Arb(or)eal Quadr(up)ed

That which comes up from the deep so as to breathe. Arc as in triumphant negotiation between circle and square. Type as in textual conspiracy of eyes, ears, and lungs. Deep is deep as deep is. But think: When the moon cycles through its selfsame reflective lunes we who notice are newly relative. (Our relatives are more than human, and less.)


To understand the poet is to understand the people. Because nothing is not made. So we are largely tired of God. But God the maker is not tired of us. And like all great metaphors there’s the one and the many and they cannot do without one another! Heat and light. Halo, atmosphere. Hello, space.


I could talk about the bookshelf. The way the books are all different sizes but they go together on the shelf like that. When I erase a word that was a part of the sentence because of a rule or something what have I done? Have I done justice to language? Have I done an injustice to the word? The sentence, that limited space in which words go together like books on a shelf?


Sing as the root of single. People sing in large groups and it is magnificent. (Reminder: fractals.) But there is still a singleness to it. Like smoking a cigarette, you’re always alone. So what. Well then the cigarette feels for you in a very particular way, because lungs, oh lungs. Do I really fast think and switch and barking say? No, much softer, yes.


Autobiography as wakefulness, drone as faith. Been holding onto that one. Because or not because I love waking, I feel new awaking, and because the steady sound is to my voice what the planet is to my heart. It means nothing, it makes everything. There is an exercise, and someday they will be someday they will be. I used to want for the legends of literature. Now it’s an easy knowing couch. Helpful to lamp about.


The celebrity has a habit, the performer has a practice. There is overlap, of course, but, essentially, the practice is aware of its limit, the habit- no. The habit has to keep going, it will continue. Interlude: Whose will? The performance (is) driven by the process of knowing a feeling. Knowing and feeling are many doors. A door is a default entry.


A door is a default entry. Is is a default door. Fault is a de facto lock. Horizontal orange. The language little blockhead bitters. Here, here—two ears. Year hears year’s heart, a parting with an artful bob. Head wrought, neck knows. Wrist a tilted hymnal bramble. Palms the scrape of a whale in wet sky. Hair is how to grow and to get and a gulping hump a rolled


Got to be enough form for the [is] to enter, as into a home. My red book is red and full of thinking, but the songs are too many bones or flakes or simply not the barren sodden bold sunken holy burning voice. The heart opens the mouth, the mouth opens the ears, the ears open the mind, the mind opens the eyes.


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