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--

A prison.

--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.

In language.

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


Un-bite touchable:

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


Not expressed

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

that shone

a fly, decorating his own maneuvers through space

Until the fly king said,

enough, I have seen with my

seventeen eyes

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

but, mirror-like

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,


with feet

asphalt caressed,

breaking tenderness

rolled sweet

under foot particles of

day to day spew

now chewed to

grass like


language hair.

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

but form

He did vast-reach

across the inch

of the finger

no, the tinier joint


like sea-blue

In the pin-eye foam

of his whirling

on the fifty-two year pivot



but under the unoticable back so

if, un-available,

by twist rather than fact,

A 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?

(Shakes head)

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

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, also.

I'd like to eat. Why? Becauyse dinner time has come, you see? (Shows watch)

(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 my resturnat.

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 satisfy.

And so, satisfaction, hovering, contains itself and constitutes itself.

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

A path

But to follow it was to return always.



That total



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.

A fan.


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


For speaking.

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, Please.

Ah? Something unique in a waiter's repartoir. I myself had no idea.

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


Darkness falls.

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



but soft

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

Sucked sweet

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

of eye-trauma,

Caught one-eye

Packed, reflective

like a beam thinner


to make me-me

arise like a twist.

The language

undone byt it's stitch-self


into double-joint

What eye-glue



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

Lifts, bites

Into the outside star- self


Grass only,

I count fingers in flight.

Skies, branches, spark gaps

of the non-apple

Refracted itself,

Fallen from no branch

Til a bite

Speeds forth

The seed of happens


I know things

and into the very center

a hole

Brown Burrows

Til the edge

unkept like light

Speaks of its own

Discovered drift

and that plate


Into incomplete

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

Strode, swaggers

Like it's every pariah

Knowing -its name;

Man city

With deliberate female decision stripe-stride.Wonderful


and the dawn drops

Partial again

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

Time stops.

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


Except circular,

of a different kind

on and throught itself.

Tight weave

where tight means nothing.

The self-selfed


A point now

Non-existent from extentionlessness

And all because

One moved

against movement.