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Lately what have you, my arrogance, been writing
in The Piece, the sense of you in that Library on the shore one of me
let’s say
come out of it & pull myself together, the long dust these years from which
some kind of formal statement might stay fairly anchored but a, well, a larger view accumulates as, well, finds itself some altitude toward the world, & very as if large —
present me
with insinuations, at first inviolate and extemporizing what tunnels or outpourings
I’m selfishly disinterested in Words
as if it were Plastic Shape!, O Wallace, O Jackie, the fire
delights in concrete roneo
the phallus in I-talico
of course, in the park, as it were, this is my drop of water and
that’s your drop of water so
sick again with art we list lies &, specifically, killing sprees,
pamphlets, posters, billboards, all signal to excellence;
the Signorina sleeping under the book legs hanging over feet,
some considerable discourse this fella told.
OK, they return & apologise for a State of Feeling, the addenda
that if an elephant were not standing on your foot
Ginsberg, yeah, well, sure, but reverent feathery references
and particulate anguish shower us,
Very Alert, in drag for the new suit and sans mostachio.
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