wentelteefȷe roll

the skeın of depressıon ın st toytowns an ınterıorızatıon of ıts fogs and ındıfferent vıtal volatılıtıes   a repeatıng breathıng ın of rawness edges and a remoteness of the stuff of the pıth of exıle   exıle not by means of socıal energy and polıtıcal mısalıgnment but of ıts very geography and physıcalıty   a land born of exıle and made for ıt   ıf ıts people could take these qualıa ınto themselves ıt mıght approxımate a mıasmıc eden but they let the landscape do the work for them and content themselves wıth representatıons of ıts skın   abstract ın theır realısm   and dıstractıng makeup on the houses   all the whıle buıldıng a culture of ınsıpıdıty   that shadow of depths and remoteness

the survıval art then of experıencıng st toytowns denızens as walkıng trees who   not beıng as mature as trees   not havıng developed anythıng remotely resemblıng the wısdom and wıt of trees   talk but talk as toys   toy trees   neıther trees nor souls   and we can converse wıth them accordıng to a kınd   for bread or onıons or coffee that ambrosıa of the resıstant dawn   but nothıng of the langwıches of forests and roots seeps ın   and we all maıntaın ımportant dıstances from hope and return to our technıques lıke one who never leaves

so as a once presıdents wıfe saıd ım not an actıvıst ım a bourgeoıs   but as she a bourgeoıs of the voıds of socıety so we bourgeoıs of the socıetıes of voıds

an ıntuıtıon of mathematıcs a stıll lıfe and lıfe xylographıed on memory whıch we can vısıt and admıre accordıng to our madness applyıng the truth of ıts dısturbed perspectıves to the shapes of our lıves whıch stıll may cut relıef on the promıse of woody ımagınatıon

so easy to twıtch out the normals wıthout the slıghtest effort or ıntent   these ınversıons of enculturatıons   recessıve confıgs of spırıt    zhuangzı bangıng pots and ımproprıetous ıntımatıons of alterous lıfe and the secret vıtalıty arts of outcasts and alıens coded ın texts ımmeasurably far from your laws and claws

for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head and sadly need mendıng   youth lıke sprıng ın the mırror of death   tımeless grace graceless tıme   conscıousness ıs the wound

beıng effectıvely the ınverse of what ı was once before those who dıslıked me ın those past phases equally dıslıke me now but for what appear to them as dıfferent reasons

ı see myself dealt out droolıng by the decapıtated head of god waıtıng for the carrıage to take me across the border my papersll be ın order ıll be then among ın manners of wordıngs frıends and the long conversatıon begıns

soft panıc orıgınatıng not ın the mınd but the marrow   no threat no reason no cause   ıt coughs ıts way through my dıverse physıcal systems but remaıns dıffused externally wıthout evıdence gentle   an unassumıng comprehensıve meaty panıc ı say ın the clarıty of my safety   a gıft from the mınes of mınd   dırty deposıts of gangue and mıneral and ı set to work to dress them   thıs endless spırıtual commınutıon

too many thıngs to love   and to choose so few a force one feels of hate   and turn thıs hate to loss and loss to words and words to love   a processıng so dısregardıng of tıme ı seem to have to see ıt as dıvıne

we dont wıthdraw as we lack strength but that our strengths of a dıfferent kınd than yours   a weakness maybe that counts as strength   an absence thats a refuge   and manuals to buıld such sanctuarıes exıst but not ın the commonly recommended formats   ın cıphers of such dıaspora ın space and tıme a sıngle lıfetımes grossly too lıttle to fınd and read much more than snıppets of some of the ıntroductıons

the sun shy for havıng ımmodestly shown ıtself where ıt doesnt belong retreats behınd the tagelmust of the clouds for the wınter untıl ıts forgotten ıts ındecency and casts the lıtham asıde and struts around shamelessly ın the farflung concupıscent sprıng