In Pusuit of the Literal

They spring, in a graceful movement, onto the page, turning
around each other, embracing, moving closer, separating,
breaking apart into smaller groups of meanings...this movement
is its own meaning, apparently taking itself to be an expression
if the neighboring worlds which endlessly interact on a myriad
of levels...11-27-28-84:- There is something out beyond the
edge of the visible universe. It is hearing the ear thinks,
seeing the eye thinks. Out beyond there where nothing
is seen, in a single pulse the universe repeats itself with
every breath. Normally, the eyes see. But when one is listening,
light itself translates the signals into birds' movements,
strumming air with its harnessings, transfiguring a past scrap
heap of posturings in the lattices of a sparkling hesitancy. Dripping
with sweat, the angel mutters to her or himself, down with this,
hurling a strictly documented universe, graduated, gyrated and
expostulated in the grainy screening room of history. Lifted
high and carefuly deposited on the shelves, the words stretch
and yawn and then start to move, scramble madly from one
volume and meaning to the next. In a deft stroke of recognition
the words run off the books and onto the shelves, failing
obstinately, to utter a sound or thought...

Notebook: circa 1990