organ as altar of truth lies quavering in brain or cave, its
spirits intersect with the exterior, as water flows through water,
its presences through the present, omnipotent, the smallest stream-
let, slip, is almost evident as it slides fast and passed the in-
discriminate, a rock mid river, current swift, this is the secret of
water (and why the tongue so requires it), to realize the extensions.
Multiple lines for perspective and movement, arch beneath the hump
of lion at end of mind, at end of what? Of what sort? Where will its
hands roam? Why? What will it tell itself it's doing?
Uroboric, first devouring, then giving birth to itself, over and
again, resultant divided by the conditional within necessity, like spastic
mime signing appeals to the real, that we might have nothing if not
that to which we have given our being through life's consumption,
words flopping on catalyptic tongue, life known as "well taken," into
which we increasingly disappear, simply another occlusion of
undifferentiation?, the body a footstool in a sketch about a guy who
became the impoverishment from which he'd come, origin as
calculation of error. All keys gonna fit one lock, O Lord, one day. Yet
there's a cave when he closes his eyes, and something is moving.
Vole, fortune of reversal in fields, no, nor a refusal to think
less about nothing in particular and more in general, wedge
flying nightward at your throat like a blade increasingly glowing
in the air about you, on a screen the wide hermaphroditic smile of
light, idiot grin, same sheen on trees, mountains, clouds, a room falling
into which we always just came, we sit and watch . . . something, how
can we know anything?, beyond our own confusions, five senses, fingers,
graces five and forms flowing, head neck and trunk, limbs trailing a
fourth, of understanding, from which rise the recognitions of a third, and
out of her, twice born, the lively one. Birth is a stroke.