i cultivated love intellectually, deaf up to the present moment. i flow out of my spirit constantly into eternal molds without hope.

certain wandering comments have emanated from my hands without planning.

i begin the lines and arabesques, in order simply to bleach my vain heart of egotism, suffocated completely.
--

the summer is cool. the throat has been thirsty, and the range of vision is twisted.

the author who creates this hydropic effect has the keyboard that has always consisted of consecutive i's.

freedom begins being about the freedom to go away.
--

the dust is an exudation of spontaneousness.

the elegance of it is an impulse which writes these pages; the empty come outside. perhaps there is a person who is believed. there is no useful purpose.

we dissemble, form our features by instinct.

those dumb and paralysed
executants of pantomime
never remember the memory
which suppresses

they are silver performers of
disturbance and darkened light,
counterfeit tableaux of putrefaction;
not dead but made to conform
to the state of the fog

their words are condensed,
displaced; a kind of refuse lost
to the inside of their heads

this unlikely encounter
another oxymoron of the
cramped protection of strange
situations, the gray marriage
of numbers and a mute
and crippled collapse

this petulant grown up
child has died of grief,
a strutting lump of hubris
and impacted rage,
a torturer prepared for
the multiple opacities of duty.

he moves in his orbit as
the line breaks in a poem;
he sees through the bodies
of the human countenance,
gestalt unleashed in thickets.

you behold yourself dissected,
staring at the disruptions and
decenterings of the body,
lithe and slickly waxen

the cicatrices reach the poetic
and laboriously perfect form,
your merest existence as a bare
life contorted comically

the torture to prepare a wound
a purloined punishment,
an applique of the human center