1

two birds go along together,

farther than my blind eyes can see,

out of sight and

oops, over the edge of the parking garage that I so willingly go along with.

the late sun is set, centred,

on a backdrop of long clouds—

duration, or in a totally vapid downward spiral…

Exile

Tutti Frutti

Vintage Depot

I am 21 in 2020 and I am all of these things.

in a bay window I see a reflection of the side of the street that I cannot see.

in the long clouds I cannot see the non-human becoming non-human;

human death couples with the non-human and produces an involuntary vibration, a rhythm disguised by its length (duration and downfall):

stranger than all the strangeness,

a stranger, then, all the strangeness.

2

to try again—

the technical poem writes itself. it isn’t automatic writing, but the transfer between techniques:

this repetition of cases is somewhere already, a virtual coupling.

to ripple—

to vomit air—

to breathe—

3

I am just saturated.

I am thoroughly soaked.

my clothes are heavy, I move in sloppy leaps and bounds.

I am dripping with a thickness that I know is ‘here’ but I can’t do anything about it.

I am just overflowing with late-evening-sun-going-down-ness.

the night, pure indetermination.

I don’t know if I am expressing what I am trying to express.

4

it’s not that I’m not concerned with living.

I am just more interested in the straight line drawn across the sky by an airplane I can barely make out,

or how I can angle my head slightly so as to regard the mirage on the wall (it looks like rippling waves of black bile making their way up and over the wall).

my senility will be abstract; I mean to say that I will lose myself in a world of abstractions