I'm going to skip ahead.
All right.
Most of these are pretty long, but this one's
about three or four rows.
From the middle of the manuscript.
Hey, Democritus, whiz.
Aye!
I'm made of frame chainmail.
If so, I'll collapse at the bottom in a glittering
heap with a little viscous rebound
resettling like in the crash dummy commercials but shinier.
[BLOWS ON MIKE]
I need earmuffs.
Clinamen, dammit.
Why don't you look where you're going?
Some plunging atoms are boinging like soft peas
in a rubberized clog dance right next to me,
coalescing into Harold Bloom thanks to the spell checker.
His tie goes shooting upward, past his neck
like a noose in a cosmic draft.
O romantic cosmic funicular keep falling.
Shit!
Look out.
Bang!
The chain window goes gooey in the friction of plunged stuff.
I'm silver metal bubblegum now, glommed onto Harold's face.
So I'm John's octopus.
I mean Harold's John's octopus.
Iraq comes ricocheting toward us from the right.
Quick!
IED disposal calculus.
A roadside bomb explodes in the void
below your feet rushing off to the left hand void now.
I vow to save all beings.
Yours truly, the chainmail gum.
Waking to slithering and fangs luminous noumena
I'll miss you apostrophe.
Hurtles up too in the windy rage ur-cosmos,
I greet you at the end of a great career which nonetheless
must have had a long foreground somewhere.
The floating delicate light on bushes and grasses,
kinetic testicle scrotal sac wind.
Thanks, Walt. You walk through the wash sand
on the wind hill outside Santa Fe.
The creosote bush looks at you a final time.
And the sand does and the furs in the gently falling koan
about snow which is not falling in that other place,
hence, falling in that other place.
This is how it is for me, signed the bubble gum.
Something wicked this way comes shrieking up through wind.
But can this be if there's no air?
But there's snow here.
And in the cross drift rising and falling,
it floats and hovers buoyed by the air that
isn't here like real snow hopping lightly
horizontal for a while.
It is real snow.
Lighting up the void, the moonlight
catches it from the top and side and the underside.
Tender void through which the soft rocks fall
approaching light speed bump.
I greet you.
Um, I'm turning into Walt again.
Great.
Rock me in billowy drowse.
I can repay you.
Coin of the realm which is breath.
Exhaling thoughts to the vanished air,
they hover and pulse as snow.
Richard Hell and the Voidoids?
No.
Willie Nelson singing Moonlight in Vermont again.
I see finger waves.
I see finger waves?
I don't get it.
A snow drift ripples through my face, cold wavy muscles.
They pass it along into chattered air.
Morphed mats of light.
Telephone.
I don't think Democritus can be the origin of democracy.
There goes the other sun in a ball turned into snow and mossy
scabs of the worm fence and heaped stones and elder
and muleim=n and poke weed.
The chainmail came from the stars.
I mean it was them.
I came from mud, falling in the wind, now glittering,
like the mind that made all this at 11:41 AM in sun
through the ambient cloud filter, again.