looks to match, hoodlum pachcuo bum wet back, dirty Mex’ whatever is in and of itself an “end” reading to catch up with the philosopher’ s stone or on a pyramid dancing it’s all mutant chasm abyss endless song and crazy how it all flashes past in less than an instant before the next Geist , or a polar star without warning and that cold bottomless


drink you shouldn’t have but Did sunday night french lesson ennui entropy recidivism et cetera the whole without its parts as time disguised as a , bitter and dejected , how is one to get “the” understanding ? a river a opposite in cinnamon and azure a nebulous afternoon parting who was that stranger in the silk get up ? her was a brunette and tumble dried to finish the , vague , turns into pornography or a reasonable fac simile there of , goes the “wanderer” the lost soul a stray dog a evening’s repose no where a dilapidated logs yellowish everywhere the miasma a wandering towards the mirage a shimmering distance of , sands a storm of , to read the interlinear text in its litmus of profound red verging on prussic acid the capital a city in blazes near the horizon’s virtual north as the shaggy hoards et cetera , in a litter version the heroine becomes defamed and numbed before a protocol of flame and brutish though a buddha would never say so nor sell used cars at such a price avers that nostalgia is a dragged her across the assembly floor before the patres conscripti unscrupulous as if watching a pornographic flicker unwinding that ineffable silk sari we are watching and it is her skin (the song, to be) unraveled , actually who can say , the metal obtains to a heat of full degree circular and ultimate as last things “are” , the class room fills with inconceivable murmur as sea shores its last hope in “me” a drowned boy and his comets , do I look aloft in sweet agony a poem about to become , ? cannot decide and ramparts of devastating space double around the corner another door says it’s OK who are about to die


salute Thee ! to disentangle memory a hopeless and ask Psyche , get over the feeling that death is such a bad thing , how often there is a ceremony and then home coming in its autumn russets and puerile game strategies a car that goes over the cliff and the comb in place in the perfect hair of the perfect girl friend : ”moon light” which is a berlitz redundancy daring to cross the cemetery at the stroke of midnight , does passion become its own gilt edge ? a vehicle pulls over and dumps a body into the ditch , hominoid greekling , girl friend sits staring sucking on her sugar pop as disaster lilts a catastrophic glimmer slit in her left eye the entire universe “careens” like a herd of elephants plunging a thousand feet to their doom , does she Care ? later we will learn this was the fate of Indraprastha a game of chance and the willing dumbness which is mortal flaw calling it “dharma” , smaller maps attached one to the other and developed into a length of mileage somewhere the distance in parasangs between angkor wat and persepolis , it is the ennui that erodes the fetid greenery that extends from delhi to agra , it is the yawning abyss , pascal’s wager , darkness to the full that spreads hushing the lush hues near the “golden mile” , lay the head down beside the water a still planet buried in the left lobe, girl friend sucking on her sugar lolly , “nothing really matters”, says a infirm diction please stand and say it loud in latin for the whole , as its parts a sunder and a dank lull a , isn’t it awful ? how thoughtlessly we pass from one classroom to the next indictment cipher vacant as walls fall down a crush of dust and verb


formations to the left a pronoun hesihesitates to utter itself in denial as others onlook to vestiges of epic strands along the shore immobile as husks of rusted and dead navies the bulk of time lies interred here episodes of planetary ruin and disgust with the personality leads to the inner light ! abounds with intuition if only could drop the name the clause about who born and where what parents did who brother wifed illusory butcher shoppe where bone meal a text takes shape under the knife ethereal and dumbfounded ‘pon gilded tomb , archipelago , as for sister all these years dead to the thumb and livid with vivid contradictions bible upholstery in “that” neck of the woods a lacking history a bitter stare into the eyes and a mirror comes back notched with psycho prompts Oh then a dance in the dark a sweating and lessons in comparative everything as one feels one’s way out of the classroom into a noon metallic with glare and hoods moving imponderably through the spatial interstices a warning “cuidado” P E L I G R O drinks to the bottom a murderous draught and sinks down the body to regain press “float” and angelic choirs with blue eyed fingerprints the elevator only goes one way guess “which” , the small volume of verse with hacked spine and library traces of litmus and the dead animal at the end of the day whose name is to be memorized , lovely weather in the spain of mental induction , girl friend sucking jujubes on her placard of impersonality as sky faints dead away into a pale regard of unwholesome desire , sends a message to the automobile graveyard about and if that isn’t enough a carillon begins to echo in the depths of the


sleeper’s hemispherical ear , imagination’s traffic of grass and clouds a semblance of rotating faces blank windows an undertaker’s tow to remain anonymous the streets only bear numbers and directions a sheaf of hands becomes the orient toward which the night road blends impossibilities of hyphenated “the blues” disintegration of milestones so nothing is read aright as heat a process of irreversible at which the umbrian correction engraved in rightsided figures and dante suddenly steps forth from a nimbus of powdery blue , a horizon of ineffable the damned perceived in a descent toward the vertigo of ice , is becomes alternate of zero but too Late , in his car going around in circles beneath the eerie winter trees , could it be ? one who is Beatrice laid to rest beside the rills of a small cascade to offer her resembles girl friend stoned in her hiatus of sweet and diatonic scales arching toward a heaven of naphtha and wild thyme it all happens just once the “a” beginning to end all over the map a credence that simply “blows” never to know You again , a fragrance in the hair a lilac or jasmine spray tenderly from a hidden sea “initials” through these stifling media we must pass , this conflagration’ s wall a silent evocation of girl friend’s lasting and as swiftly as the arrow flies or thought “thinks” unrepeatable lesson in azure and ink a meandering in the atrophied pages to construct the daedalean maze over again and grammar instructions impart no wisdom or stoned in afternoon’s opium


to let pass the classes of fiction the reveries the desponds the sciences where colors pale and when air a suffocating sleep in indigo and the profound breaks through its glass tenuous and without detail girl friend’s oblivion portal scanned fractions glittering moon’s abstract bird on wings of paper blessing a berlitz section in dark red the vermilion part in “her” hair as it verges on motels intricately wired for the symphonic tone poem ”sheherazade” distills a no logic “which is the love that informs ?” asks a darkening shade as following rituals of adolescent and the punctuation around the small space in between blanched and parti-striped as nations go a spanish conjunction close to ypsilon sequence of radials a fine print in crimson plush next to girl friend’s cherry coke love that informs measuring tables of velocity and glass a hovering wing afternoon’ s expunged of their weight a lengthy section like a hotel in reverse down which corridors assumed shadows pace untranslatable “that informs” what their names were or are (!) or in place of the expected syllables a figment of “love’s illusions every where” doesn’t really matter “in whom doth love inform its Virtue?” versions in softer hue of , aspects of and then coming out of the dark left over the machines that imitate the heart in their wake cities of watery waste plunge into a magma to fix the once and for all the to likenesses of girl friend in her most vituperative mood, in her , ponder the reactions to “growing up” to driving automobiles or hunting for the sake of the “kill” and a departure a history of blanknesses


issues that impart dust to each syllable we become infirm in a sleep of sounds a rigidity of and then collapse a heaving into the bricklayer’s silence a structure of impossible stories inches and inches thick between the an opprobrium perhaps of drug and skelter avenues open up their green vistas of and a section laid aside to develop the “emotions” only to become insane red vicious and large as a holocaust breaks the mind down , informs Virtue , into scattered little particles brownian movement of syntax and “meaning” here , give me your white little hand , Oh I thought you meant , and the flux brings in the turgid dross of myth inexplicable and regicides and ghosts all gibbering in dialect near the monument where , a lapse of sense and nothing darkness the utter , a squalid remnant of light as the bodies pull under the magnetic tow into the starry wash of far , time after time facets of a glimpsed in the dance as a lake descends on the crowd of onlookers drowning them in sorrow and , it was supposed to be “love” the ancient thing the pale remove from the tombs unetched in their night what is longing being sought after what is the thing that is “missing” ? circles on the one side there is right thinking on the other dead auto mechanics what flagship honors fate , what fate deadens lessened by hope a slight fraction they are turning green they are by turns more pale than ever and the thin cigarettes passed from mouth to mouth a cavity enforced by a situation I had no hand in “this” avers the totem beast wildly sweet and denatured as first wives can be , not tend to know anything really what life is about the section just below the grass criss crossed by a temporary madness called “noon”


the goddess in question whiter than evanescence as moons round out a typology a teratology , space hovers above its glass wider than it is broad the distance between thoughts ankles down near the eleusinian mystery where the “girls” in their may undress requisition a soporific for the hercules of choice much as aristotle had imagined in the prior analytics , or looking beyond the byzantine headland beyond the tea shoppe where azure faces a litmus test below the waist , enigmatic and querulous at once the darkness innate in her eyes drives me “crazy” , to know , how can I ever ? the usual mandate of poetry to not explain , to leave “it” alone , redress the tapering limbs the wherewithal to understand but never do fully , the neon marquees are simply a punctuation in man’s fumbling journey , for what it’s worth on that side is the Phlegethon burning with brambles and the unexpressed a tower of invisibility meant to madden for being unreachable , for being at all , to look too long is to desire overmuch in blank sections divided by red and the gross infirmity growing along the lower margins nearest to Hesperia the dead beasts that line the royal marge flexes a whip a wind ladders its way up into the topmost moon while looking away the legal onlookers , a cast of several hundred dozens , or so , mechanical clocks rotating for what? osprey and gull take off on “time” we are witless in retrospect , as always and the palest formation utterly unsanctioned in the epilogue where confessional and orange side swipes a merely lateral condition a one which we will , refuse , but ponder the , “inexpressible” , a fragment shatters in Hesiod’s ear, that some god is being invented as


one invents the perfect summer , a green fossil buried in the eyelid before waking becomes sheer impertinence or , what a longing to bear silence to its perimeter by paces red and nacre , silhouettes bearing the names of the few summer months left to memory , the hazy the distant the god a sighted a semblance to the underside of a leaf impress of , sections unbearably white by length of time it takes to compose this music , the “I am alive” situation , band in brass and fleet a what does that mean ? to me matters as such are shortended phenomena a slight of hand in the night of unorchestrated stars feeling that any recovery is for naught a residency on the planet no sooner begun than demised , a fortnight or so later the new developments on the hill erode in a dialect of perishable vowels , a rice cake for the recurring hell-god , a pig donation for the one in silk pants who is prepared to devour the summer moon , a peninsular section breaks off , magnets whirl out of synch from the true north now an obsolete companion to the illyrian baedeker , her hands ivory white implicate a distant air with darkening why , and for the deity hacked to pieces in the sullen marshes some shiny red toys meant to “last” , a pirated copyright to childhood’s imbalanced a window such as the auto wreck with someone’s uncle’s brains spattered over the front seat , could winter have been so cruel , skidding the articles about divinity a plausible or implausible goddess in renewed bright red hair known as “flammantia moenia mundi” , waving her detached small white hand as if a munitions fabric , as if a ponder , weights of sky


caries of the moral fiber , famous the “dioskouroi” in plump red leather hide bound to an orient cigarette head band tight around the and barely able to see either to right or left smoke signs , not to mention the late summer colors the hyphenated orange and green turkish formula much like the burnished cliffs the eye harbors just before dying , a song floods the skin , a ponder “this” , elemental horizon in burnt sienna or , vague sensation below the pen umbra unpromised and shaking violent ly , either side a quivering without focus the deity enthralled with sheer mortality in the guise of girl-skin and stiletto heel shoe , escarpment that leads to tragedy , automobile rush to , roiling waters of a foamy conclusion to a lighted journal , well above the norm and usually speaking in measured cadences in a dialect of choice , the whole zeroes in on the parts a platonic illusion danced out on the valencia ballroom floor every other saturday night in charcoal blue blazers and pink , the god in question behind the wheel of a buick-8 vast and darkly sounding across roads of no fixed terrain , a wild , a ponder able situation what youth , greeklings in sport gear and greased intuition , where the light barely seeps in , where in beds of soft green moleskin , where a god other than the self treads provoked by ire and , wars break out in the mysterious margins of a text yet to be figured out , roots and syllables of a proto proto mythiform ideolect in which we dream unresponsive to the heavenly choirs above (“there is a light above my head”) , chanson de grace , not prepared for any accident the chasm greedy for prey takes us wheel and all , a spent , a lume spento , girl friend has nothing to do with


any of this , a writing in the dark a writ of habeas corpus , a –lusion’s every where , love’s unformed body wrapped in tropical leaf to keep out the light’s fierce incursions , girl friend who can barely read only concerns the self with a renewable metal , with a cosmetic plunge into , a fume that snakes out of the goddess’s left nostril , a metallic sheen blinds the summer’s catastrophic name , to ever know what happened , to have read it just once (“hapax legemenon”) in a book otherwise illegible for its macaronic signs , unwholesome unsuitable for common consumption the a reverie , avers to a footnote in the future to be discerned by the holy a as a , whatever , sanskrit topology spreading into the softening hill slopes “piedmont” rivulets and curling avenues ‘pon which the gods build their infirm mansions of dross and poor calculation , much in the manner of men , much in the mirror of man , a sadness ensues the incarnadine unreachable what can never really be expressed a distance a long , a , +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ a other a , the , “on the street where you live” , darkness , delight in nothing , end comes and ‘tween sorrows what other falls but the undone tapestry a loom , fits during star spell a , section s by turns red and pale make , fade , duns toward the dusty “west” some where Beyond , no door plies a gray stones a pattern , meant to say it differently , but too late , not so as longing the over , hills of dusky lost splendor , a glittered around “her” head a light , must soon too fade , must , as ponder this , a house of dust and oblivion lengthened by , plied the under waters of Dis , fraction


s a mere , a flaming segment wheeling its way into inner space , a meant to but later a changed “man” , a mask of a person in distress disguised as , a , formal inclusions require a matter of “fact” , some times the houses just fade away , the streets glide into an unlit chasm , the neighbors forget to say goodbye , the new car up the block WHAM! smoke rings wispy refractions into a sky of , ring a round the rosy, whose soul was that “escaping” through what singular event , throughout the night a thin sob a wailing between the walls , a sensation that had happened all before , a eerie , isn’t it ? days pass by unnumbered unaccounted for , weeks turn into a green palinode upside down and further on in the “next” chapter , a girl emerges hermetic and unapproachable as things get more tangled a metallic shine to objects , a drink is offered to the unwary , a toxic substance full of pleasure a for bidding , or soon it is the noon of the apollonian transgressions , the hypertrophy and illusory carniceria where oblivion mates its eurydice in a grassy misperception on a woody tuft outside the last suburb where ringed with the ethereal Mater Dolorosa levitates a mere , lakes of perfect depth manifest in midair who that emergent girl is , hermeneutics the assyrian bull metallicized and sheer breathing a fire “ignoto” , houses through which we pass darkly the unknowing substance with its corollary shadow , the mephitic arrow aimed at the poet’s heart a domesticated animal at best , to ponder the “her” outside her pronoun , how can we hear better the rhythm of the beating


until it collapses in a wall of dust , reading and re reading the homeric tale as best we can , the ellipses mysterious dodges the sea filling the ear’s blind recess a , siren’s song , what is “serious” begins to expand in its own sky , what we most revere , the women who own most of the light we breathe , where it goes in the utter life , where the response is as her feet “lift off” from suburb earth , a section breaks off quietly exposing sleep to its innermost fears or what we gain , a mission statement about the , apologies for the mess we are almost always in , a variable function of the zero is its capacity to surrender the void , actually I have been hurting most of the time , I have been having this dream about the afterlife , a certain monument raises its statue on the plinth of my tongue or there is an abrasion , a form the poem takes at first in the pale not knowing which is its real color , which its own “sound” , which , is space the vast and multiple beyond , and as soon as higher education begins as soon as the quadrant with its medieval , the gryphons who fly like blinded angels into a mass of perdition , I was meant to be among them , meant to shudder at the slightest touch of , contact with “her” in a kind of music a sort of idealized , watching the regular street patterns fade into\ how immense is the after-structure the almost blinding story after imposing story reared into the cloudy , affirmations so hard to come by and the marginal hyphen with its derelict implications , a movie house or worse a , waking or seeming to wake , who the girl next door really


is , how will it all come “down” supposing it will , fractions of gravity and light flying in all directions toward especially a india of massive runes , hypothetically we are not , and cannot see as we are meant to , nor hear the choirs ineffable , mention this to a neighbor , to a passer by , mention this to a tax collector or to the vegetarian behind the small watery reticulation , or what is more likely to the traveler wearing your disguise , “you have been lived already” , cognition starts much later in some shop where they sell women’s wear , turn your head and , “Kensington-High-Street” , the windows flood with an orange light what is meant to last , a ribbon unravels around the railroad iron , a station or two down the line and in descending order the persons we assumed come to some kind of headache , a dusty repose for just a minute or so in “that” afternoon , hyacinth jasmine narcissus dogwood , in order to have sex must we be attracted to each other ? in an adjacent room they are erecting small tragedies with french titles , the enactment is both cruel and effacing , as often as one gains the loss is greater still , for example the case of the missing diaphragm , a matter one never gets over , really , the mirror is an indication of , and beside the urn where remains of achilles mingle with , a book plate a marker with an egyptian foil , an identity of regret , a shadowy , a , why can we never get it just once ? rightly thinking the error only increases its lot , blinking in a morning sun as we step out of the tavern for ever “gone” , such as are the moments of a life , ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


sectioned the tumultuous array brides whiplash pendants blank sockets where moving targets this sky vision , a despair spoken for at the altar or beside the grammar book , the purplish colored one with gilt letters on the spine reading “ “ along the shore grieving the myrmidons (don’t cry for me “argentina”) ! wearing cashmere sweaters gloves a fringed hand reading from left to aright the massed collisions whosoever peers through this glass who sees into the depths of a history’s fractured city its (the house of colonna reared on the tiber’s sluggish bank) byways loosely in the detritus a murky evening in theaters spent looking for the light , midden heaps through which we the purloined letter the gasworks left open as a new planet descried for the first time a lens shatters turning red and green the blue litmus paper discharged in the faint flame to discern the glyphs of her name , a dying second time perhaps a lantern over the ruins of athens this noble music in its weathered fane which is now more like a railroad station or a baedeker indication where once the imperial baths the sepulcher an ancient parchment dried characters as night draws which direction it takes to end the finish line marked in bright red chalk meant to dissolves and re appears in later re incarnations as a gubbio tablet or ochre defined as death’s ultimate shade , mere bride’s girlhood masked etruscan flares in depths of , steps ever lightly over hedges of primrose


a salutary embrace in euxine dialect or puzzled as to persian hand wear the diptych fears fade glowing less as eventides merged porphyry hovering at an angle more to the left of syntax than had feared she would flee and she did , leaving me anxious and troubled in the sleet of michigan avenue no cabin into which withdraw the letters and latch hastening to reveal nothing in ink neither in china nor script legally dead in the morpheme of despair’s early rite , later I will refer to it as the “piltdown period” of my so called life a weary praxis in folded paper industrial blue and whatever else you might call it chivalric it ain’t , how often we miss the drizzle the accidental verb charts the ancient des criptions of “up country” the yes enigmatic iota sub script and the lesser deities channeled into a mental cloaca somewhere south of cinecitt`a , who will guess that I have always been wrong or wronged , paired to a vision of beatific white oxen grazing on a parnassan slope while a dreaming hill murmur erodes the ear with unearthly rumor that persephone’s afoot again in those fleet daisy colored sandals flowers burning miasma an orient a sop to cerberus berenice’s lock arpeggione the indefinable ? “sky—when I looked again it was just a bunch of nouns strung together” islands cut off from their moorings like nameless clouds gauzy afloat in the endless cobalt azure imperial porphyry gilt


neon asbestos “when I fall in love / it will be forever” the shape of air loses color the closer you get from its distance or the next ceremony which is “death” links to the nether and other worlds of the “beyond” that mysterious shivering you get when you open the window and there ‘s something “there” cannot identify mysterious her was a such a “presence” ghostly shades of pale multiple hues of blank the hair do piled up so you could see the nape of her neck and the tip of the sinuous vertebral column a section without demand cut up the water end the part about “true love” with a report on ovarian cancer esp. as it occurs in the attributed to lady Murasaki or else when the page fails to turn and the illusionist’ s spell is on us a variety of reasons as to why I had that “affair” but none less applicable than it was necessary and night was drawing its rosy death into port , a stagnant water easily put the knife to the center taking the liquid core out a philosophical transgression about the , otherwise I am about to encounter the “truth” with its manipulable handles or the way she cross-sectioned paint on her fingernails it seemed like a canvas of space with all its massive star clusterfucks amaze shining


a vivid moment when I had to choose between legality and mortality , spinning a light through it as if the way awnings collapse and shadows scatter into a noon of eerie concentrated my attention on the way she sang those dumb rolling stone lyrics , visuals adumbrated through the iris and the cars kept speeding her spectra taking me with an amnesia case , if , ponder the italian word “smemorato” brings to mind the white chill ‘s oblivion of , irate with the gods for having done , played this trick on us , apollo zeus hera artemis (diana!) , golden age , trying to hear the music better through a lost diaphragm , a lock of hair wisps , an unwritten “novel” penned in a sequence of green spiral bound notebooks fifty odd lines to the page in crabbed black ball point ink ca. 1968 , or what seems like “light” but isn’t really a fraction of grass glimpsed in the dark , a , ponder also what little is kept , what else is leftover , a section of water in the cupped palm of her hand , “her hand” , leaves of a thin indistinct , a poem written the night of a less than full moon , a lapping waters of hyphenated reeds a rush in the left ear , it’s over ? it will be best to be discreet at times , setting the typefont early in the morning before the birds’ song a , alba “diotima” what memory can ever bring anything back SMEMORATO like the time you slipped into a


little water and waved a frond of longing with its small white syllables at me , ? , or later afterwards realizing that loss of memory is better than this wading though shoals of myth the blind swimmer’s brief pornography of breath likens us to the supreme love the alto saxo phone enunciates so brilliantly or so it seem(ed) , a water cut into even smaller portions and divided among the remaining creates a sequence of triads among the otherwise unidentifiable gods racing maverick like into a thick sumerian clay , if you turn to the back of the book you will recognize in the faded black and white photos underlined with a prussian device the blackboard where we first learned to conjugate , it seemed and was so “simple” then hapax legomenon to the contrary , a white backside an evening in pearl a fading muffs bluffed in fogs of ancient sienna brownish a sort of red that stains “her” hair even as the music , who was that orestes type in the garden whistling so off key any way ? I will probably number the various parts the sections the para graphs of water using a subtle vermilion key the kind employed by the hagiographers of the t’ang , and if that doesn’t work make appeal to the bhikkhus of longing for just a slender part of their immemorial history preached in lotus and palm leaf , or make less than nothing of “it” a solitude of pale and , whitest decomposition lunar halo breathless “frozen” trek


to “make believe” where girl friend dwells forever in her ice cream and what began as a complex orgasm soon becomes a portion of sky , or water bisected and delivered to the heathen in a temporary hell just below the tin compound , poetry and the lyric “set” her hair a spray of wash and tonic the gel perms frequently I have these “bad” thoughts about her I have to get up and wash my [censored] in what is now iran they used burn rubber up the slope towards a parnassus of sorts , linked phraseology or gnosis a tanked up and sent spinning wheels first into a ditch of despond , earlier letters indicate associations with the ionians before the great migrations across the sea to the girt cities of crete and where a dog aloof and alone baying for a lost “master” a situation rectified it seems more aerial a distance that cannot be breached a solemn and the remote darkening hill toward which we grope before the last season sets in with its cluster of blank stars we will never be able to read aright the original composition or a “dirty” book and the sections about , almost mis interpreted as usual and the light scuds dimming its , rooms missed as chance strays , night’s cryptic awning a shambles at whose feet , pray a part goes to the right cloud a rain fall disturbs whose sleep a drawing of her intimate “features” occludes the propriety of our human mission , ! , stumbles down the subway stairs a wet night in april a volume in each pocket of mythology and gore a pitied by charwomen


or emptied of style his half drawn face a light full of fist and words trickling out either ear the coat’s job is to hold together the infirmity of sounds even as sleep’s dusty rim recedes into a field of water below which read “marginless light” and ancient forms half visible half of darkness where flowering moons radiate a language of mud and in the middle of the chapter about the evening out of the depth behold! the lowest speaker in his bulk of hash and spite imitating a verbigratia virgil in an epic , rainpatters shhh , can’t ‘ear so good the future’s half eaten by the consonants surrounding “omega” and the sun’s brief spell cast o’er the upended pyramid of , sphinx’s upper lip battered a crust of hieroglyphic hematite meant to re semble the mona lisa so called , halves echo their other sounds as falling from grace the body’s a way of signaling , doncha think ? like the pantheon of elephants crashing silently off the peninsula of invisibility , conscience , ponder , “pick up the pieces” (average white band) , brush the self off and apply for job easily a monday to remember , often what is recalled a session darklisted and spun out into a space more remote than most he meanders in a paragraph not of his own liking until suitable to be wed again , her walks in , wipe the sweat off the statues and repaint the grass a softer green elevated by legend into mnemosyne’s ear , park where paradise is persian for , an abstract painting of the exactly what cannot be identified with an earlier form of script , tattoos , til this day us parts , vermilion , chrome , a hazard of air in which noon’


s unbuoyed planets hover dangerous and , the nymph echo in her europe of amphetamine and , pale , ascendant mirage wavering shimmer a shining white , yes white , a , to be able to follow “her” into the , the , the 5 pandavas against the 100 kauravas , the pandavas with but 7 akshauhinis , the kauravas with 11 , each on either bank of the yamuna but with not only Krishna on their side but the dharma as well the pandavas were bound to win and able to discern for a minute O hills of my youth! fast fading as time’s swift minuet does its double take off off broadway , echoes more infirm of a sound’s illegal history , marry me ! but wed not my face , etc , the complex orgasm and various hues her face turns from a magazine blue to asphalt blackening , under a spell , chasm and , mirrors the swift moving foot fleet as green mimicry of waves across her cheek s silent and more silent still a pale whitens , would not would never know for “sure” but went ahead any way and took a first plane heading south of philadelphia over the nation’s capital toward the split suzerainty of the “mind” , poem me this poem me that , a damascus road barefoot as heat blends noon into a fiery cloud and a voice from 6th century persia formulates the tavern of oblivion into which crowded we fall a babble to know the Master , but the stairs only go half way and the cigarettes burning the index finger points a mere , illusory meat house the body’s duplicity ,


fragments of rag drape the soul’ s skinny rib cage , soon what will be known , beloved , as the moment of instamatic reconditioning a pattern doubled over and over and folded neatly into the interstice known as the “paragraph of love” heaps scorn on the lines in between on the effigies in melting wax of beatrice and laura , pretending adolescence is the time of Revelation , circling a concupiscent noon with a dozen spains each more albescent than the previous aspirin taken and then freezes the brow in a dazzling moment of cognition before taking the knees by their dark nerve a , resounding roar of an army of water , micrometers of ancient verse difficult to trans duce wavering salty deliquescent the words partake of their own blood relaxing the final syllables in an amorphous effort at pleasure supreme , her ankles then her “unmentionable” shatters rendering echo itself deaf such as are the songs of , another block past 8th avenue where the greeks still gather waiting for the fleet and that mysterious buzz like a green hyphen , I am disturbed “little mother” and can no more , vast quadrants of ice darkening as the afternoon takes on its role of Medea , looking in the flashing subway windows for a face to identify in order to feel “established” again , the nacre gives way to a pulse faint as are the myrmidons in their multiple death , what is this V A S T a hewn from immemorial the obits list in no particular order the demise of hundreds of “heroes” lost fighting for the wrong side the blind king Dhritarashtra tragic a density cannot fill his aching


swoons on the margins a gathered cloth drapes a remaining word , sighs suppurated over the gulf of tonkin like oil enormous and , doomed to this a internecine strife and fratricide clouds of a deadly orange mushroom and the seas boil in a quantity not hitherto imagined , steady like the clicking railroad wheels processing the , whose final resting place may be just over the hill in a junction of furious hendecasyllables , the poet virgil slowly dissolving in a neapolitan ash known as sannazaro’s dream , I am witless in my glass , a whole day passes its lethal ribbon through and around my heart , may I know Thee , beloved ? ink , if delivered, ponder , other , wise the , so , amalgam with complex , orgasm , a sky which , is , a torn , breast , naked pictures with a , key , or fortuitous , shelly in rome , abysmal headache because of spear in , groin , kamikaze of love , a round shell like , object , pierces , to the , root , a man like “that” else , whosever perceives in the rain a country of his own choosing , whosoever adopts for the , self, long slender , inserted in a dream , smooth thighs , the opposite , a , girl pulling at my , ties to the other , life , sections a , part falling , we will not recognize , a city built on a thousand foils of onion skin , cimmerians , hyper boreans , tocharians , texts A & B , buddhist aryan port folio , a numbing , like a tooth , aches, what afternoon in time is this , anyway ? long hot drowsy meandering ,


glossy photos of a , stream up to her breasts , in water , we are allowed only so much money in heaven , as I prepare for the , poetry reading , one mid day in hell , the bronze things dangling , in a trice the whole of , life passes , like that between , the grassy knolls , the western hills the song about , mmm , faintly disturbing the moon’s blood red appearance , a leftward glance from angel proves , lust , addicted to windows , to shops where they sell , lace and other paraphernalia , adornments of the putative sex , complex orgasm , so going in cycles , up and down the “numbered” avenues , looking for that romanian “slut” , a black hair piece , a doctor’s thesis on eminescu and petrarch , brick dust , fabric of pale , her skin , radio voices warn ! , get out alive ? other torn , aspects and the envelope , undeliverable , for whose sake , derogations , a piece of , meat , a soft , some dead , inert the rose , in its iota subscript , a frag ment , the very , say it in sumerian ! , “dusty molecular taurus” , red shift , quasar s , reeds , the thin turn , her waist two thousand years , ago , fractions , intellect , d’amore , as more dust piles , burning hedges , rows of margin less , idiomatic expression , about one’s “mother” , not to be used , honorific pro nouns , like “turning japanese”, wouldn’t you rather , ? , an evening in old ,


mumbai movie house , passions grown cold , grammar of illusion , tundra , the very word , a spine , followed by a licit re action , some brain trauma , lesions to the memory , cycles heaped in a bin , tin , azimuth , stars gathered , labyrinthine , the talk is of “black holes” , of lines of accretion , of heat traveling at masses of , kinetic , irreverent , down right hostile , street theater , melt down , a dream within the dream , stalin suffocating in dialect , for whosever taketh a life , a biblical flame , issues , forth , a , angel “israel” improper in black , her gushing out a confession , just like that , police condemn irregularity , placing one blue tile , over the right eye , and one , whatever you choose it to be , a dialogue between principles , septuagint in red vellum , vulgata in green , across the street , from , brooklyn academy of music , guessing where to place , tonic accent , neutral tone , the restaurant where mysteriously no one ever dined , a mirror in obverse , a glove exactly like the one , a puppet show in javanese about vishnu avatar rama , a row of indefinable silence a , the rumanian restaurant in mid town , expect to hear random gun shots , thick white linen , the ghoul in mufti pouring deadly white wine , a , vein throbbing insanely , the poet eminescu “mad” , like so many others , some kind of venereal , problem , I hope to meet “her” again in an afterworld , her radio activities undocumented , a slope


facing south , enigmas going dot dot dot , greek versions , hyacinth , jasmine , unnamed purple flower , connections to the river styx , a border of dogwood , and , a brooding neighbor , narcissus , poppies in turkish , a urdu day laborer dying of “love” , Radha going to temple all naked , mud , infernal gauze caught on the limb , I am “mad” to have “her” , but never will , meat house , illusions and maze , concrete suddenly flies up , forced pages of , syllables , holland tunnel looking for hoboken exit , a , meal at a time , seeming small , vicious in her reverse wings , stillness in japanese tea garden , kites , a whole wind , the world fall down , yellow as in the silk of the sky’s utter flags , whom we will kiss by nightfall , who shall remain unnamed , whosoever toucheth the unmentionable , who ? [translated from the romanian by ] finish epic , never on time , hair’s length , a spear , a thigh shattered in , champagne in the morning with one’s favorite con cubine , already noon’s gauzy heat lost splendor , a vision between gray hemispheres of irrecuperable , but sanity ? never and the closing phrases near the phone , or the quote from hesiod about “gaia” , somehow stunned wandering through the eclipse in the city of man , for whom the poem is this intended ? for whosever deigneth not to score , for a flesh meal , a siren sound , ambulance of meat descending at millimeters into the heat of , time’s outer proportion scaled and the left writhing , a staring


into the naked , a window flies open revealing a preponderancy of , “manhatta” after the sun , in the photo taken at the “plaza” that sunday in greek the one from the right could be , me , in italian the way you say “mother” is with open vowels , hush , not a sound , darker than pale a hesitation becomes round , a symphonic echo embedded in concrete , like the shadow of narcissus in atomic melt , floral patterns , Rohini in yellow Yashoda with a necklace of pearl , Radha drying baby Krishna’s lips , each the other in red swirl and paramount picture frame , steps of new york public library , weaving the sound of his flute , automatic re conditioning , a buddha type painted large on the subway wall , dripping in the eaves a furious whispering , “we gotta get outta this place” , flash for ward to a mansion in the maze , for every window there’s a soul , for every soul lacks a story , for whosoever plungeth a hand into the mire , and sobbing dies , a heroine dressed up as a hindu neophyte , the paint drawing down her , and a substantial amount of “dope” found on her person , empty now the , button , and ponder the , cave images super real and with religious , over tones a harmonium , a gypsy tent battered by the wind , a saffron robe wrapped around the invisible entity at the door , how will we ever really under stand ? committed to the pro position that , a ponder , weight s gathered around either temple , and ready to jump into , roiling waters of , as if the gods can or cannot , subdivided by zero ,


‘s fate is of no consequence , a fiction clad in skin and smoking an expensive cigarette , and to think , calling on the “prophet” not for salvation but for advice ? , what a scandal in the oriental division , the girl in shorts and topless in the stacks , a cursive form of writing , palm leaf script , curlicues and the abacus , in darkness and in blight , to harm and to heal , til day’s doom is part , the movie version shows the spot light on , him , the other of “me” , dwindling in his religion of fired brick , a , dionysian “sort” ready for a job with the musical opposite(s) , fractured and indulged as a rhymester , a hack , a legions like “him” , in the employ of “inspiration” , a footnote to the vast waters of , a less than honorable mention , a , rather when I think of his imaginary girl friends , the eye is trained to “see” into the beyond , the mind’s tackling is confusion , a signal from the sun , some letters about the moon in berlitz , phonetic decay at its worst in a storm , whose face that was disappearing around the corner , whose emblem and heart , whose minute details about the , a prospective pale in blanch about to , withering fossils in the eye , lamp black , as far back as we can go the sea , always the same in its bed , exactly who ulysses “is” , in his meander , and phosphate glowing below a surface , that awful summer of the brain tumor and , a detective story about the etymological development, we read the same text in as many different versions as we are persons ! , wanting and not getting , getting and not desiring , the ambulance driver took the wrong turn , a red flashing before , shifts


into ultraviolet , space is as usual a blank tonight , mmm , asterisks and the hiatus in its green phase , a map of london before the fire , a section so beautiful in its cinematographic moment that , I am forever indebted to the mask that wrote this poem , a or maybe two hours of “hell” just waiting in that office , for some kind of confirmation , it was the turkish doctor assuring quality of “life” , dumbfounded in the isolation ward , loving and not returning , giving and not having , being and not “seeing” , as how many have gone before so how few will follow after , the again-sight of last-sense , a borrowing is not believing , the “ mater” perpetua of all reason , green is not pale , I am writing to you in the hopes that you will see fit to publish this item written in cramped left hand in the intensive care unit of a major metropolitan hospital , previous credits include a stint in the , as well as fondling an intern in the basement of a lesser , to have seen just once the “Master” on his stairs craving for that one last cigarette before surrendering , dante was the informer , how is it that what was has all passed so , rapidly , tormented by the maze of lies one has fallen into , a deictic mess to say the least , windows one is afraid to approach , lest “she” , a death’s head at the tip , striations of a lesser hue , followed by a sequential orient padded rooms a quarter of a moon , hydra’s mouth baying to drive one mad , leaf through the last pages first , usually find a clue as to what , apollo afraid to touch human skin , a song , this is not a temporary derangement but the full blossom white and poisonous , peligro ,


how one comes out of it , if at all , or confused by the playwrights with dionysos , an exchange of wreathes , ivy and laurel , the darker green stands for betrayal , the lighter shade for a form of “reunion” , though neither totally satisfies , a sense of the miasma impending the return of the armed forces from the hellespont , I am never sure when it is right to consult the telephone directory , but if it means bringing “her” back home , a nominal regression that disguises the latent cancer , “bodas de sangre” , time past in time present , absence , whiter pales into a final hue shading ink into its formal abyss , fading is not the same as dying , as living no longer equals breathing , remonstrances in flight , out the window eclipsed a buddha shape becoming form less , chattering in sub dialect the hominids of warning , diseases toll shaking from limb to limb the body’s frail intent , echoing a belief that life is the same as death , that life is the same as breath e c h o e s and what follows , a direction beyond hills of soft purple of dun colored , love was like that , assemblage of distance and fading , mistaken envelopes , hair snipped off by a silver code , went into remission , folded over and doubled and taken , to ashes and diamonds , we’re all just passengers darkening in the strangeness of night , absurdities in question , other side of glass where rushing a green takes up swaths of blank , hush , into the starry heights , who else will look away , the rest is a vast , reminder that the gods don’t “care” , apollo and diana in their white marble distance no map contains , a spear centers in man’s flank , a


dearth of hope , seas deepening their inch of death with each new light , gone out , held my breath , but it didn’t go away , only diminishing lessening growing more dim , and , absolute “bottom” before a man goes up , again , is that to hope ? but fails in the never knowing , a green pattern assumes so much intellect , after all , and the simplest thing is still only a fragment , the whole is what eludes the , depths of concern , the what is outside in the , lurking for a , ponder this , then , the ambitious epicycle about the lunar , diagrams cannot explain what really happened , except that the telephone seemed to play a role , and the aspirin flooding the night sky with that hallucinatory indention at the end , right side up it looks familiar , but turned to the left what is almost visible , a childhood’s end , a blank , an eruption of red that tips over , chalk circles dizzying spread out like a second water over the field , folded and pressed carefully into an envelope that otherwise could only contain some hair , soon we will be aloft taking a larger part of memory , the rest is back “there” blackening , ‘neath the willows and fading poplars , someone will appear “official” and given the keys , a car will drive carelessly down oregon street , or then again a rain storm just on the other side of the glass , a perpetual motion arrow , or a filter through which sleep is drained ever so thin and , the “boy” looks just like his “doppel” , don’t he ? I am connected to almost nothing , some mornings just wanna hide , the way things turn out is usually


, for the worse , a thickening of the plot , some cranberry colored trimmings around the western border, an orange section that just explode s ! , while in the glen down there around the disguised brook a monk , brooding cross-legged assumes a dead buddha look , an honorable mention is never quite sure , silver argues over rust , a perception brings one narrower to the “real” , who will borrow the transept ? who will ask the giver not to freeze ? who will question the glove for its non descript content ? basically no one , at the other end of the continent they are pre paring to bury the automobile parts with the driver who ignored them , it is a long way to the drug store , it is even farther to the designation for “plenitude” , puzzled we are no wonder , the text jammed into the inside pocket is about “deliverance” , ages pass in a slip of the tongue , argent is a melody , masks replace the probable with a sybilline property , I am not about these gardens , have not sown the rye in time , have ordered the fundament out of line , cannot assure the next season’ s deathly rhyme , a , before we agree let us have some dark , wine is best before noon , a harrowing at the bridge entrance , reminder that the passage is always fatal , “don’t look back” , they all say , but then they have removed their eye pieces , a frame , a second frame , it all “fritters” away , cheap episodes with any one who will listen , who will be “there” , who will linguistically concur , that can be a feminine subscription , in black with carbon copy , still less legible is the part about the “job” , as all deceptions are ,


no clarification just the somber note posted below the water mark , you know what “that” means , sunk under by life’s relentless , the lurking hall ways and the messenger on his defunct horse , parenthetical asides about poor work performance , not enough attention to detail , doesn’t take the effort seriously , the grand et cetera that wipes us all out , sundays in a bath of rose wine and confusion , skin peels off so easily like , a “white idea” , thinning sections of the , a call from the cancer ward , what dies in the heart “flores de maria” , to end it all , a paragraph in which continents fix on their routine , great constellations in a red shift “die” , if are others , re born in this poor mortal cloth , hemiplegia , massive brain trauma , a leg brace to support the left , poor swallowing mechanism , what is remaining , a light fixture that won’t go “off” , flores de maria ? obsession begins to trace its whirlwind in the small pattern on the radio , searching in the filter of cold white wine a , suburban plasma or a 1985 toyota , or the right one damaged as well , nothing seems to work , you try to get better , to reason with the “ghost” , to re try the winding thing , at the top of the stairs a mother-type consumed by her cigarette , in the bellows you hear a familiar voice , a telegraph or an edict in early symphonic prose , ponder , how you write and re write the same poem , vallejo and lorca , frequent hospitalizations in german with an adjunct in , lose all contact with the source , feel rubbing on the spine a night , windows fail to conjecture ,


doors swing the opposite direction , nothing is intended to “mean” , a “white idea” again , this time with red hair and a , the year of the piano , youth adumbrating in a file of smoke and writhing , her stockings wrapped tightly around the thought , about them , about the music in its plumes of red and blue litmus , a new planet looms temporarily into view , a suggestion from the berlitz group , to sit down and seriously do sanskrit , to get “religion” , how can we have been so opaque ? “… that poetry should be suspended by a hallucinatory beauty …” who was at the door , or who that was throwing gravel at the kitchen window , or what air of malignancy wrapped around the hiatus , beneath the floorboards a secret map , a clue to “that” goddess , a bone text deciphered in the month of highest , moons in saffron slowly rounding the curve of consciousness , each of us , that is , levitating towards that summit of disregard , a cold that takes us by the knees , flung face forward into Paradiso , unasked and the unkempt , the haggard in the mirror with her wisps , of , invisible summers in rented rooms , a threadbare glass , some shattered , china ware turning blue a thin , asthmatic skeletons of girls , trying on hair , who will give names to their proportions , who is beside the self of the recording industry , who will issue tickets for the unheard music , a box within a box , india ink , blossoms of white paper , iridescent , a section of air detaches revealing homophones of blank tissue , segments performed on the unnumbered violin , a mosaic in the basket , hands without gloves


reaching for clouds , harrowing a dream with inches of sulfur , when we are re organized in the library , then we cease levitating , a poem about the man within the woman , is wanting context , a variation of crimson , enigma , persian stains around the yellow whorls , indexes pointing to the grammar of the left hand , a telegraph years in the making , and ascribed to a certain mozart , the law issues from the mouth of a fish in the window , heads turn to stare at something naked , proceeding down walnut street , make a right at the next green semaphore , it makes more sense of you add a “mu” , why it goes on , in the regulation of dust , why it persists beside the mulch , why this was a man , the result of an orgasm in mexico , makes more sense if you subtract a “mu” , goes on , persists , ponder , dust which is an attitude , re commence the great “reading” before the , burning , the illegible consensus , the even more immense distances , the conflagrations beyond scheme “red” when even the infinite particles , a radio message says “transfer mu” , in her analphabetic white stockings and spit , in her cata strophic twelve tone , in whose eyes green cataracts “resound” ! the thrust is usually towards imitation , towards the cigarette of oblivion , towards a surrealism of conjunct consonants , whatever hemisphere yellow takes as a legend , wherever the letter “N” goes , if a sigma is the right answer , blows , it all just blows , into the “blue” , there were other red heads , there were the ones with isolation for a principle , with a second nature , like a forest fire , with huge cloud puffs billowing , a dream


in stanzas of vermilion and ivory , if we could read that script , with ease , where nothing else matters , a career in “music” , substituting the sense of it with a “mu” , soon , come crashing hegemonies of beryl and onyx , cliffside patterns of rushing flowers in wild blue and topaz , I told you , I did , watching the sea’s vast nothingness come roaring at the baseline , here camped once the myrmidons , and over there below the purple tamarisk and sedge , holy for their dense green , surrounding the heroes with in visible skirts, the “apsaras” the dancing ones , for a chalice of amrta , after which nothing really , mattered , once , now shades go into oblivion , and oblivion becomes its own excuse , won’t You ? rescind “mu” , request a transcript , science and intelligence have nothing to do with “love” , open the door to irregularity , a vast celestial yawning , white perimeter announces a final day , sorrow and grief commingled , embrace “me” , who dares say , speaking of dialects and their survival , small hills , greenish mounds of turf , a demesne where royal stags meander , lesser words that stand for “what-has-gone-on-beforeand-can-never-return” , that day in the hospital when I looked at the brown increase beneath your nails , I knew , you were afraid , nothing to do with “love” , planetary cycles give me a head ache , or to refer to the stanza where cobalt becomes electric , a management of the senses is “denial” , roses wither , windows fade , night’s enormous toxic substance at first a sort of purple , pales


into alba’s small fist , why will they not give us our “due” , ? omega which is the godhead , omicron which is a watch dial , we go over the same lessons repeatedly , until death wishes a part , if there is an aside , whispers in the plate glass , a worm of intent , a splinter in the pupil of the discerning eye , a critical remark before the rush to blank , whoosh , tides take us out , a lonely hand , to be able to write like “that” , using nothing but the fog and ink of longing , some thing else is missing , the next to the last letter of the alpha , mother , her small room like a , glove , darkness fold Me , the pale western versions of Night intense a , then nothing else a round the water , below the air’s long paragraph , beside a fragment of epic earth , dead heroes gnawed by a myrmidon of conscience , steeped in lakes of lore , a vedic transcript surfaces , begins here the so called saturday afternoons in the upanishads , a shift from mater dolorosa “red” , towards the already blankening vista of father’s vast and now dusky corpse , “blue” , which is neo greek for “ponder” , Mavros and his Eurydike , through what long galleries of shadowy , configuration of mythic miners puzzled in their obscure water , then back again to the pop song on the radio , the one that transfigures the hour’s night , “frozen” , the other of Proseprina in her flashy red kimono , spoken in a swift form of modern urban latin , whose rushing ambulance races into oblivion’s smallest water , a


famished , some one beckons , tracing letters on an obverse of tinfoil , “madonna trafitta” , a second later and no one is there , night’s dense and indecipherable colophon , beyond the electronic gesture to navigate , beyond the unjustifiable spirals of nebulous anti matter , beyond the minute icon of light , aggravation of incipient intelligence, the absurd in all its recondite hollows of incommensurability , whispers and fading stains , traffic of slowly disappearing cloudwork , towards the “beyond” , beyond the “echo” of invention , petty strutting gods in their impolite stammer , index of fuschia and carmine , city state of the perishable lexicon , I saw standing as a giant among men the Areopagite , an immense dust and nothing more , issues , former , the tangled mass of words just before they come into use , a reality of conjunctions “shining” , “this” is what is over here , “that” is an impossibility , “but” is an impoverishment , to lose suddenly all employ of reason and go plunging into the fret of madness , red black and green all become “blond” , the dream’s strange microphone decrees a code blue , the twisted wreckage below the margin , ponder , the body parts out of line , chalk swirling in thick clots just inches above , orgasm , to explore the possibilities of “liquid” , green unfolding in the eye’s vast interior , as if to make a lunar affirmation , a tropical dissolution in berlitz , there hard by eastern slope ,a white bullock becoming crimson , an ex pectation that the “myth” will right itself , burrowed in a


sleep of “mu” , swoon of the aspirin moon , tundras of desolation , “you’re an angel” , what I am about is the destruction of liter ature as , such , ! , wedded to a kodachrome in silhouette each hip the extension of europe into its old bedlam , until what surfaces neither asking for air nor excepting some water , turmoil on a stupendous scale (“vogue”) , P E L I G R O I never wanna get married again “ end of quote , rigamarole and movies full of confusion concussion contusion concession , her runs away , her gets it in the end , he dies for her , he goes to Mumbai talkie , he inspires to other life , her is a runabout , a gadabout , him never was no good , wet back , mexi can , her letters always come back , his address is never the same , I am both of them , one and many , plural is the same as death , endless “life” why go on ? her is wet in undies , him is goo goo eyes , take ‘em off , a cries the crowd , dreams fade assuaged by nothing , coleridge and sara naked on the heath , one is as good as nothing , really matters , in a violent kimono and red shears , cutting the lace off her breath , green is as pale as re union , shapely in her underskin with a pink valve turned “off” , before the next scene starring her as a goddess in tights , blackening eyes stared me down , a water took me away , forever , yellow surfaces on a wall of nylon , drenched in film , shaking her hair over the stellar map , wet graces a lip , but don’t kiss me again , marry again ? after the last little white house with its kitchenette and , motor series in a breakdown of the nervous system , ancestral fright , wearing plasticine wigs of furious crimson ,


again is a complex “word” , try to under stand how Radha felt , the world goes away so easily , a drop of water , a jade pin , the pearl of her earlobe bitten so tenderly , her is a fiend and bloodsucker , her is ragazza , to remember one’s life requires more distance than can be mustered up within the given hour , we are all in a miasma , him is a mistake a , boor , “indrajit” , a muddy sequence in broken promises , her wears a white garland of unfadable , remember to double the “s” , otherwise it just remains a sum of long division , we want the mystery , heighten “it” , tighten her , I am disturbed by the sound of so many bells , anklets , bracelets , tinkling voices of the nymphs in their campanile of dense water , a green ringing , a pale resonance , a hue between the sound of musk and , her is a “deadbeat” , the ineffable in a gown of white intransigence is at the door , an odor of tropic rot melon ripe and lush cankerous yellow , wisps of spanish moss a , likeness to vermilion altered by moonlight , a grammar of unreason and total madness , a , really nothing like “it” , her is crashing to the floor , death is ringing her little , blue and white paisley seer sucker ornamental garb , but , Please , no more wedding dresses , not even the kind of infinite filament , of course I‘m not kidding , silver rust with a dash of heliotrope carmine nervous breakdown , “border line” , I wish I could recover , I wish sometimes I had a chance to do it all over , but what the hell , second chances never come , I remain altered by this experience , by this strange birthright , by this unutterable sentence , by this un


intended refrain , poetry is within the realm of the unreasoning , who have never gotten “straight” , a line enters the eye and departs , a willingness to suffer whatever horizon , after a while there is nothing you can do , just sit down with the chart of irregular verbs , and start memorizing , can never figure which ones get the sigmatic aorist , look up again , the chill on the glass imparts its egoless winter , no particular place to “go” ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ seems odd to go by that “name” to answer to a “personality” that has been built up outside of No-Mind , a contradiction in terms , when green means red , really , outer surfaces of an orient ready to snow , whenever I dream of You I see other things “sprouting” , the small and blind budding , sometimes I wonder it has happened at all , first it was summer with its involved gritty skin , a song , then without warning it was in a darkened movie , sickness unto death , it wouldn’t matter if it was some one else , but it isn’t , how “they” come to know thing s about you , eerie , plate glass formulary , driving slowly up an unknown country road , who will be the first to “die” , suddenly , a maze , or a radio , eventually but you never really get used to “it” , shape of leaves outside the sick bay , color of heat at the end of may , faces that interrupt sleep , how is it we are always so far a way , how is it ? longing slips , shapes deny ,


frames no longer hold , how is it ? space intervenes between remote , deaths apply by code , yellow afternoons , by 5 o’clock mauve , either there is a “fate” in the disassembled tea leaves , or there is “nothing” , a crosslegged bonze grown fetid with desire for , or the severed top knot of the girl in question , just sitting “there” with the TV on , who gather around in order to forget , who disperse if some thing is remembered , it goes stray wanders lost who knows aerial illusions for what is distant is most at heart , the talking is just “that” words scattered in air , mouths , blindness ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ there is no afterwards

ivan arguelles Berkeley CA July 30, 2002



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