In the real world… are forces…

At work, you wash the sil­ver flecks of what you’re think­ing from what the fac­tory thinks
you’re think­ing. You carry your­self like a bub­ble. Which was the sen­ti­ment, the sen­ti­ment that causes your lips
to warp and want (in the same gloss curve) to smile? This is how I do this, says the sage / says the artist

The gourd on the piano just fell (the per­fect shade of rust) into place. He could tell us
the minute in accor­dance with the Sun’s loca­tion on his can­vas. He cre­ates the Sun in accor­dance with the desired
phys­i­o­log­i­cal effect it might induce in the can­vas, and thus, in the objec­tive viewer. But I ain’t got no satisfaction

Thales is uncer­tain. He spreads out his sandy palms and sees his fin­gers. (Count to ten.
Breathe.) But what he actu­ally sees is a dec­i­mal sys­tem; a mir­a­cle sys­tem to keep every­thing from hap­pen­ing
at once. Tomor­row, after my death, you will raise your trem­bling hand and point—to a Swiss army knife,

A music box, an empty bot­tle of Mer­lot. In hushed tones you’ll men­tion me to the clerk
as you pay for the mer­chan­dise that best rep­re­sents who I was. Homage, it’s pos­si­ble, is the new rein­car­na­tion.
A rev­o­lu­tion was born beneath a net­work of metal­lic flags. But once I started—knew I couldn’t fin­ish the love

Let­ter. Rather, I sewed it to the lin­ing of my coat—so I might cher­ish (never know)
how it could have been—‘Sincerely’ in New Roman font, his name in blood—the chord it might strike, the gut…
My torch is my fetish. Take care of it. A wise man wan­ders the desert, the anchor for vast, slanted tombs;

Their mea­sure­ments. Alone, strate­gi­cally, he begins to break down: when my shadow grows up
to be the height of my per­son… I’m made comatose by you, i.e., I can’t put my fear of our future into words.
Growth is a par­a­digm, like growth. I drive to the bridge. The speedometer’s nee­dle spins against an incremented

Back­drop. The sky weeps, but lit­tle. Super­man hov­ers, back to the rain­bow pat­terned wall
paper. (It’s often the bizarre, arbi­trary asso­ci­a­tions that stick) You and me, baby, put the red-blue in Roy G Biv.
A sub­strate of recov­ered rain­drops, mis­siles danc­ing down on an uncon­scious medieval city—to dom­i­nate

A build­ing code one must first under­stand its flaws. I’m wear­ing your cape. I’m crawl­ing
like a cloud across the waters arche­typal design, which dis­tends / con­tracts in accor­dance with the river’s cur­rent
breath­less­ness. Every fish is a sil­ver fleck; could he speak, would ask: did you see me. Tan­gled discussions

Between wet fists and trickle can wait. I believe I am fly­ing I accept a des­ti­na­tion
means one fluid stroke and another. I dare you. Sin for me, look down—upon the Giant Oaks we stole—we res­cued
and fas­tened to cold cement squares. If you are what you wear: you do what you have to do to tran­scend. The myth

Tells us our sto­ries are a pri­ori the same: one charm­ing young fel­low with a horo­scope
hot on his breath; one long, grey path col­ored in docil­ity to local reg­u­la­tions (desen­si­tized as a gnomon)—bodies
form a spine, (omen around which we are ori­ented) ask where should I put the arms?… Tomor­row, you will point

to an empty sky: Does it mat­ter… aren’t we all full of gods?