Everything has happened, nothing
            possessed. The lawn engages
Its constituent appraisers. Burrows
            fold by, unaccosted by memories of
Synergies the doorjamb clops
            to. Boulevards
Beam in the near distance while
            on its wand the
Hermits are organizing affinity
            clusters. In the cab, desiccated Dominicans
Cop to outtakes from “Take the ‘A’ Train” as
            the band plays late
Into a night that never comes. On deck,
            a shipboard romance turns
Sordid when the expiration date embossed
            on a Ouija board is
Overlooked. The days so blinding, before
            you know it’s time
For another frame of Limbo at
            Club Lumbago. “There’s no
Buggy like the Buggy that ate my
            baby in the summer of ’82.” Not
Two days left, scouting under the eaves
            for thrown-away cheese &
Mink fleas. One chord crests, no
             place for more, when
You ’ear ’er, down by the Walla Walla
             Feedway. (As if foreign or foreign-
Scented.) Nothing has happened, everybody
            has been processed. The
Elevator leads to a flight of bronzed
            stairs that ends near a
Picture of your majestic presentiment,
            rather noisier than had
Been or would be anticipated or
            asphyxiated, in some ways a
Damp cloth and light dusting would have
            done as well. At this point, the
Nasobiliary tube is inadvertently
            dislodged; before replacing it, we
Decide to insert an endoprosthesis. “Worms
            in brain, worms in
Stomach, how’m gonna worm me way
            out o’ here.” You see, you are
What you tear, but only the baker knows
            what the bread’s been fed. “But the big
Question, which they don’t discuss, is
            what kind of glue the man was
Using.” A soul as soft as Detroit, a
            bile as big as a bagel—though the
World’s not made of muslin and the only
            cosmic gas is static
Electricity. How would you treat the patient
Would you leave the
Tubes in place for continuous drainage? Refer
           for laparotomy? Or
Perform balloon dilation of the stricture
           and endoscopic sphincterotomy?
Keep in mind that the bilirubin is down to
          1.6 mg/dl and the platelet count
Remains low at 4,000. Where the harp is
           the loneliest fire station, adorned
With piecemeal crescendi and unaugmentable
            nosegay, enlisted into an action
Encumbered by touch, hostage to
            decision: derision’s ubiquitous
Breatholizer, haphazard and blousy.
            Double space everything; use soft not
Hard returns; use
            word wraparound
If available; spike headings, don’t
        center anything; set tabs
For tabulars instead of spacing over or
            among or inside or in between or across or
On top of or throughout or beside or in place
            of; provide extra space between
Text and other Elements; use letters for
            numbers where possible, numbers for
Letters as necessary; order pages
            consanguineously (don’t start
Numbering from one). You may be asked to
            type simple “genetic codes” in the process;
These serve as placeholders; do not
            type such codes without specific instruction
From the Instruction Terminator.
            Everything has progressed, nothing
Has occurred. The firetruck roars
            to the Lake District while at the encampment
All that’s left are
            flesh wounds. THE DAY THE $
No question that he’s got a big Freudian
            thing.” “Arguably the most argumentative
Poet in America.” “You need to know that when you
            infringe on somebody else’s
Profitability, you have to have a clean
            operation or a load of
Protection.” “We’re
            going through this coffee like
A fly through butter.” Keep in mind, however,
            that many of these changes need not
Cost a leg nor require you to overhaul your
            imaginary. Clean, uncluttered shelves,
For instance, do not require a wrecking
            crew. Neither do neat, legible, complete,
manuscripts. Similarly, you may not have been
            born with attributes of a Greek
God nor the fashion sense of a Milan
            model, but you know what you’d
Like to see in a competent art professional.
            I am sure that a stained smock, seen
Through the haze of hemp smoke, is not what
            you have in mind. We won’t
Put up with that in our physician or stockbroker, then
            why should we expect our readers
To accept less from us. “Don’t question
            my similes,” said the supple senorita. “Don’t
Mess with my metonymies,” cried the mandarin
            matador. (He kept his prosodic
Devices in a toolbox on the table of
            the padded basement shelter near the
Washer-Dryer and Automatic Pump.) Not
            liberty but the leer of liberty
Lulls the laddies from their crusted
            craters, the jaded from their lard-like
Ladders. . . . and the ladies, with their crimson
            laces, Bill and Lou, Viv and
Stu. Or saying:
            Broiled, broiled in the broiler with lemon
Or poached, poached with some water, or
            fried, fried with butter in a pan on a stove
In a kitchen. The green so green in the afternoon
            light so no longer color but a
Cavern or expectancy jelled into a reel of
            gypsies dancing a pellucid romp
On the altar of Nostradamus, vicar of the implausible
            audibles, then cast upon the foam
Of a sailor’s groan. Thus, certainty confronts
            us but we cannot be sure of it—
A surrogate holding, cradled in the mist of
            an impossible necessary, and lost
To its purpose, or our own. Vagueness, in
            which belief is mute, & manifest . . .
Even one thing can make a display. And there
             was surfeit of singularities, odd
Lots of broken middles, splintered
             threads—eidetic deniers as Michael once
Put it—for to deny is measure of our
             heft; even small coins can be traded
Or stolen. The Unquiet Journey of Martin Heidegger.
             As in the expression, ‘What clock is it?’—
“One clock,”“three clock,” “eight clock.” For
            anything said is significant—& much that
Is not said but only spoken, hinted—
            tossed from a glazed eye to a
Nearing touch. And what the senses
            but limiting scanners, combing the
Ineffable to produce sound, searing
            the seemless to appear as
Sour? Soaring, senseless
            night, of no limit, that
None have known, or
            could wish to— “Pipe
Down, you pipsqueak,” said the Piper, hitting
            me with a six-inch length
Of galvanized tube. In the rooms the children
            suck & blow, talking of Moholy-Nagy.
Segmenting the real: Coca-Cola franchises
            the metaphysics of
Numerosity, according ‘classic’ and ‘new’ equal
            status, the diversity of constituencies
Obliterating the elitism of “one common
            taste” of a people. (Thinking
All is secure when nothing is secure, all is
            resolved when everything is
Indissoluble.) In this sense, postmodernism coincides
            with pluralism and Daniel Bell’s
Smiling. The end of idolatry is the beginning
            of commodity fetishism: God
Isn’t gone away to a happier place, she’s
            not napping nor hiding nor
Lying in wait, just having a snack & settin’
            back. No shit, no shoes, just
Me & my electric windmill. “But despite
            six- and seven-digit severance
Arrangements, a fall from the top can be
            grim; neither money nor the memory
Of power innoculates against frustration, greed
            or a stinging sense of injustice.”
The memory of power. Do’s and don’t do’s & could
            do’s & won’t do’s. “My
Personal taste never enters into anything
            I do.” Everything
Has been resurrected, nothing has vanished. “The regulator
            is never separated from the
Main spring.” For only truth is
            reversible, lies fester
Under the skin & make it rancid. & the
            smell of lies is everywhere
& the people crave it as perfume for their
            perfume. But truth cannot be
Smelled & is as nothing & reviled as only
            nothing is—a void & a pox & an
Abomination—for what cannot be tasted nor
            heard nor smelled cannot be put to
Use & what is not abused is less than
            nothing. Busy as beagles, we
Think what we see and say what
            we gnaw. So cry not
For the beloved nor lost but for the unseen, un-
            touched that we will
Not abjure. Cry for the steam, not the machine.
            & Monsieur Madame takes me in hand
To sing the Tut-tut-aloo, yes Monsieur et Madame
            they take me in hand & sing
The Tut-tut-aloo. Calling Ruth, Ruth
            when there is no Ruth. Patterns
Are what we fathom, needs
            what we endure. A crack
Is not a fault nor a fall an oasis,
            neither are vases places. & I
Have known disgraces. “I wish I were
            a gurgling guppy, ’cause then I’d
Swim, yeah then I’d swim / Sure if I
            were a gulping guppy, the Atlantic
I’d spin, Pacific I’d be in.” But
            you ensnare me with your wet
Cold eyes and golden ear and I ripple
            beside, bound to the tide.
Nothing has changed, everything recalls (recoils).
            The hunger of prostration, the lassitudes
Of— “I’ve spent half my life covering up my
            mistakes and another half trying to
Expose them.” These are the ways, counting
            one and two, three and—; but
To pray is still a dance, to fray a lost
            leader . . . on the road merely
Tread, the mill seldom silenced. Everything
            is promised, everything
Delivered. Who waits waits
            in the company of women & men &
Boys, for the Messiah whose come & gone
            with no trace; for waiting is the customed
Course for those who’ve missed the last boat, misplaced
            the keys. No one was
Promised, no one disfigured. & the breeze
            becomes a gust but
The house does not blow down. “I can’t have
            your experience, I’m not sure I
Can have my own.” “Up among the curls so
            high, like a lever that’s a
Sigh.” The baby play with its
            fingers; this is called ‘finger
Play’. Sometime it work and sometimes it
            doesn’t: all the rest is
‘Redolent with breathless antipathy’.
             “Where have they gone?” asked Jasper.
“To the deep dark dank & won’t be back, to
            the end that has no beams.”
It’s your dime but it’s my quarter.




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