Morning/evening and other ties that bind. Waking, there is a sense of dizzying elongation, a returning to the self, but Proust told you that already. Sleeping, a gathering, a bundling up of sticks and leaves. Pretend that you are a branch, hanging over Champes Elysees, just asleep.
The play: a long, smooth production, finely tuned, with full extension, production of the phallus, a performance of fraud. Masks of grotesque unification, the dance of lifts and shoves. Was this a dream I had? Do I even dream anymore? In the long stalks of the field, a moist gravy of leaf and mud, there,the perfect morning, the perfect unbalanced vision. Can eyes see what the eyes make contact with? Will one find the other? Can anything be gained? And then again, the leaves stir and suddenly the crowd begins to understand what the meaning of manifest is. Can the vision appear? Puff of smoke wave of wand magic words: instead, false mirrors that lift the true visions up and away, behind the shroud, there, off-stage to be enveloped in something close to blind silence, beyond the reach of gaze or applause. Shake the tin sheets and formulate a storm or song. Open mouths, unbind the nagging note: sing!
If morning was morning and night was night the universe would be in order. The moon surrenders itself to its duty to water. It undertakes the task of intimidation. A drain, a pipe, the first primitive distancing device.
What is a question? What can an answer be or become? What is the name given to the space between? Vision.
The chap chap chap of my typewriter that I carried outside to sit in the grass.
Nostalgia? Not one bit. I won't have it I won't. And I don't reconstitute people in this way. Are you an artifact of nostalgia? No. You are you. Especially, specifically, and particularly you.
Disintegration. If all letters are dispatched it will all make perfectly-non sense. I wake.
The smash of bottles breaks it all. I forget and am lost.
I extend a hand to the delineated void.
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