The one who functions as the language bringer, can't be trusted.
You know why? Who is he. What does he bring.
Oh? A noise machine?
Did you make frightening expressions with your faces?
I have only one
One expression or one face. You see when you said you couldn't
be trusted I took you very seriously. And now, being thrust back
into my own grid of anticipation and carefulness--
--I thought for a moment you offered me a key.
Don't trust me doesn't mean don't take chances. When I hurl words
in your direction--
Duck, but don't turn and run.
Oh, run. But chose a more circular, maze-like pattern, try to
bedevil me in the complex strands of your own verbal stratagy,
even if that's to say nothing, still shaped in imitation of the
infinite folds of the human brain: do you have one too? Of course,
I've never seen my own.
Don't you claim it's very shape is projected on all you experience.
I said that once
You made a gift of it.
I'm not supposed to taste
Just take advantage. Snatch, jeweled, fruits, tokens of my own
ability to control what pours out and multiplies and folds back
on itself until something very thick indeed coats the surface
of things-- struck yet?
Can I still duck?
Look towards the other emd of the body, please, do the feet move
with ease, or do they call for a certain forcefulness of knee,
thigh, even strong up to the rib cage--
Why not say, making the head pound, which sends even more blood
to the head--
Dizzy to duck.
Spinning, what's caught or not caught--
But of course, when the head spins, it attracts like a magnet
Now what it wants
No choice for the head, as usual for the head. Don't trust me.
I'm already magnatized, so trust isn't under my control either
When you realize that, you realize nothing special.The nobody who sits inside
The house on sunny days
Says where is there a window
That permits the sunlight's rays
To enter in my bedroom
Where the pillow sparkles white
On which I lay my weary head
To brightly dream of night.
Black black black
Inside the lonely house
Brite brite brite
The darkness tumbles out.
Are you a real language demon?
What I checked up on was my own conversation
What I found there was. . .
everything I expected.Rose, double
authentic layered self
Sweat-heaved in orbit
Sintilating heat: not heat:
Sweet joined past multiple hurtle
Rose whine curled
into gold heat-space,
non-adhesive glue flower,
Authentic, the revolve itself
3 Spaced, but the empty teeth
vast in a cloud
Sliced, center speed,
and the lost buckle
a whole triangle shape
of real fire
The agitation interested me the minute I found out about it.I can't imagine his committment to langauge
but a very real, thunderous--
as the world, suddenly,
with holes that widened as fast
as the world widened.
Did take me out to the place
I was, grey and soft,
gentleness like an instinct inside matter.
The double revolve of two mental wheels, did represent the spread of that activity;
So urban we were,
doffed hats into the whirl of candy winds--
and I sank
Into a tall direction that spoke.
His own honor
Not an neglected aspect of himself
but a buckle
a fly, decorating his own maneuvers through space
Until the fly king said,
enough, I have seen with my
and I sink into that very delight as sufficient.
His own trust
not a forgotten part of the repetoir.
But somehow what
the overkil of the emotion
like a suitcase in a lost city of great but hard to fathom adventure
His own fathomlessness
not a look in a wrong direction
a part of the eaten cake
of iced responsibility that went down sweet,
but lay in
the endless stomach upheavals
that spread the entire pavement of catagory
that masquaraded as like and like-not but really--
went in all directions,
whirling, at onceSadly, he spoke,
under foot particles of
day to day spew
now chewed to
Oh, was he a sweet one
or a disappointed one
or a lost, totally lost
look at the hand-tongue
in the long tunnelRemarkable or not,
hewed to no form
He did vast-reach
across the inch
of the finger
no, the tinier joint
In the pin-eye foam
of his whirling
on the fifty-two year pivot
but under the unoticable back so
by twist rather than fact,
Sweeten the self, and do not act, which will sweeten the self throiugh not acting, and not projecting the self into gross matter through the act which falls into the real world and is not sweet.
So do not venture, there, but stay, un-fallen, and let the impulse
not-fall into the world, but stay in the unmanifest where it sweetens
as it ripens, totally.
Why not employ a more efficient waiter. Why employ a waiter that
does not act.
I'd like some fish.(Pause) Is that possible?
It is possible
Will you bring me some fish?
Why employ a waiter who does not act?
He sweetens himself, and my resturant burns, lightens
I don't understand lightens.
I can't explain lightens.
Waiter, I'd like some fish. (Pause) Would I really?
Please, don't pay me for fish.
(Pause) Normally, I don't pay for fish until I've recevived it.
Would you like to look at it, sir?
I try to imagine it.
(Pause) Try to imagine it
Look at this river (Pause) No firery angels on this river
Is that a river
I can imagine a river. I can imagine firery angels on the river,
and fish leaping into the sky in happiness.
We let them leap, I believe.
I'm a waiter who does nothing, and in the end, it makes you happy,
I'd like to eat. Why? Becauyse dinner time has come, you see?
(Points to clock) I see
I see. (at window, music)
Would your resturant be more successful as a resturnat if you employed a waiter who dod not-- not act?This waiter does not act. He does not descend into the real world where he takes my desire for fish and gratifies it.
(Pause) I taste the imaginary fish in my mouth. I feel what it
does to my throat, as the taste seems to spread in multiple directions
inside me. By what pathways I do not know.
How did I become a waiter? How did I come to dress, and be here?
Now I remember
It was as if you were doing a walk that was a kind of revolving
perpetual, and that spin, that wobble, as it were spun you into
Can I buy this resturnat?
Are you serious?
Is it what you want?
I hardly thought about it
Think about it
How much would you pay me?
How much do you want?
(Pause) I'll have to consider
You'd be a free man
Would I? (Pause) I have another idea, which I admit is inspired by viewing this waiter that I employ, or seem to. Do I employ?
He wobbles into my employ. He is, wobbling, sustained within my
employ. This waiter does not fall into concrete being with acts,
but hovers-- always on the verge of delivering the meal that will
And so, satisfaction, hovering, contains itself and constitutes
I do not fall into being, in fact
When the circular appearance
did: or did not
have the light
opening the eye,
A slice of eye light
So slanted onto the self circling
But to follow it was to return always.
Did I fall into intense being by not falling into concrete being.
Did I not fall, I did not.Look what I found in my pocket.
Nobody keeps fish in his pocket
Candy made into dust
He's feeding the bugs
Look, what I found in the corner.
No, it's not a fan
A fishing pole.
(Points) A river) It's a cleaning mechanism
I feel refreshed already
I hear God calling.
He can't be angry with me, because I am listening to him only.
Waiter, do you know how this machine works? (Shows watch)
I have one also (Pause) How does it work?
I know not. But it works, and I utilize it. Congradulate me.
That's the difference between us
Congradulations. Question mark or no question mark?
Waiter. How does this work? (Points to watch)
The same way this works (Waiter points to own head)
This doesn't have to work, by which he who responds to the name
waiter means that he, in fact, has not allowed himself to fall,
disasterously, into concrete and vulgar reality. No coagulation
of spirit into matter for this one, called waiter, who is waiter,
but who waits not.
I descided to help out and bring you your fish.
But it hasn't been cooked.
Ah, then it would be far past living, while here in this state,
there is still the chance, returned not too far off into a water
environment, it may be able to function as a live, fulfilled being
which it is or at least was, but we can hope still is. (Pause)
Shall we try?
Shall we succeed>? I think we succeeded.
(Fish into tank)The taste is where? In my mouth. In the sensation which is registered in the brain or elsewhere?
In the tasted item, of course but of course not. It seems to circulate.
The taste. That teaches me something. (Pause) My mind wandered.
Was I speaking?
It was a taste
My fish? I dare not ask.
Ask me, your waiter.
I'm surprised the customer hasn't exploded.
I've exploded? I have. . . but it seems to distribute itself over
such a wide landscape, that the explosion itself is no explosion
but more a gentle wave.
Of the sort of wave that laps, upon the river bank as the flaming
barge passes slow and scatters fishes, flapping on the strand.
Fishes flapping on the strand?
Of course, of course
You do not see the fishes
Flapping on the strand
Ah, and that collective flap, could be possibly, the source of
today's catch, I mean the dinner, not yet placed before me but
placed; somewhere exact, I'm sure. (Pause) Clean my mustache,
Ah? Something unique in a waiter's repartoir. I myself had no
This waiter has shaved his potential mustache for similar reasons
Fish? Or mustache?
Fish or mustache? (build, disco)
Waiters, such as my sort, let flow through their own being, a kind of flow it whether or not, as it did, fish or no fish, flow having said flow, the fish, did it not, because did it not irrelevent.
A waiter, irrelevent. Because the fish arrive
and flapp upon the strand
grand and wonderful indeed
Heed them with care
I am not there; in the morning air
Sliced by sunlight
That blinds not dazzle.
(music rises, all flapp)If everything, every idea, is fulfilled
within one or two allusions to the root of that idea: if every
beginning immediately collapses the full stretch oif its fleshed
out totality like a firecracker of insight that comes inevitably
to those who hurl themselves forward into the forthcoming, not
with effort but just conquored drift--
Then why attempt further manifestation?
Sit, wait patient.
And the large silve tray from the kitchen arrives, bottemless, which means what?
Ah, meaning arrives, is the realm data of my partricular faith.
I am able to exploite, all the small hitches of reason, so tiny, stitch by stitch, that the entire fabric so self-grown is me, in radient firery, be into himself and 'he'
A kind of flap, am-is, and he flapped, himself in the flapping, am-is
Urban alone, and the brown river
twisted from country otherwise
where the flat plate, jeweled like a tilt
of non-visible space--
layered forth into the vertical
everything new-built that
in the inclined place of radical suddenness,
since anticipation was impatience,
and all collected
made population, strata,
something to plough through like
a snow-wall of intelligence.
In other words
by the spring
that laid into
it's cold banks
a sun rose.Pose checkers
But a radical up or down
Means nothing to me
Who flirts, only
withg the vomit tress
of long, long detail.
Spit to miss
And the eye flick
Could only bask
in a real tumble,
inside-outThe geers do mesh
But a sleep
Undone by itself
Dreamed into distance-lake,
by which fish
like a beam thinner
to make me-me
arise like a twist.
undone byt it's stitch-self
Into raw I was.Dorethy comes to think she is or is not in heaven.
If she is in heaven, she is receiving messages of value, which
need not be communicated because being in heaven, the value of
the message is to engender growth and extention that is its own
reason for being. If she is not in heaven, communication of messages
counts because the definition of non-heaven, she thinks, is particularness-ness,
which means a longing for unity exists, must be fulfilled, and
communication the primary means to do such a thing.
What IS the message, to be or be not communicated?
At first, Dorethy thinks she might have been chosen as one of God's messangers, but she does not know if she should deliver the message or protect the message from those who, she imagines, would rip it from inside her consciousness which would hurt.The green
Tried apple, bites
Into all-over, but a branch
Into the outside star- self
I count fingers in flight.
Skies, branches, spark gaps
of the non-apple
Fallen from no branch
Til a bite
The seed of happens
I know things
and into the very center
Til the edge
unkept like light
Speaks of its own
and that plate
hurrah, whole again
like a type
UnbentEach , split, separated
into a non-spice.
All frontal demand,
a skull in essence de-brew
to drink, unthought,
the return fluid of a slow
Triumph of sheet-a-lade:
panic-pain of a look,
the untroubled hurt-not
of hurt kernal.
The darkness falls.
Only the city, turned
Like an underside, silver,
Sends whisper rails,
Highways of determined non-block
Effort and ease--
what a combo.
City, all folded thin
Where the surprise bunched up
Language into edible semi-slice.
Here, too much chatter
On and off
Like electricity never called for.
Only the dress store
Like it's every pariah
Knowing -its name;
With deliberate female decision stripe-stride.Wonderful
and the dawn drops
Against pale itself-spawn.
The flick of
Tremendous, round, calm.
Oh, it already brief-tumble
Into past ice-shell
Gathering up shall-destinies,
Wit, but a word more.
And the revoled crack
Spread like fire trumpet,
Music of solid foot
Pounding spread, like a dust-effectual remark
That made its own ice reflex
Blanket enough to do to daylight
Whatever outs the maintained
Tremor of spleen-beam, us.Psyche out the shape
of all events
circling, expanding because of the overlap
on a point; added one by one,
drift to the right
So if one counteracts the drift
And the circle is penetrable
And the eye is the center
the origin point--
Sees or is seen?
Nothing is there
The eye self-enclosed
of a different kind
on and throught itself.
where tight means nothing.
A point now
Non-existent from extentionlessness
And all because