So I'll finish with something that's
from The Front Matter, Dead Souls.
Nothing happens but that.
The hyena floating to one.
She sits quietly at a cafe, looking at the thin air with it
in it.
Just seeing them who is calm when he's still living
is only encouraging.
Actually, one note on this book was
a play on also a detective novel and a poem all at the same time.
And it was using the notion of a Sumo wrestling ring in LA
and masked figures or not masked,
but unknown figures in silk suits
running through the streets who would
stab people, who attack them.
And so it was a--
not exactly a surrealistic landscape,
but a dreamlike landscape in which it's not really
so important how the crime is solved
or exactly what's happening, But.
Going with it and trying to get through it or in terms
of the people in it getting through it.
So the man referred to in this has been wounded
and has disappeared, and so he comes into this,
and you'll know who the oozing hump is when we get to it.
Nothing happens but that.
The hyena floating to one.
She sits quietly at a cafe, looking at the thin air with it
in it.
Just seeing them who is calm when he's still living
is only encouraging.
A freeway overpass chokes the ball in the blue air,
swirling as an eye itself when one glances, the changing air.
If it were the hyena, it would swim
coming up with the fetus between its mouth as it did.
They'd meet.
Not to exist eliminates the blue boil.
It's him not oneself there.
The fat flowers bloom in the dark.
The crowd pulses by her in blackness
where she sits at the cafe with the flowers opening around her.
She'd seen them in the past then,
she sees the people in the cafe come up
and would be separate from him alive lost.
In their view one's actions are composed,
passively being a narrative connected
that illustrates rather than being in existence.
He floats in the black on his own ejaculated stream,
seeing one's decomposing sack of flesh playfully,
sitting oiling down a vodka at the cafe
where he had once been seen.
In their view, the actual world is symbolic and permanent,
a higher authority giving meaning to scenes,
decomposing having meaning.
That is why without him one feels being mocked,
no matter how one sees motions that appear to be connected,
the motions will be seen by them to reassemble
the picture of their reality by which
the motions are interpreted.
The sack of one's body is its changing composition,
decomposition, which is without authority even decomposition.
Events are floating in a sole existence
having no other manifestation from being
produced in the series.
So one has to be a nomad to continually engage
one's decomposing self without meaning and so
in actual existence.
The Sumo is sitting with his back to Akira, a lying hump.
The Sumo is upright with his legs hanging in front, his back
a slab gazing at the ocean on the sand.
The green rim swims with their being before it,
the Sumo is quiet inside with Akira rotten
oozing chest lying as a hump behind him peacefully.
There's groundless scrutiny, there's no ground.
At the cafe, the green hump floats before her jetting up
on hanging on its black cloud.
It is in the blue hump oozing wounded can be seen in it,
the black cloud hanging a stream behind him in the blue is seen.
A starry sky is faced in which the emerald green hump is
swallowed when at night.
Another time people leaving the cafe go out,
night is the scrutiny not quieted by the burning blue.
The hippo turning away on the dawn path is in mind.
So being quieted, it's seen barely.
The samurai hangs lidless to the dawn.
One's teeth are clenched, so it cannot be at dawn,
it is sleeping as such jetting at night when he's just coming
to it as if coming and turning away in a tank.
The dawn's just there and he's just
coming to it, reaching to it, that
seems to be that he's not moving when just at it.
Beggars here so numerous it's like Calcutta.
The physical life is non-existent by occurring
from suppression, but is occurring by itself.
One's only existence is in conflict per se,
so that conflict is outside, it's only there moving.
The union is the only self when there's not one.
Why is the being of one conflict solely?
The one can't appear by itself, yet he appears.
Sometimes it appears by itself, if one is without conflict,
it isn't the same thing as one.
If it is not one orb that which is only conflict.
One is continually transgressing it in the conflict.
This occurred in the past of my youth wanting
to cling to him in existence is one,
which is in it again by itself.
Seeing existence outside of Akira of him, so that he floats
is existence itself occurring.
The bodies of the men in the night
were backs and buttocks with the heels seen pinned as if they
were black butterflies in it.
Moving, yet, almost still flapping in the black.
In the bright blue day, the men were
seen with only their backs hunched gills as if gray,
their heels pinned as they walk, as
if they're also a black butterfly in the blue
because it's blue.
So not dependent on the night as their existences aren't
dependent in it or in day.
They were moving beyond their dying, which
hasn't occurred yet anyway, by the day having them in its blue.
The black butterflies, which are only night
can't be in the blazing blue.
A man vomits the blazing blue when he's black butterfly still
flapping in it.
The street is a glazed place, the yellow cord
in one's white lacquer apparently observes.
The conflicts that one was only one transgressing that
is not that conflict, transgressing that
is not that conflict.
One sees that conflict only in its being in the series that one
is or was conflict solely, separable from existence
is only its place.
One didn't believe in that place,
believe that conflict then or see it,
but can see looking back in creeley series.
In there being only chronological,
in the collection of series.
A figure vomits a black ocean yet standing in the black air.
The heavy rain hitting and waves that waving up from the street.
People huddling in doorways having run in troughs,
and lightning hitting around when one crossed to them.
-- vomits a black ocean, yet standing in the black air.
The heavy rain hitting in waves, the waving up from the street
people huddling in doorways having
run in troughs and lightning hitting around
when one crossed to them.
One breathed the purple clear roiling air.
Akira carried by the worm silk suit billowing on it as it
had fed on him in the air.
Had come up floating, had jutting in the night to it,
which at night one figure vomits of black soft coagulation
in which the man comes up jetting hanging.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]