Sucking Flies

No longer confident of the transfigurations, the assemblages, piercing coordinations, the hurt

unwound into a novel winding wound again--now, I just place in the wording: I give words to the

passing music, taking it as it is, where it goes: who am I to prevail on the shallows to reveal

their source materials, the hidden populars hidden drives (as the road signs say): what I

am not is a teacher: if Heraclitus, Aristotle, Bacon, smother to death have not taught the world then

teaching doesn't work, is not the issue: (but the music procures so flat: the energies of

transforming lift up tensely integrative, into of recent origin formations young, beautiful: whereas,

merely to go on along with scrambling mediocrity is to let lie over too much to the world:) oh in what manner

flat it is (so abundant so that exclaiming about it nearly achieves a rise out of me): is disillusioned

wise, or is it wise to fiddle with fragilities, little dreams and faiths and foolish beliefs:

there is a smallness step quicklys under things like a crumbly soil that takes in what remains and

gives back the beauties of the field: our bodies share these worm-shaken roads: on the other hand our

spirit, it is from before and knows no changes end all the lineations of event

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 1998

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