You step from the bus into a sequencing tool that is moist and carries the scent of

 

quince

 

You move among the eight banner-like elements and continue to the edges of either

 

an object or a convention

 

And in Cascadia also

 

As in the first line of a nursery rhyme

 

Against cyclic hum of the heating apparatus

 

You're resinous with falsity

 

 

It's autumn

 

Which might be tent-scented or plank-scented

 

Their lands and goods, their budgets and gastronomy quicken

 

You want to enter into the humility of limitations

 

Coupled with exquisite excess

 

You walk in the green park at twilight

 

You read Lucretius to take yourself towards death, through streets and markets

 

In a discontinuous laboratory towards foreignness

 

You bring his prosody into your mouth

 

When you hear the sound of paper

 

 

C. Bergvall says space is doubt-

 

What emerges then?

 

Something cast in aluminum from a one-half scale model of a freight shed

 

Intrication

 

The slight smudge of snow in the shadow of each haycock in the still-green field

 

The hotel of Europe. Its shutters.

 

Fields and woods oscillate as in Poussin

 

While the vote is against renewed empire, or at least capital temporarily

 

Each wants to tell about it but not necessarily in language

 

 

I overbled the notational systems in transcription

 

And my friend was dead

 

What is the rigour of that beauty we applaud

 

(Secularly)

 

At the simple vocal concert?

 

The otherworldly swan wearing silver and white passes on into current worldliness

 

The steeple-shaped water bottles ranged on the conference table seem unconditioned

 

by environments

 

 

I had been dreaming of Sol LeWitt and similarity

 

In somebody's visual universe walking

 

In the sex of remembering

 

But I have not made a decision about how to advance into your familiarity

 

This trade has its mysteries like all the others

 

It is a labyrinth of intricable questions, unprofitable conventions, incredible delirium,

 

where men and women dally in the sunshine, their clothes already old-fashioned

 

They can still produce sounds that are beyond their condition

 

 

Here is the absurdist tragical farcical twist

 

In order to enter I needed an identity

 

In identifying this figure of reversal

 

The vital and luminous project

 

Will measure itself against women

 

And this has seemed poetical

 

When it is the ordinary catastrophe

 

 

I will take the poem backwards to this mistake

 

I will take your rosy mouth backwards

 

It is my favourite mistake

 

This masquerade of transcription

 

Hands torn crisscrossed

 

As the medicinal scent rises from books

 

 

Like a boat floating above its shadow

 

Build here the soul of thread

 

 

Pluck here the ordinary doubleness

 

Like delicate men in positions of power

 

They want the mental idea of the perfect plant

 

They want the perfect plant also

 

And I am the person who sits beneath the tree, listening to Calliope, attended by luck

 

Like curiosity translated as society

 

 

At 6:30 A.M. it was heavily snowing

 

The hills not visible, everything blanketed

 

I watched a pilot boat go out

 

Into mildness and vowels

 

Into this great desire to see

 

Always a boat in the middleground

 

And in the foreground, the men's powerfully moulded torsos

 

 

Twisting and bending persons of the foreground in turmoil

 

Make livid a philosophy

 

But not under circumstances of their own choosing

 

In these persons we glimpse belief

 

Establishing the fact of perception

 

Its inherence in history

 

 

Now that philosophy is collapsing before our eyes

 

Our former movements are integrated into a fresh entity, into a freshened sensing

 

And once more I go screaming into sheer manifesto

 

Also called shape

 

In several ways, each pigmented and thing-like

 

In the use of hollow space, which has in it pure transitions

 

Calm and hostile and alien

 

In the chirring from the yard

 

And in the appropriation of falsity

 

The She is thrown headlong into transcendent things

 

She swims into splendidness

 

She bites into her invention and it runs down her face

 

In this way she is motility

 

This is different from saying language is volition

 

 

Someone stands and weeps in the glass telephone theatre

 

Someone sits and murmurs

 

This dog that swims in toxic Latin

 

Licks his Latin paws

 

This is the middle of my life

 

Bringing with me my skin

 

I go to the library

 

How will I recognize disorder?

 

 

Yesterday I felt knowledge in the afternoon

 

The alcohol relaxed my body, which made me feel pain

 

My whole life straddled distance

 

Who is so delicately silent

 

By accident, procrastination, debt

 

I sat in the material tumble of fact in a T-shirt

 

 

Say I'm a beautiful animal who has mastered laziness

 

In reddened clearing in the occidental forest

 

In the album

 

Purse of goddess clicking

 

I long to see how it will continue to behave

 

 

And I am walking in her garments

 

In rooms made of pollen and chance and noise

 

Towards the errors in humanism

 

To untwirl that life, puffed and rifled

 

In the old clothes market

 

In a tangible humbleness

 

Smelling of copper and shellac and solder

 

 

To the extremity of predication, decay

 

Among the 804 works, merely to sit in unfamiliar light

 

In a mauve-toned customized van

 

Called the Presidential Tiara

 

Out of belief comes

 

The yellow light of previous decades in a movie

 

With flag-iris and wild-rose overhanging

 

 

There exists an obsession with structures that dominate position

 

To produce a deep unease

 

A hencoop and a kennel

 

Of high-nosed dogs. Odour

 

Of sulfur emanating from

 

A dream of paradise