Distribution Automatique

Thursday, October 16


As I sit here and sweat, and know that I
have been fooled by earth, the words
fall tremblingly out and away from their
origins: because nothing is built to last
(that is wrong, say the pyramids)

A gesture the cat is too full.
"I am telling you"
Not as it points to
It just something you get up and do

lifting up our arms we imitate our origins
someone doesn't "take a plate & throw it
against the wall"
the critical voice
too self-important, too critical

an homage to the forest
a bailiff gestures to the noose
a sea takes place as a circular noun
that bears adherence & jazzy the last
line bears little resemblance to
a specific but gracefully Coltrane sings
me to attention to the ego of a black
wooden clarinet: uptown, downtown, it has
a real bad beat, not least of all because
I tried to consciously slow myself down to
watch a small piece to be drawn from a
previous insert, no less similar to
frequently misled, insecure laws, as
which you are too familiarly acquainted
seemingly but not actually ill-equipped
for, sort of fading but somehow gradually
led up to by the noticeably preceding
phrase, itself lacking presentiment of its
continuance, but irrevocably, unchangeably
marginal & only suggested without
conceivable completion, insisted on by a
following comma, without necessary
extention but intentionally followed by
a later suggestion in material
shape, something familiar, graspable &
real, for tonight & maybe tomorrow
night. If not, to add in violins
could be a controllable folly in the
paraphrased world seen outside of this
one. All day & all night the bridge
left no fortunes to finance the
interpretation of dreams.
I reminded Mike to call me back into
this one. The doctor says rain is good.
A warning trembles over the grass. The
continuance of a kimono is immanent.
Certified in certifiable folly. Audiences
of birds bite the words in their
mouths. As ultra drawn back of the
tongue. Of silence & uncompleted
dangers unresolved relationships tingle
against my listening memory like
chimes to be tuned according to the
rules of beneficent academic blessing.
Cloaking the skills I make my off-
key remarks. Magic tricks learned from
books make the iridescent words
illuminate the recent lapse. The
end of the bridge, the part leading
to a spot I gaze upon, at the
broken end of a bridge without
continuation. The sinister darkness of
a plane gives a grammatical mood to
an explanation of broken syntax. This
is intersected by a busy twist of
reminders. Your voice makes a peculiar
gesture towards my memory. Of course
it is mixed with memories of my

A Chinese puzzle.

More pyramids.