Hence, the most beautiful flower
Hence, the certain likelihood of its being plucked
Hence, that beauty migrates.
Two children sat waiting in the small station.
They were ugly
One of them held a beautiful flower
A woman, obviously their mother, equally ugly, entered and sat besaide them. She glanced at the flower; and a patch of redness excited itself in her brain
The next day at the same time, the same family on the same bench.
What would happen: was it predictable?
He stopped writing. He had felt the need to write. Then he stopped. A memory flooded, water, the ripples reflecting a low sun.
Hundreds, from one.
Something rolled like thunder from the hills
What was it
Thunder. But no thunder-- no sound. Just the rolling.
It entered him.A hollow space in the center of the city
Such was alluded to by the walk of the young man towards the north
side of the street
The sun, the sun
An empty hole of brightness that penetrated the city in at least
five evocative locations
The way up was analysed. A man hesitated at the enterence to a
tobacco store, and the young man crossing the street saw the nesitation
and echoed it, mentally
Did a bell ring?
It was the sun
I saw it (or regretted it): one didn't.
Inside the tobacco store, a middle aged man was smoking a cigar
He looked through the plate glass window that said "Smoke"
and saw all there was to see. But he couldn't, perceptually, re-process
all that he saw, so all that he saw, hovered, full of holes.
The young man continued. That meant, he disappeared, through the use of his feet. But one direction was erased by others.Under the blanket of streets,
he motivated his listlessness with beauty.
It appeared to him in its various forms, re-energized by a cloud that wiped out meaning.
Here, this perfect, translucent face, shone with the glow of a
forgotten-not paradise that rolled forward, the heavy freight
train of easy collisions.
Is this paradise?
And I find myself reflected in all mirrors.
So, if I unpack my suitcase, and its contents tumble over the
Oh, eventually, it's all. . .re-collected.Are the gods here yet?
Hence, under the influence of April, the roses turned color and
The Gods support me, so that I float an incalcuable and small
distance over the floor
Therefore, I ask you to be seated.
I think the Gods, hover, disturbed, outside the window
Hence, the window breaks
Hence, the flowers in the hair, tremble
Hence, the solid apple, falls from the sky
When I'm threatened, the Gods form imprenetrable lines of force
How fortunate for the one so protected.
I'm not protected, I'm. . .distracted.
You mean your enemies are distracted
No. I have no enemies
Hense, the clouds part, and an idea vanishes
Could I remember a story that might make you like me best?
Best of. . .?
Well, best of all.
(Story from earlier)
A hollow space in the center of the city
Therefore, the generation of impulse
Therefore, the foot that defies it's appropriate direction
A young man faces space, which is achieved by looking through
a window in the room of his hotel
The woman at his side, looks elsewhere, but her heart is with his heart.
The light that encircles them both, a motif, registered or not
registered, that expands, endlessly.
Hence, the smoke rose
Hence, a sense of direction
Hence, the stress and strain of possibility, like an ache inside
the eye when the eye is closed tight, doubly.
Were you beautiful when you were a child
I think not
Was your mother beautiful
I think not also
Lift your hand. Lift both hands from the sides of your body, like
I've never done that
Do it now
I'm not beautiful
But that's not being questioned
(Pause, she lifts her handsThe old man climbed the stairs
But there was no old man, and no stairs, just the climbing.
And the lights darkened
causing the light to resister as something even more intense.
The old man was clutched at the railing
but there was nothing but railing--
so his hand flew necessarily to what it needed,
and in that strength
his rate of ascent increased until he had,
within his grasp, all things a hand can be holding.
The door in front of him opened
and a dispenser of wisdom, smiled,
while reading, or remembering
And the old man and the second old man
proceeded to turn toward vibrant words.
There was no word
There was a vibrancy
An automobile entered the station
breaking important rules
and the old man entered and smiled.
There was no smile, but there was a task, finally, accomplished.Accordingly, when the fire went out, the burning was deep
Accordingly, the animals slept fully
Accordingly, alive and dead, a unit
The word --"enough"; paroting the senses,
all in the illusionary mode
when a twist of the sleve
wears into its opposite, arm in arm
and you and I part after minor happenstance.
And all happens again;
ours, for a precise part
of mutual history
that slides into the brightest dawn imaginable,
the light that
my particular heartThis collection of idiots
two by two
operating under the influence of planets declared obsolescent.
Rendevous, named for a famous mountain;
climbed, in abscentia.
This snow, which drifts
This adventure in sight,
into the results of reason,
his or her private,
theme of themes.
Hence, the flight to the suburbs
Hence, the vacume, mid-way
Hence, the brain that uses speed
to traverse the implanted letters of an uncharted alphabet.A woman placed herself in the middle of the road
Rain came, and taking shelter under the tree at the side of the road-- three people now.
And the descending water
And the three people under the tree, planted imagination, which bore no fruit because the rain
perpetual, seemed to stop as a function of local happenstance
Here, a disappearing act
Here, X into re-X
the sign of a mental system available to all.
Hence, winners and losers.Hence, death travelled through the city, claming victory.
Hence, many were confounded , and at the very moment of such proclamation, the city itself seemed vibrant with life.
Hence, the sweet, pungent fact, the most life meant the most
Hence, death claimed it was potent in the geometry of things.
Where the mind scans for geometry, the mind sniffs deathSo it
was that children followed a bright light in the sky. And when
the sun was obscured by clouds, the children nevertheless sustained
activity. On the small river, pieces of paper were floating, and
the writing on these pieces of paper, was unread.
Trees inclined. A taxi rounded a corner in the city, and a hat
blew--wind at work-- into the air. I covered the table on which
I had been working with two hands. Two hands did not cover the
table completely. What was still visible was an embroidered cloth.
Was I pausing, in prayer?
In another city I visited, trains traveled the tracks, bisecting
a certain perfume that invoke geometry. Accodingly, the radical
lines cut deep, but this was mental. So, who was it, holding his
Ergo, I slept. Ergo, this was the previous night. Now only, I
re-lived a dream of railways, and engines that sped along these
geometric lines all lied. Ergo, I plunged into the lie, findable,
and it turned into particles of energy for my dream.
Elsewhere, on a lake, boats slid forth, and the foam of the waves
was so white that one thought an catagory of things. Lace, snow,
deliberate feet tracing a vein of rich ore, mountains echoing
the footsteps very much, as the white sail evoked the travel that
such floating traced, in a blue that turned to darkest black.Hence,
a flat ocean reflected the sky. Hence, attention was called to
both surfaces, which made what was beneath both, potent. Hence,
a ship reflected below seemed above, where it was in fact, a second
reflection. And the dizziness hurt.
I collected the books scattered on my table. My arms hurt from
the weight of books, which one by one I desposited on the proper
In another city, the windows of a library filled with wind, and
an automobile approaching the city made it possible to glimpse
the city below, as the car rounded a curve and the occupants glanced
left. In that library, hidden from view but not hidden from one
who occupied it, odors of food filled-- in through the wind that
opened windows. Beyond-- a whole world. Within-- a second world,
immobile, waiting to be unlocked. But the windows suffered the
closing of themselves as a protective measure, but as in the case
of all protective measures, there were losses to be measured against
Samuel read books, then stopped. Again, he lifted many and returned,
one by one, book to gap. The shelves filled in regular pattern.
In the same way, something in Samuel's mind bounced back and forth
between absence and solidity. Absence as a randomly occuring
open, as in window and wind thought of as something that stayed,
but began what was never finished.
A river looked up at the underside of a bridge, and cars piled up to make colors. Leaning on the edge of a stone paraphet, somebody who was a friend cast glances that buildings used windows to receive, only they were so occasional in the facade that one half of the equasion was noticed while another half was not.
Returning to a hotel made little sense. The room was still whirling--
participating in many different lives, and the friend felt lost,
amidst so much humanity.
Can you taste this, said Marie? She held something-- poised, on
the end of her finger. Samuel only smiled. Marie meant nothing
to him in the moment. On the other hand, he had trained himself
into caring-- but the stretch of time this related to was longer
than the moment. He licked something off the tip of her finger.
His life, cracked. A wind closed the crack by passing through
At the edge of a stream, a woman knelt down and a church caught
her eye. The water was splashed by her hands into her face. Her
eyes closed to do this. Because the image of the church stayed
placed, somewhere inside her head, and because she knew, science-wise,
that it was behind her closed eyes that the interiour head lay--
she thought of herself as a person in prayer, but this mental
image vanished. When she opened her eyes, she felt as if some
of the splashed water had entered. And indeed it had, not through
the closed eyelids but later, after the eyes opened and wet residue
Samuel had such an image, for a moment. He went to write such
a thing on a piece of available paper. Marie thought about kissing
him. He didn't care and brushed away that idea but found it sticking
to the end of his fingers. He kissed the tips of those fingers,
his pencil fell loose, not leaving the hand, but unfixed from
the rigor necessary to form words on the page. He waits for a
spark. Instead, there was lightening outside the library-- this
he could remember.
Death collected from everywhere-- windows slamed shut in the wind--
but the collection continued. It made inanimate things billow
with the agitatiopn of life. Animate things whirled, and the smooth
surface on which they skated wasn't smooth, only the binocular
eyes available were de-focused, of course, because that was the
only way to make things take shape. Trying to read books through
these same binoculars-- back off. Books vanish. Then they are
read. Evenings get occupied and one says to oneself -- well done.
The domestic animals do this in secret, so that masters will not
have to re-adjust. No one choses to cause pain, but it ladels
itself like gravy. Tables smear-- and domestics say-- it was an
accident of nature. How do they know this? Did they read it?
Samuel says --enough said. To no one in particular, who sees him dropping his head into his hands-- how excellent for his head to have found hands. Cradled, he has no tools left-- sticking a pencil in his nose is out of the question; but he does imagine, effectively what the nose might wright. The paper receives this. It is invisible ink. But tommor is a heat that develops this-- depending on tomorrow's temperature.Are you who I think you are??
I think you are other than the person who left this room
You've already said that
Everything important gets repeated
Prove to me I'm wrong
No. You have to prove it
(No, you have to prove it)
I'm happy with my assumptions, you're not
(I'm happy with my assumptions, you're not)
You know I can't prove a subjevctive impression
I don't know anything of the sort
(I don't know anything of the sort)
OK. I'll go along with this and act like it's perfectly natural
Ah, that's a sensible life adjustment
That's a sensible stratagy
Time will tell
I'll let you in on a little secret
I don't follow you
Take a little advice. Start from scratch
I don't know what that means-- start from scratch
But I don't have any choice
(Close eyes, count to ten/ Pause/ repeat it faster)In a distant
city, clouds travelled like ikons, from the eye into the brain.
The shapes evoked were letter writers
Stores closed. Roadside stands made overtures to foreign belief
systems. A lost number was picked up from the mud at the side
of the road, written on a postcard. The child who received, recovered,
that number, plastered it on his or her forehead like an eye,
and that gave ideas to the other members of the party. An idea
in the middle of the forehead. One elderly woman loved children.
Her face shown from internal pressure. Her fingers tapped the
edge of the automobile from the inside, and when food was collected
to be eaten en route, she alone said no. Was hunger a factor in
lives? Certainly-- but this was anticipation. As the automobile
picked up speed, certain anticipations fell to pieces. There was
always discarded material at the side of the road, but that too
traveled; it was a question of changing the frame of reference.
At the edge of a new city-- the smoke chased ideas not yet come to fruition. Eight o'clock said the neon clock, and it rattled into the future under Marie's eye. Her hands crossed, planning a not-yet-come actuality. Shall I comb my hair? --that was Marie, participating in eternity. She did. Her grooming improved for the moment, but the next, air re-blew a certain tanglement, and Marie did two things at once. The steering wheel edged toward its goal, un-mediated pivot, but things were controlled enough so that routes cut deep without altering the landscape, which percivered in its blend. The sky drops behind stores took on flesh, and reflected light also chimed, hearable through organs not yet named in the book Samuel squeezed like a lemon. This tastes like no taste. he whisperedover traffic.
Where are we headed? Marie didn't say this. Therefore the word
'home' was heard, ringing like a bell.
Samuel turned the pages of his memory book. What slid to the floor
out of the pages was a map in sugar. I wish I'd had this on my
trip, his tongue licked. Then he made a mental itinery, backwards,
and his chair collapsed. EDhy would such a thing happen? Glue
no longer held. But fortunately-- habit was stronger than glue.
It was morning someplace, and they got out of the car to breathe. An envelope lay in the grass. When two hands reached toward it, the body followed with a bend from the waist. That fold wasn't paper-echoed inside the envelope. Who else could have thought of such things. The empty envelope clued not, and the question, unformed, seemed whether or not to return it, emtiness and all, to it's grass (mostly dirt) setting, or to transport it back into the car which would shortly be moving.
When it moved, the people inside moved. They filled (the car)
but sometimes they were inside it and sometimes not.
A store opened. Business began for the day as people went in and
out purchasing newspapers and toothpaste and cigerettes among
other items. Outside the store, the window reflected as well as
transmitted information. But nowhere in that information was the
morning itself. In order to contact that, tools had to be set
in motion, and they were ungraspable, they worked without thought,
greesed like ice greeses something cold and hard, which doesn't
want to be touched. So these fingers did their thing, though no
one recognized them as fingers. But the body had its way, and
packages adhered to certain definable human beings who came and
went. A ribbon was tied to somebody's hair. It read "Tomorrow,
tomorrow, I will be here tomorrow". Then the store closed.
People still entered and exited and made purchases, but it was
closed. It turned to ice, so it was slippery enough to keep being
'store' even if it wasn't 'store'. Cars drovce past. Nobody noticed
anything but 'store', but that was a reflection, seen through
the window of the passing automobile.
In another city-- miles closed and became inches. Death had flowers
lined up like collapsable bottles that held milk. So when the
bottles collapsed, the milk collapsed. That was logic, and death
was into logic like roofs were into sky. There was no contact,
but there was a relationship. Samuel smiled and looked up. Just
under the angle of his gaze-- he missed things.
Children traveled to the end of the pier, viewed boats in the distance, drifting. Smoke also passed, and the children stood for amazing periods of time, transfixed. A small boy thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and when the pebbles underfoot were kicked, he passed time. Nobody spoke, yet there were children, so their speaking was not something well identified. But they did manage to glue onto some other level that understood the boats passing and the smoke rising-- when it did rise though sometimes it took other directions.
The plate of water tilted; this would calm down when the speaking was more available as a tool the children were only beginning to handle. One child, in later years, would say or think-- where does it begin and where does it end.
No effective answers would be forthcoming to such a silly question deemed 'childish', so it was not, thank God, articulated. It was only dabbed-- as a painting is dabbed-- yet think about this-- it is not the painting that is dabbed but it is the surface of the painting which is dabbed or dabbed at where the individual colors are found resting.
The child doesn't have to let years pass to do this-- to apply these dabs to the painting that finished itself and was finished by some other means-- not tools, but tools coming from the outside that never touched the painting. And the child was too busy to cry. Nothing that childish was allowed to touch his or her features which were controlled like cometimes one can imagine controlling smoke. Who imagines that? Does it work? Probably it's not even imagined, it seems so far from the ordinary possibility and the ordinary thing about smoke.
Imagine a tall smokestack.
Imagine controlling that smoke.
This is something for a mature person to do.
This is a way to create a picture.
When the golden light lifted, Samuel found his eyes were open;
but they were not open. Then he closed them, and that experience
was just as shallow. He tried to remember the golden light, but
it had gone. He sat at a table. Sculpted in time, he touched something
gold, the table, in the hopes it would speak to him. Half and
half.After a night of drinking, the young man had difficulty starting
his day. It seemed like a day already worn out.
The street corner was whirled against, was it caught? A hand put
fingers in front of a face, blocking the eyes, but this was not
to protect anything, only the head wanted the decoration of some
Four hands lay on the table and the table felt inclined to tilt.
Samuel imagined that the buildings had all collapsed. What Samuel
had was a certain granular radiation from one or two loght bulbs
in his line of vision. How was this possible-- it was morning
and no lights were illuminated. Or, if they were, the sun obliterated
all knowledge of that. A sandy stretch of soil beneath his feet
may have given him ideas. He kicked his toes once or twice in
The terrible dog was on the verge of appearing from behind the
mirror. Water always fell from the glass, or it wasn't water but
something pourable-- which was why the face of the dog, shining
with a terrible light, seemed to float in front of Samuel's eyes.
He reached out no hand, but the effort of the total arm seemed
to release a certain brain fluid. On this rush, he could embark
in the name of adventure. And so, stranger to himself, he was
able to plant the stalk of his expectation in the most fabulous
territory of all.
A game of tennis ended. The courts turned to clay, and white
lines seemed to bisect what nobody was there to notice-- a planet
of meaning. Soon, one of the young women was on her knees, tracing
the lines with a device of her own invention. Did it measure inches,
or degrees of variation from some absolute direction. But the
indications of direction were contradictory, which was perhaps
the reason the game of tennis had been abandoned. An empty glass
of once was water stood on a small metal table. This too, echoed
like a thunderstorm in those random tables to which her measurements
alluded. Called to task, she folded her device, and the young
men, dressed in white, lifted her on their broad shoulders in
imitation of something-- was it a bird they had seen flying north?
The lawn in front of the large house widened. It must have been
Soon after different experiences, the woman let her hands fall
inert to the sides of the chair.
On the other side of the ocean, a child put his ear to the door.
Nothing changed. The ultimate sky stayed ultimate, and when the
birds wheeled in circles, no circle was established. Yet the sky
continued to spread. The night came and went. And the things that
fell down, ultimately out of the sky, decided to name themselves
in the midst of such falling, which meant, catagories of thought,
accompanying nothing, floating light weight in the air that did
not fill them-- but they were filled, in the brief experience
of that fall to earth.
In a small room, a lamp gave the only illumination. The one with
his hands in his pockets turned to the wall. He had something
to say. He tried to remain silent but, unfortunately, soon found
himself speaking. This was the uncontrollable part of himself--
the part of himself that dressed well to go into the streets.
The part of himself that took long walks to the edge of the city--
un-self-discovered, like a branch broken from some tree that tries
to bend in the wind when there is no wind.
Children ran through the garden, and a bird howled. Sticks were
dropped, then retrieved, and perhaps they had dreamptof avoiding
the fire but it was not to be.
A trip was proposed and then abandoned. After regret had had time to acclimate itself, the house seemed smaller. Inside the regret, tiny rooms slowly established themselves, copies of other rooms. This doubling had a name, long forgotten. And so the film over the brain, full of holes, had no holes. That was the official belief. It was sad, but only in the moment of transition, from the something before sad to the sad, only then was there a brief, momentary shine of the delight that had long since left his life. And Samuel said-- it is very important to know that before the sadness was something else that was not interesting. A kind of sleep. --But you woke from that sleep,
protested Marie. And Samuel nodded his head in irrelevent compliance.
But he was glad to nod, knowing that sometime later, that tiny
act would lead him to new adventures.
Samuel lost his shoes, and lifted his hands to see them. This
was necessary because the hands in their lower position sometimes
obscured the feet. But Marie said, put your hands down, and Samuel
did so, believing that one error of judgement was enough for a
single day. Then she cocked her head at an angle, this was Marie,
and cried at something. It was a secret. But so many things were
secrets, that one could just catagorize them as such and feel
In another part of the city, a bar opened for ther night. It had
been closed temporarily, and at the moment of opeing, no patrons
were in sight. Later on that evening, there was a resaonable crowd,
At a food market near the river, vegatables were being sold. These
were exchanged for money-- but the amount that exited from pockets
and handbags was not replaced directly by the item purchased.
Said item filled other containers, bags of paper or plastic. So
a gap there had to be jumped by the mind that did the purchasing.
That was exercise of a sort, but the question was what part of
the mind achieved, here, benifit. But a deeper question was--
was there a part to the mind, or was it a whole and non-dividable
thing, and was that why it was so easy to make the connestion
between the produce purchased and the cash paid out to insure
that. Pockets and handbags emptied fast-- especially taking the
perspective of longer periods of time. Brains matured. Bags of
paper and plastic were eventually discarded.
Something on the surface of the lake, floating, as was expected,
and Samuel fished it out of the water saying-- this thing was
floating. What was it? No one knew.
To turn these impulses of the hand into words rather than into images. The hand did continue when the brain did not-- or was it rather that the brain did not report upon its continuing.
So words, they made things in spite of the effort being denied to the making. Why should the word want to continue. It did, after all, have a life of its own, just as did the hand have a life of its own. And what conditioned that drift of those separate lives if not something outside of and more powerful than Samuel himself.
Should Samuel have been more powerful; tried to make himself more powerful? Or was power available to Samuel in the form of a wave he could ride, and was that ride a ride to allow or a ride to end. And if Samuel left the ride of this wave, could his physical body be controlled in a way some idea of things might call desirable?
The moving hand and the moving word were controlled by life but
they did not create a picture of life. What they produced was
therefore evidence rather than relief. And if there was no relief,
then the mental process built, and who knew what would be the
end of that mental process-- self destruction from the inside--
or transformation. Nobody knew.
They entered the cathedral and somebody said kneel here. But Marie
looked toward the ceiling, and felt ready to cry.
A child held a bag of roasted nuts. Shaking the bag produced noise.
Wind was like an echo. If there was nothing to say-- could there be an echo that echoed that. What kind of ringing in the ears was forthcoming.
Everybody felt, or heard, that ringing in the ears. Everybody.
That was something, at least, to celebrate.
A hole opened in the sky, but nothing filled it, and it occupied time past as well as time future. Men climbed a specific mountain in order to see into the hole-- this hole they had no idea of-- its existence like the hole in front of the eye that moves when the eye moves.
So these men-- better than blind, suhuufled in their shoes over
the rocks, and balanced on the final uppermost rock, and fell
at last onto the whole of which they knew nothing, and nothing
A newspaper flapping on the front of the newstand, flapping because
it had been clipped to the wall and now the wind was blowing,
a newspaper reported some things and forgot many other. But that
is to say it was the newspaper that was doing these things. The
newspaper was printed by people who were under the command of
other people who assigned other people to write things up. One
of the things that was written up was what was happening now to
the newspaper, fluttering in the wind. That is, a tiny edge of
it, loose from the things that clipped it to the wall, only that
tiny edge was fluttering. But when there was no wind, it lay there
The clocks were climbing the stairs. What stairs? The ones at the end of the hall-- but isn't that all stairs, don't all starts come at the end of a hall. Isn't that where all stairs are located. There are just a certain number of exceptions, but these exceptions don't prevent us from stating the obvious, because what is obvious is generally the case, about stairs particularly.
This knowledge empowered Samuel. He stood with confidence, ascended
with confidence. Time, which stretched out in front of him like
it stretched out in front of everybody else, held a certain number
of surprises for him, but he was prepared for these surprises,
because he knew they were coming. Yes, he was upset when they
happened, some of them, but he expected to be upset. So his expectations
were fulfilled and there were no surprises. Sometimes, he had
to check his watch and usually, often, he was never extremely
surprised or upset, because it was approximately the time he imagined
it to be before checking his watch. But he checked his watch just
to make sure.
In a small room, a cabinate held things inside. People who passed through that room, or did things in in that room, occasionally saw it open. People who entered the room very infrequently, or just once in their whole lives-- many of those people never saw it open, never saw its insides. But they did not doubt that it held things. It was therefore, acceptable as a cabinet.When flowers errupted throughout the city
the encrusted walls,
heavy with weight
and the hordes,
with those blossems
that perfumed all striving,
so the quality of activity
and the city produced confusion as before
such confusion was valued,
and what brought itself to a shine
between blossem and stone
was a ricochet of thought
that never before
into its thousand proper pieces;
city of each fragment,
city in each turn of a corner,
no longer helt tight
and the ikon-like
quality of each moment of evening,
flashing from face to face
and the city entire
into the source of its own twisting
from that lost map