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The next moment comes and I am there hands open ready to catch and redirect it’s ambivalent fledging course into the proceeding like a shortstop like a game winning pass like how sunshine whips the globe across the sky like donuts in an EcoSport like donuts in Hurricane, West Virginia. But life turns slow and hot in Hurricane. When my car works again I will want to give it kisses and apologize and return to it the purpose of transporting me wherever. Machines some will say are nothing to attach to. Machines my father says are illusions of efficiency and progress. Nonetheless I say there are attributes of lifeform in my things, and I believe my Civic exhibits six different types of learning. Anyone will tell you he is fond about his objects. Let all my chief objects explode in the suctioning sun. I will get my car towed into the sea and fling my wallet at the pizza delivery man if he designs his kindness on me and I will find some shade and scrape together what funds might afford it because to have any awareness of rebar-smoke-america is a bloody wax seal binding my knuckles to the wind and serves an appropriate love immortal. If most of summer bleeds you dry and most of real estate is tall and clean and all this heat and trash is an indication that you won’t last ten more years and if you really do suffer the grief you cause then I’m just going to train my eyes to be bluer and my cheeks sweeter and my demeanor charitable though grave and I’m going to carry my immediate needs up to the north and make a living selling bricks to a gaunt and haggard Apep while I sip my milk and watch his tower approach the sun. On the one hand there is a way to be and on the other a way to go and as it happens being and going are a mutually exclusive pair which is why I will take everything and a migraine is all I need and if the AC doesn’t work here, all the better, we will open the windows and let whatever crawls in do so. They understood the potential of the earth. They were the practical alchemists. Nothing was transformed into something else, nothing aspired to spectacle or feat. It was nudged and adjusted. Like the grass flattened beneath the fawn. They would carry the stones one at a time and in a year they’d have a road, a home, a town, and this town resembled a grove, and the residents were much like birds, and in the unused space they witnessed the earth being struck up into trees and returned again in bright red parcels. A boy would travel to the city, and for years its streets would awaken and frighten him through the window of his petrified unit, and when he believed that this was the world he would cry, but when he believed that it was a dream he would only wait for the trip back home where the apples didn’t seem so out of place. I left town in my 2001 Honda Civic LX, green. I want to sell masks to strangers. I want to offer a deep, primal obscurity to the American individual. I want to dress my country in feathers and furs and draw grins and sneers in stone and string them to the faces of my people. I want to write for every customer a brief direction: compose yourself thus, speak thus, regard these ideas. I want to scrub them of their names. I want to introduce a married man to a coven of bashful serpents and say, “you stalk your prey.” I’ll give daggers to the children and blind them with helmets of hollowed squash. I’ll teach a village what a bead is and bury all their trash. I’ll remind them that God is wicked and mortal and leaves a substantial paper trail. My hotels won’t have any amenities. There will be a room to take your shoes off and a room with a piano. There will be three fountains. Water, coffee, lifeforce. My hotels will be pay by the hour, and if you fall asleep, you wake up far off on your back, a snow just beginning to fall and melt on your silver breastplate, your horse tethered to a post, nibbling the cold grass, your sword unsheathed and gleaming like an icicle under the hourless bleach-gray sky. You will see smoke rising from behind that pale hill. You will head that way in search of a meal. My mind is unaware that my body’s leaving town. I am certain I can exist in a way that says, “it is not unlikely that I know nothing, and it is not unlikely that I have nothing to offer, but I will continue to learn and work.” My mind insists upon itself but my body’s through with living. How much good can you do as a man that outweighs the good of your meat? You are a flower, and a flower is an experiment. But there is always the earth to swallow you, and that is a proven god. Look— a tree bearing moons. I will try to understand this perfect tree. It’s a man with a thousand brains, a night with a thousand sounds, this tree with its thousand flowers. It perceives the sun, begins to create itself in the image of pink fire. It’s a life with a thousand loves and a house with a thousand books. I perceive it and begin to create myself in its image. I will try to become like this thing. Mammoth, bearing moons. I’ll put my love into the atmosphere. I’ll fix my gaze on the sun. I have never felt as good as when I am not listening to a word you’re saying. In a world where nothing matters, it is frowned upon to give attention to the things that do. You’re talking about our relationship again and I’m watching the clock and saying to myself in my head, “Now it’s this time and now it’s this time and now it’s this time…” draping a slack napkin over the whole idea of a formality, of a consideration. I grab a handful of peanuts and don my reading glasses and go over the water bill one more time, now saying within, “Who pays for the water? I pay for the water. I pay for the water and the water comes. I pay for the rain and the rain comes. And when the rain comes, the mud comes,” and I chew my peanuts and nod and make grunts as though I am listening to you but I am not. “A person can get used to anything,” I say to myself as I take a potato peeler to the skin in the crook of my elbow. Here we are, getting along. You seem to be finished talking, or at a windless interlude. Now I can say the thing I thought about when I first woke up today. “Do you think the sun could be a button?” I don’t even mean to solicit anything about it, I’ve just had that sequence backed up like dry icing since earlier today. I like you because you’re beautiful, and because sometimes, if I time it right, you will notice when I speak. But you glide between my words and their existence again like a sparrow between the reins of a teetering chariot. I add a mark to the wall of errors. Our relationship is approaching fifteen-hundred errors. At two-thousand, I’m going to call it. No sense in trying for more. Do you remember the day we met? I was swapping the bulb of a radio spire, so that aircraft would remember where it was. I shimmied up the latticework, reclipping my harness at every safe point, and at the level of the bulb, there you stood, one hand in your pocket, the other in the arm-swirling act of balancing on an index finger a claw hammer by the claw. You didn’t say a word. It took weeks to get you to talk. But I set to work, dexterously exchanging the old bulb with the gleaming spitshine new in a seamless gesture. I put away my tools and muttered a poetic farewell, calling you the maiden of the spire, at which point you caved in the blinking crystalline orb of my paycheck, showering splinters of radio light over the land of the nation below. “In six months I’ll be back to reprimand you,” I said, but you raised your thumb to the sun and pressed it inward half an inch, dimming the sky for a spell before fading away like a deadly dream. That is how I learned that you were a soldier of solar light whose duty was to foil the plots of radio spire maintenance workers, and I thought that I’d fallen in love. It wasn’t love. What it was was altitude sickness. Rain will start at seven tonight and continue for the rest of your life. To be shown mercy, to be occupied like a forest is occupied with demons and demonologists alike, that is all I ask, for one to look at another and count the blood cells riding a current between each eye. I am in the fire again, I am on the lawn again, again pestered by starling mimes, here the river, here the father, here the outer ring, talk to the smoother stones, negotiate an armistice between these and the plume of birds. I am nurturing one segment of a possible mammoth, an infant starling. It knows when it is being indicated, it knows of air conditioning and newspaper and Tupperware, which means on some level, so does the tyrant demon of which it is possible our nestling may assimilate with and sacrifice that quality that gives such a random vermin a whole swath of square footage and a shelf full of mythos to consider. The contents of its mouth are probably disease but it reads books. It has always been true that whatever I give my attention to will address me as though I were the only other thing, and until I abandoned it like I abandon anything else the bird spoke at me with every note and struck its every choice into each of my senses. We expected it to expire in the first ten hours but it lived on because the scales were tipped in its favor, tipped headlong into its very bones. It righted itself. People say birth is a miracle. I more consider the subsequent survival of the born to be the thing of spectacle. I more revere the total inundation with love that follows, the sinking of love like teeth into the babe, the flooding of love like rain into the baby’s life, the total replacement of anything nonlove with pure love in the baby’s makeup by those who feed it love, the glinting of some moonlight in the baby’s eye one night, possibly, in a moment when it has come awake in the crib and decided against noisemaking or acute objectless despair but wants to lie quietly in its place and observe the ball of rock through the midnight window, which is open in this case and through the screen of which she hears one of the softer never-repeatable songs of the forest things, which in person might assume so relatively humongous a disposition as to greatly disturb her, but through this filter and in this light project so sweet a lullaby to lie awake to, and along with the wafting of warm flower-colored air through the rungs of the crib, serve to purify every sensitive postnatal aspect of the child that she can honestly say, what with all this love and the moon, that she has no complaints as yet. That will be the ultimate moment of her life. The rest will be ordinary, nothing of import, and then she’ll die. That which I give my attention to screams into my face that it perceives me, it is listening, it is watching, it is placing myriad spokespeople and spokesthings to greet me at every checkpoint, and I just wave and pass on by because I don’t understand the purpose of this. The world and I are dear friends, and we communicate often, and we perform each other favors, and then we say “thank you” to each other. For example, I take a photo of a bug and every year she thrusts the moon one inch deeper into space. We say “thank you” for these deeds. In our eyes they’re equivalent. For what’s one thing versus the other? What’s rescuing birds off the street against leaving them for the increased wellness of a bird-eating fox? If the bird is of the species that sneaks eggs into off-species nests and vicariously raises its young to adhere to the virtue of trickery? What’s knowing nobody, fleeing into the world and neglecting social behavior? What’s self-starvation versus nutrition of the involuntary starved? What’s infinite oblivion, what’s living on and on and on? One doesn’t know; it often feels the same, the beggars and the posters and all the commotion in-between. We all like to think we’d like to leave and we all like to think we’d like to keep it up. All these people studying the darkness, probing it with instruments and measuring its exact statistics, leaving it exactly where it is. They offload their suffering onto the stomachs of the doomed. I walk up to these fuckers-around with a handful of fire. One would think they do not remember what is asked of them. Take the suffering into your hands and wring it dry. There will be no darkness here lest it be the flower-colored room of an infant daughter content. If the rain continues, the ultimate moment of her life will occur as dictated above, and though the rest be unfathomable inevitable, we can foster these ultimate moments with a handful of fire. YOU ARE ONE-THOUSAND PECULIAR PHENOMENA AND IN THESE PHENOMENA LIES THE WAY YOU WALK LIKE A VULGAR TIGER JUMPING INTO LEAVES PLAYING, PRETENDING AT BEING MANLIKE, TAUT, AWAKE ON TWO LEGS, NOT JUST THROWN TOGETHER, NOT JUST JUNGLE MUD. THE CONVECTION OF FLUID IN THE CENTRIFUGES OF YOUR EYES IS ONE OF THESE NOTABLE THINGS. ONE CAN SEE A VOLCANIC SYSTEM, A THERMIC CYCLING OF HEATED COLOR SWIRLING AND RISING AND FALLING AS SOME BIOCHEMICAL PROCESS IN YOUR MIND CARRIES ITSELF OUT, OR YOU CARRY IT OUT, SUCH THAT NOTHING ABOUT YOU, WHEREAS I'VE ALWAYS BELIEVED SOMETHING ABOUT EVERYONE, NO MATTER HOW BEAUTIFUL OR EMPLOYED, IS RIDICULOUS. EACH OF US IS WORTH ABOUT A HANDFUL OF AIR. EACH OF US COMES INDEPENDENTLY OUT OF THE WILDERNESS AND FRETS FOR THE LOSS OF SOMETHING ABOUT IT. FOR MY PART IT IS THE TALL ROCK WHO WAS CHEWED OVER EONS BY DUST FROM ABOVE, WHO WAS ADORNED WITH CRIPPLING PLATES OF LICHEN, WHO SPOKE FROM THE EDGE OF THE QUICKSAND POOL AND MOVED WITHOUT EXPLANATION FROM PLACE TO PLACE, THOUGH NEVER ABSCONDING THE SHADE OF THE GROVE. FOR MY PART, SOMEHOW, I BELIEVE IN THE METHOD BY WHICH THE RAIN FREEZING UPON ITS COARSE SURFACES DREW UP HISTORIES OF WHOLE GENERATIONS OF A POSSIBLE DIVINE CONSCIOUSNESS THROUGHOUT, AND IN THE CYCLOPEDIC FOOTNOTES PUNCHED INTO THIS AGELESS SLATE CARTA BY THE KINGFISHER SEEN MONTHLY SANDING HER PRECISION KILLING INSTRUMENT OVER THE MORE CONFOUNDING ELEMENTS OF THE RAIN’S WORK. EACH OF US HAULS OUR RIBS AROUND, AND KEEPS THEM, AS WELL AS POSSIBLE, FROM PIERCING THROUGH. YOU, I REMEMBER, COMMANDED AN AIRCRAFT OF LEAVES. IN THE VEGETABLE ZEPPELIN, WHICH BOTH AS A MOON AND A LABYRINTH GLID BEFORE THE SUN LIKE A BREAKNECK SMOKE OF SPARROWS, YOU HID CURLED UP IN ITS VERANDAS AND CLOSETS WHILE I, CAREFUL NOT TO PLACE MY FOOT ON A TRAPDOOR BLADE OF INSURGENT FRAMEWORK, SOUGHT BEHIND EVERY GRASS DOOR FOR YOUR STOOPED FIGURE. EACH OF US IS NOTHING, AND ROPES THAT NOTHING TO THE CORE OF INFINITY, AND TUGS WITH ALL HIS MIGHT. I FLEE MY BODY AND SEND IT TO TOWN EMPTY, WHERE IT IS CAUGHT STARING INTO EMPTY SCENES, AND CONDEMNED FOR ITS AUTOMATIC BEHAVIOR, LETTING NOTHING OF THE SPIRIT THROUGH IN CONVERSATION, FOR THE SPIRIT REMAINS AT HOME, PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES OF A BOOK LIKE A CHERISHED HERB. ON ITS RETURN, I SYNTHESIZE AGAIN, AND LEISURELY DIGEST THE SENSATIONS OF THE DAY: I STOOD IN THE STEM OF A RAINBOW, I AMPUTATED MOST OF MY EXTREMITIES, I EXECUTED FIFTY HERETICS WITH A SPEECH TOO CONVINCING OF SUICIDE. THAT IS MY MOTHER AND THAT IS MY FATHER. DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE GAVE BIRTH TO ME, FOR WHICH I LIKE TO TEASE HER AND FOR WHICH SHE IS QUICK TO APOLOGIZE, MY MOTHER AND I ARE THICK AS THIEVES. BORN INTO A COUNTRY WITHOUT A PROPER CULTURAL NICHE FOR THE EEL. ASK THEM, YOUR COUNTRYMEN, WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT THE EEL; IT IS SLIMY, THEY WILL SAY. IT IS NARROW. IN SOME WORLD, I MAY WANDER THE STREETS OF SCOWLING SHADOW AND REDUCE EVERY CIGARETTE DOWN TO A STUB AND SIDLE FURTIVELY INTO A CORNER EEL STAND AND ORDER AN EEL FOR ONE, ALWAYS FOR ONE, NO MATTER THE COUNTRY, NO MATTER THE WORLD. BORN INTO THE BODY OF A SIAMESE TWIN, CONJOINED TO MY BROTHER BY THE BOTTOMS OF OUR FEET. DESPITE ALL THIS, MOTHER, OUR COUNTRY WITHOUT FISH AND MY BROTHER REFLECTING UP TO ME FROM THE DEPTHS OF THIS PUDDLE OF SLUDGE, MY EMPTINESS IN THE FACE OF PRISMIC VAPORS, MY PROCLIVITY FOR STUDYING THE SKIES, I AM THICK AS THIEVES WITH YOU. I TUG WITH ALL MY MIGHT, BUT WILL NOT SHARE MY EEL, MY EEL FOR ONE. I AM NOT RIDICULOUS. LOOK BACK INTO MY PROLEGOMENA. FIVE HUNDRED YEARS BACK. ONE OF MY ANCESTORS IS WEAVING A BASKET, NOW TAKING THAT BASKET OUT ON A SKIFF, NOW LOADING IT UP WITH EELS. HE LIVES ALONE. OVER THE YEARS, HE HAS COME TO LOOK MORE AND MORE LIKE THE EELS HE DRIES; ALWAYS PERSPIRING, LONG AND THIN. LOOK FURTHER BACK. ONE OF MY ANCESTORS IS SOWING A FIELD. SHE FLINGS HANDFULS OF SEED INTO THE RIBBED EARTH. SHE SINGS: EVERY SEED A GRAIN TO BE, EVERY GRAIN A PIE FOR ME. UNREALISTIC! WE CHIDE HER ACROSS THE MILLENIUM. A PIE REQUIRES HUNDREDS OF GRAINS, AND AN EEL HUNDREDS OF LITTLE INVERTEBRATES. IT’S ALL THE SAME, GO BACK TEN THOUSAND YEARS. ANOTHER SCHIZOID HOMINID PROGENITOR IS CHISELING A SULLEN IDOL OUT OF A ROOT. HE BLOWS THE SAWDUST OFF, SPITS AND RUBS HIS DOLL. THIS IS HIS EEL FOR ONE. HIS TOTAL GOD, COMPOSED OF HIS MILLIONS OF UNLIKELY DREAMS ABOUT THE LAND AND SEA AND SKY. OH, IF I COULD SHARE THIS! SAYS HE IN AN UNDERDEVELOPED TONGUE. DARLING, YOU HAVE. I KNOW THAT GOD. I HAVE HER WITH ME. IT SINGS: IF YOU ARE THE RESULT OF THE COSMIC-ATOMIC FULFILLMENT OF EVERYTHING STRUTTING ACROSS LIFE AND CARRYING OUT HER EVERY IOTA, EACH OF HER TWITCHES A FULL-BLOWN WORLD AND EACH OF HER CUTICLES EVERYTHING ONCE AGAIN FOREVER, YOU, A RIDICULOUS FOOL, JUST WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT EVERYTHING, HM? I’LL WAIT. LET’S DO THE EQUATION UP ON THE BOARD: ONE PLUS ONE AD INFINITUM, EACH ONE BEING EVERYTHING AND LASTING FOREVER, EQUALS YOU, AND ALL YOUR BEHAVIOR. WE CAN SUBSTITUTE YOU FOR THE CLOWN YOU’VE BECOME. SO, THE EQUATION RUNS THUS: EVERYTHING JOINS THE CIRCUS. YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF FALLING IN LOVE. YOU MAY FIND YOURSELF BELIEVING THAT THIS IS A SERIOUS MATTER. YOU MAY FIND HER ATTRACTIVE LIKE A SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLE IS ATTRACTIVE. YOU MAY FIND HER FILLING EVERY VOID IN YOUR LIFE, EVERY FOLD OF YOUR BRAIN, EVERY CHECK WILL SEEM BLANK AND EVERY BUG BE GOD RETURNED. WELL, GO AHEAD AND SEE THESE THINGS. I CAN’T PROTECT YOU. IT’S VERY SERIOUS, I’M SURE. NO HORSEPLAY IN THE CRYPT. MY HERITAGE IS PADDLING AWAY. ALL THE FELLOWS OF MY BLOOD HAVE SOUGHT REFUGE FROM THIS NONSENSE GEOMETRY. I’VE GOT A TROWEL IN MY LEFT HAND AND A BRICK IN MY RIGHT. I’M BUILDING A TOWER TO SOMEWHERE SERIOUS, WHERE MY OFFSPRING MIGHT FORGIVE ME. I WILL BRING THEM INTO A WORLD WHERE THE EEL HAS AN IDENTIFIABLE CULTURAL NICHE, AND IF SOMEONE ACCOSTS YOU ON THE STREET WITH AN EEL IN HIS HANDS, YOU MIGHT SAY THANK YOU RATHER THAN RUN AWAY SCREAMING AS FAST AS YOU CAN. THE EEL IS A SYMBOL OF LIFE! HE SAYS. THE EEL IS A SYMBOL OF LOVE! THE EEL IS EACH OF US, AND ALL THAT BRINGS US TOGETHER! IT IS A VERY SERIOUS MATTER! THERE IS NOTHING RIDICULOUS ABOUT IT AT ALL! The stars are moving closer together. The dogs are wandering round inside their houses. I have gone insensate, so. I’m trying to fathom how my satellite dish could have anything to do with a satellite. I figure I’ll tear the thing down and ride it through the snow. I veer into the drain, which they’ve recently redug. You and I are directly related, and should not have kids. One in every some number of people would hit you with their car if they saw you walking late at night. When I drink, my entire future is contained in the week ahead, and come Sunday, I shall die. I do it because a week is plenty, and more is aggravating. Ask: why do we note things? Because we are things ourselves, and like notes like. But there is a numinousness to us too, which is why half go kill ourselves with guns, strong medicine. I have left the pair to squarely duel, for I am often elsewhere than myself, and exhibit weak executive function. I have done happiness, I have done running and I have run round in hundreds of buzzardly circles each tighter again than the last, the cosmos a golf ball and I bought a dozen. He surrounded by fuck. This city, nice, dusted overfull with lifelike idiotic fucks. You can go about your stars again now, endlessly, hundreds of times aimed and fired into their spots in dark line drives. I strictly made sense in childhood. I am no longer inhabiting a tree. Now I develop mythological construction of what attitude and believe none of it. Strikes fuck against your skin. Diligently describing what is going on with me onto this cardboard sign, and one by one he or she that passes through this intersection gets to know it some. I am not afraid of snakes. I am afraid the apple styrofoam. We are married I’d die for you in heartbeat. The stars are dreams, dead instruments, strings, vines, thread. To every question posed I answer: ‘cause of my disease. They put a failure in my bones. They emptied scrambling crop of rats crate by crate upon my head, which gained control of it. Put your head against mine. The sodas of our foreheads bubble shut together. We are married. We are people married together and inhale exhale in collusion. God is food. I am king; food-taster, taste my God. He lipsmacks it. He begins to sweat and die. Burn him into wind. Don’t forget to take his money. I’m lake of fish. Fish into me, fish fish from me. Canoe onto me, onto moonwater. Drop spearheads through my animal matter begging for to feel raw, unrefracted moonlight on their fins. Take idiot to sun along the ladder, over the evil of the sky. Stop for hot salad. The best of America is its spoons. Still, whether this is a gallery of rocks, howl. Giant diamond gates their lattices their frame and sauce-dishes in them desired from the sage clean sorcerer. Kofu or Seattle. Never bleary-eyed protecting the city from fire then and now in sisters’ homes and on the air the sun is red like blood, a pentagram. They go after other birds and one day they are dead in the beautiful kind of way that happens. People living under the city on television their samsaran trough churchideas aglow. You get around to mentioning what you’ve always loved. Elderberry and boysenberry and blackberry causing night in shape with body rhythms. The fear globe and dread locket and sawtooth mandrake wish. Me, my divine sandwich. Skeletons in the layer of government. That which milks this face. Her undulating grave. AYE, FOR TO BE THUS ENGAGED IN A THIN SOMETHING OVER A FAT DEATH, SURE, YOU ARE EMPTY, ALIVE, HE CRAWLS ALONG FORTH ENUMERATING A KILLING PER DAY. ENERGY. SHOT AND BOILED, WILT, AN ICE KILN. YOU ARE FIRE HE SAYS, FIRE, FIRE. BENEATH HE SAYS, CUBE. PURE STAKES IN THE MATERIAL. IN NINE MINUTES IS MIDNIGHT, THESE CLUES LEADING TO ONE HERMETIC FIGHT WON. AND LOST, FOR IN THE TRADITION FIRE IS ICE AND UP DOWN, BUT PICTURES COME, SOME NEW IN A NEW WAY, SOME LIKE STRANGE FORBIDDENNESS ALONG THE LEAVES, WHAT THIS TRAIL AYE THEORETICALLY SPARSE COMFORT BUT SHE ONE'S THOUGHTS SAYS WE GO STRAIGHT, NOT THERE, NOT THAT DARKNESS OF THE HEART’S ATTEMPTS TO DAMN THE VICTIM FEAR. FEAR THE HEAD FOR TO PROTECT MY HEAD WITH THIS ABSURD THING HE SAYS, THING IS FUCKED AYE BUT WHAT THEN HERE THIS THERE THAT I KNOW I KNOW THAT I DO NOT AND IT IS ONE THING TO DO NOTHING FAR MORE DIVINE TO SHRED ACROSS OH ONE'S NEVERMINDING CORE AND THE HALFLIFE OF OBLIVION IS NOW. WILT FOR THOSE RIBS ON THE EMBANKMENT AND GROCERIES COLLECTED IN ELDRITCH RECEPTACLES ONCE A PLANET GLIDES ONE’S SKIN CELL; GRASS, THAT IS ALL. ULTIMATELY YOUR CLUELESS GRASSLESS DUST OF AN ARROW-FOLLOWING DIME WILL BE REINFORMED AS RELIC, THE TOOTH, INVENTION. CLIMES LIKE FIRE OF SALT COMES NARROWLY INTO YOUR ONE-WAY FETISH. DICTATE ME A LIFE WHERE... LIKE THE CURVATURE OF ONE THING VS. THE IDEA, HE LIKES "ABSOLUTE" AND "NEVER" A FELLOW WITH A DULL SPEAR. I WILL PROCURE THE GOOD IN FOUR STRATUM. ONE: A BOOK. TWO: ONE FORGETS ONE’S INITIAL FIXATION ON FUNNY THINGS AND DESIGNS OUT A CLEVER EATING DISORDER FOR KIDS. YOU HAVE CONJUNCTIVITIS AND AN ALMOST BORING TYPE OF IDIOCY FOR EVERLASTING NUMBERS, THE MOON WAS THE GREEKS' AND THEN IT WAS HIS AND NOW SAY IT AGAIN ONE FOR EXAMPLE MANTIS OR ROACH, NOT BOTH. RENT IS DUE AS DEW IS RENT FROM THE SUN LAID OUT TO DISAPPEAR ON MULTIFEROUS EXPENSIVE WEEDS. HELD IN HIS TEETH BUT CHOKED FORTH, HE SPEWED THAT INK THROUGHOUT MY FOLDER DRYING IN THE DRY HOLD OF MY DEW PANTRY. ONE CURIOUS MONK IN THE FORM OF JELLYFISH, CENTIPEDE, BLOOD. ONE END BITING THE ARCADES OF THE PARTHENON. ONE END STINGING THE SEA, ONE END NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT THOUGH WITHIN YOU LIKE COLD AIR IN SAILOR VERNACULAR, THE DEAD ARE HERE, THE PAGE GROWS HAIR AND REPEATS ITSELF BUT I HAVE NEVER COME OUT OF THIS PRIMUM PSYCHOSIS. YOU ALIKE KNOW MAGIC, MAGIC, GROWN OF DUST, COME FROM COAL, FED ON THE COLD POISON OF FISHFOOD OF HURT. CLAWING GUITARS OUT OF THE CALCULUS INFINITUM. COAL GOING ON, TERRIBLE HE SAYS STUFF HOUSEFIRE STUFF YET MEAT, GOOD COLOR, GOOD LITTLE RELEASE OF MY FURS. YEAH GODLIKE PUTTING ONE SOCK OVER THE OTHER BECAUSE WITH THIS MAGNITUDE OF NEEDLESS MOUNTAINITY I TERRIBLY NEED THE WOOL OF FIVE THOUSAND LAMBKIN KNIVED. THE CURIOUS DEAD DISAGREE WITH THE WHOLE OF THEIR GHOST. THE CURIOUS SPICE-LACED BLOOD OF THE ARROW CHIPPING OF COURSE INTO SALT-PIECES. DISINTEGRATION OF FIXTURE PUTS OUR GOLD ON THE LINE. THE ROTATING WIND, RAILROAD TRAVEL OFFERING SLEEP TO THE HE ROCKING AWAY, HE ALIVE PER SE, CULTIVATING A NOWHERE GREEDLESS, A CON TO BELIEVE IN THE NIGHTLY CARGO. HE A JAVELIN AS PILLARS OF MARBLE GREED OF TREELINE, ENVY OF SAID TREELINE, THE DISASTER OF RADIO AND TELEGRAM AND THE SICK SIBLING TERRIBLY CHAINS FROM THE SANITORIUM WHAT DUMB GLEE TO GET HIM THERE BECAUSE I KNOW A ROOT WHEREBY YOUR MAGIC WILL TRADE OUT A TUBERCULE FOR KIND ASSOCIATION WITH ONE TWO THREE FOUR IS WHERE I GET LOST AND HAVE TO START OVER ONE TWO THREE FOUR ONE MAN SMUGGLES HIS APPETITE INTO PARADISE, WHERE THERE IS BLISS STREWN ACROSS THE HILLS IN TASTELESS HEAPS AND IDEALS UNPACKAGED EQUALLY LITTERING THE STARSCAPE. A LITER OF WINE PASSED CLOCKWISE SUPERDIMENSIONALLY INTO THE PRIMEVAL PAWS OF THE DUMB GOOD, ONE AND ALL SIMULTANEOUSLY INTOXICATED FOR ETERNITY OVER A BREW WITHOUT HER EARTHY NUTTY NOTES BUT RATHER VAPOROUS. THERE IS A STACK OF ROCKS. THERE IS A TERRIBLE CHOIR. MAN PEEKS AT APPETITE IN HIS WAISTBAND. HE ACCOSTS AN ANGEL IN THE THOROUGHFARE, ONE LOOKING LOOSE AND SLOW, AND OFFERS A GLIMPSE AT THE ILLEGAL THING IN EXCHANGE FOR HER GLORIOUS ROBE. MAN GLIDES INTO THE QUARTERS OF THE COSMIC IDEA, TODAY DESCRIBED AS A SERPENT, SEVEN HEADS. HE PLANTS THE CONTRABAND ON THE SUPREME BEING, PRAYING A GRATITUDE TO THE GIBBONS OF HIS PAST FOR UNMATCHED LIGHT-FINGEREDNESS. YOU BELONG TO YOUR TEETH. BOSS THE CLEAVER OF SHAME INTO EXCRUCIATING CHEER. A PIE SHUT DOWN, COD OR HALIBUT SALMON SARDINE WISHING IN THEIR WELL OF A SEA. A PlE PUT DOWN A SHEER GULP OF SOMETHING AND RHUBARB. TELEVISION SINGS HIS CLOCK INTO A RIDE DOWN SINAI IN HIS OR HER PREMIUM ROTTEN SKATES. ALL AT ONCE, YOU BECOME THE PIE ON TELEVISION. A CLOCK IN SKATES OF FIREWOOD. A JACK-IN-THE-BOX A DEVIL-IN-THE-BIBLE. MOSES BECOMES HIS SALMON. THERE ARE ABSOLUTELY THOUSANDS OF TABLETS ON SINAI, THREADED TO EACH OTHER CITING PREPOSTEROUS PAPERS PUBLISHED IN WEB BY SPIDER THEOLOGIANS. NONE OF THESE COMMANDMENTS ARE TRUE. THIS ONE SAYS THOU SHALT WORRY MORE THIS ONE THOU SHALT INVENT BASEBALL HERE THOU SHALT SHUCK SHALLOTS THOU SHALT HOLD ON A SECOND LET ME THINK THIS ONE SAYS THOU SHALT MYSTERIOUSLY VANISH. THIS ONE JUST SAYS THOU SHALT GUM. GUM? THOU SHALT SEE APPENDIX. THAT IS A TEN-STORY SPATULA SPREADING A GLUE OR CLAYLIKE POLYMER OVER A VOLCANIC ISLE, A KINGDOM OF SQUID. GLUTTONY IS A TENET OF PURE REASON, YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A FIRE DETECTOR. ALL OF A SUDDEN TRAINS CAN LAUGH AND THE WORST OF BEASTS HAVE DOUBLED IN GRACE AND NUMBER OF HANDS AND WHEREVER THERE BE A PIANO NOW IS PIANO-SHAPED OIL. MY FOOTSTEPS COME TO LIFE AND WELCOME EACH OTHER INTO THE CUPBOARDS AND DRAWERS. EVERY ANATOMY NOW WEARS GLOVES MANDATORILY. PLEASE REMOVE YOUR GLOVES DURING AGONY. YOU THINK THAT A LADDER COULD CLIMB A MAN BUT MAN IS CRUSHED BECAUSE EVERYWHERE A WIND OF SEVERAL HUNDRED POUNDS IS BLOWING AND CRUSHING MAN. THE LADDERS ARE MARCHED BACK INTO THEIR SWAMPS. ROOTS SWIMMING IN SWAMPS OF FISH THAT ARE LADDERS, TELEVISIONS PROPAGATING CLAY MOMENTS DEAD WITH LADDER-PREGNANCE AS THEIR LADDERS SPROUT INTO LADDERS EFFICIENTLY. A MISCARRIAGE PROCLAIMS ITSELF MULTIPLIED AND INFESTS THE DARK WINTER MOONLIGHT. ALL THE TERRIBLE PEOPLE CONVENE TO DO NOTHING BUT PUKE. A FEW MORE. THE SHIPS AS WELL AS THE SEAS FLY OFF ON RADIATING CURVES. YOU RETURN TO YOUR LIVING ROOM, BORED WITH THE T.V. PIE. IN A FINAL ADDENDUM YOUR EYELID CRAWLS OFF TO PUKE. SAY, HOW WAS THE APPETITE? THE WINGED CONCENTRICITY BEFORE YOU TOSSES BACK THE LENGTH OF PROGRAM AND PUKES INTO HIS HANDS. ALL SATISFIED, YOU WHO ARE MAN IN MY PRODUCTION SWAY TO AN APE-WHISTLE CHOIR, FINE AND GAY ALONG A GOLDENISH PARADISE ROAD. YOU WISH THERE WERE TREES IN HEAVEN. YOU SPEND THE EVENING GUM, AND GUM FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE WEEK OBLIGINGLY. AS YOU GUM, A FELLOW SPIRIT GUM BESIDE YOU LOUDLY. YOU FAIL TO IGNORE HIM, AND ARGUE INSTEAD THAT YOU WILL HIT HIM SO HARD THAT HE’S DOOMED TO A TERTIARY PLACE RESERVED FOR LOUD GUM FUCKERS ALONE WHERE FOR ALL HOURS OF THE ROTTING SKATING CLOCKHE’LL JUST BE PUNISHED AND PUNISHED IN CRUELLY PECULIAR WAYS. SUCH A FIGURE CONTINUES TO GUM ALOUDER IN CLEAR PURSUIT OF YOUR NERVES, SAYING IN HIS IDIOCY THAT YOU SURE CAN TALK. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING BUT SOONER THAN SALT YOU HAVE RE-EQUIPPED INFINITY WITH DROOL AND WHISPERED THE PLACE INTO ITS EAR FOR FUCKED-UP PEOPLE LIKE THAT, WET YOUR HANDS, AND DRIVE WITH A FIST AN ANGEL INTO THE FIRST-EVER HELL, YOUR OWN IDEA. YOU NEED A BATH FOR YOUR NIHILISM HAS GOTTEN PUNGENT AND THICK. OH IT WONT SURVIVE A CANDLE AND FULL MOONLIGHT. OH PECULIAR TALE OF MORE REITERATED GODLESS TRAUMA. I IMAGINE I AM SUPREMELY AUTISTIC. THE NEURON IN THE MUD GYRATES TO SUBLIME REGENERATION. AND I WILL TELL YOU SOMETHING ELSE. THE NEURON IN THE CORN HAS THESE FILAMENTS CRUSTING AWAY OF WHAT I THINK IS WEEPING MOLYBDENUM. YES. SEE. WEEPING MOLYBDENUM GEARS IN THE CORN. THE NEURON IN THE HALL IS BONES ALL NIGHT, SPHENOID BONES MOSTLY, WHICH GLOW LIKE WARM METAL, ALL DO. THE NEURON IN THE BED PITS HIS ACUITY SIDELONG THE GREAT TRANSCENDENTALIST THINKERS IN A GAME OF CARDS WHERE JOKERS ARE NOT OFTEN WILD, BUT CAN BE PLAYED AS FIVES OR LOWER. THE NEURON IN LIMBO IS WEAK FROM TOWING THE PLANES THROUGH THE CLOUDS, FOR THE CLOUDS ARE MORE STUBBORN TO THE NEURON WORKING TO TOW THEM IN CONCISE AND PARTICULAR STREAMS THAN TO YOU THE GINGERALE PASSENGER. THE NEURON IN LABOR KNOWS NOT HOW IT GOT HERE FOR NEURONS ARE VIRGINS AND NONE ARE MIRACULOUS AND NONE BIRTH LIVE YOUNG EITHER, NOR KNOW WHAT "LIVE YOUNG" ARE INDIVIDUALLY FOR THEY ARE LIKE BEES AND CAN ONLY KNOW THINGS AS A TEAM. YOU MIGHT BREAK DOWN THIS ANALOGY BY SPEAKING ABOUT THE NEURONS OF BEES. THE NEURON IN BUDAPEST WILL NOT SING ANYMORE. THERE IS WATER LODGED DEEP IN ITS EAR AND IT'S CAUSING THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER TO SEEM TO BE COMING FROM AROUND EVERY CORNER AND ON CORNERS IS WHERE IT WOULD SING. THE NEURON IN PRISON COMMITTED AN ACT FORBIDDEN BY THE CODEX NEURONIUM. SORRY, BUT IT WAS AN UNSPEAKABLE DEED. SOMETHING TO DO WITH A VITAMIN DEFICIENCY. I’LL SAY NO MORE. THE NEURON IN FLUX CUTS DOCTORS WITH CHICKENPOX AND SELLS THEM AS PURE. YES. I BOUGHT A DOCTOR FROM IT WHICH PROVED TO BE SIXTY PERCENT ZOSTER. I’M CRACKING DOWN ON SUCH BEHAVIOR BECAUSE IT FALLS UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF MY DEPARTMENT. THERE IS TANGENTIALLY THIS CONCEPT OF A BLOOD BRAIN BARRIER STOKING FIERY INTEREST AMONG SOME EMPERORS I KNOW WHO ARE COMING TO ME AND ASKING ABOUT THEM BEING HARVESTED AND STACKED INTO PYRAMIDS OR OBELISKS, I HAVE EXPLAINED THAT A BARRIER OF ANY KIND IS PURELY CONCEPTUAL AND CANNOT BE STACKED LIKE COINS OR BRICKS. ALAS, THEY INSIST. I WILL FIGURE SOMETHING OUT. THE NEURON IN THE VALLEY MISPLACED WHAT LETS IT DREAM. I KEEP MINE IN A STATUE OF A STATUE, SO THAT IF I LOSE THAT FIRST STATUE, THERE WILL BE A PRESERVATIVE BARRIER STILL WITH THE SECOND. THOSE EMPERORS OVERHEARD ME AND WANT A ZIGGURAT STACKED OUT OF STATUES OF STATUES. I SAY GO FOR IT. I'LL KNOW WHERE TO LOOK IF MY DREAMBANK GETS MOVED. THE NEURON IN THE STEAMWELL DIVISED A SPINAL-SPIRITUAL SYSTEM OF GUSTATORY PERCEPTION. SEEING WITH THE RIBS. REALLY ODD AND DISHEARTENING RESEARCH. IN NATURE, THE GUSTATORY HAIRS FLIRT WITH A HOLOGRAPHIC PROJECTION OF THE SPINE PROCESSED INTO THE BONE AS A DREAM SPINE AND POPULATE THE GUT WITH UNCERTAIN BUT WELL-ENOUGH MYRIAD IDENTIFICATIONS OF THE WORLD AS TO PROVIDE A BORDERLINE FRANKENTHROPIC TOY OF VISION. THE NEURON IN MERGERS AND ACQUISITIONS IS GRAY, GRAY THE COLOR, GRAY LIKE A PIPE. THE NEURON IN THE SOUP WANTS NOTHING, SLAVES OVER GRATIFYING WHAT FREUD CALLED THE NOTHING DRIVE, LINES UP ALL OF HER CELLS AND EMPTIES THEM INTO A BAG, CONFIDES ONLY IN FETUSES THAT HER SECRETS NEVER BE DEVELOPMENTALLY REDUCED OR OBJECTIFIED, STAVES OFF THING-BEARERS WITH WHITE-HOT SPIKES, SAYS OF THE PLANETARY THAT IT IS MOSTLY SILENT FOR HER MONEY. FOR ALL THIS CONCERN OVER PLENITUDE AND ABUNDANCE (FOR ANY ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF EVEN ONE THING LOGICALLY CONCLUDES ON AN OVERFULL NOTE), I THINK YOU CERTAINLY MISREMEMBER HOW IT WAS NOTHING WHO SELECTED ITSELF AS THE EPIGRAM WHEN YOU, SOUP-NEURON, SUBMITTED YOUR INTEREST IN PRIMEVAL CHAOS. THE NEURON IN THE THROES OF TETANUS DERIVED A FLOWCHART FROM ITS CONVULSIONS WHICH ITS CONVULSION SCRIPTED AFTER ITS CONVULSIONS PATTERNED THEMSELVES BY RANDOM CHANCE INTO A SENTIENT SYSTEM SPECIFICALLY MASTERFUL (AND CONVENIENTLY ADHERING IN THEIR WIRING TO THE DEFINITIVE FLOWCHART HANDBOOK) AT COMPOSING FLOWCHARTS. THE FLOWCHART GUIDES ONE THROUGH SCRIPTING YOUR TETANUS CONVULSIONS TO ACHIEVE EXCLUSIVE FLOWCHART INTELLIGENCE. THE NEURON IN PHYSICS CLASS IS WHISPERING TO ME THAT I AM A WANDERING MACROPHAGE. I THINK WHAT IT MEANS TO SAY IN THIS CRYPTIC DELIVERY IS THAT I AM CLUELESS AND FAT. WANDERING MACROPHAGE, CLUELESS AND FAT. BECAUSE I EAT TOO MUCH SUGARY CEREALS WITH WHOLE MILK. AND I AM CLUELESS BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CLUE.