Listen:

Drag branches comeback

Across the forest floor:

Knowledge of the rough¡

 

At water’s edge

I gather some things up:

Memory of nothing.

 

We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower

A close reading.

Awful good, Tú

As Roy A. Rappaport’s

Ritual… as Communication and as State.

Our preferences might be

Toward more emphasis

On species places:

Smooth textures of dead wood

Knowledge of our hands on arms

The body-art of bullshit

Drinking cocoa

And tend to the faith

With a Vampire’s short stick

That smells of infinite urine.

 

History reveals itself to us

In this way:

Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets

Of impossible interest

Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal

Voices-plant

Voice-life of Earth

As Dan O’Neill’s

Holiday for Cynics.

  

Look, little one

We live this close to disaster

There is no turning back

From the tops of the trees

Which are so dense

Almost no sky is visible

Only the odor dilates the nostril

And quickens the heart

On a corn tortilla.

The buddhists have been tellig us

That the Self (Ego)

As we conceive of it

Is an illusion.

A good tip

Thinking about Gurney Norman’s

Jack and His Ego.

 

Is it?

It is that we are of a Time-Sexual

Wherein all species has been joined

To the Wo/Man

Of Homo Sapiens

And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals

In constantly elevating towers

Of Bureaucracy.

Nothing in Somethingg

Something in our Nothingness.

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