5.24.2013

THOUGHT MACHINE II

life for poets, a sweeping, flowing movement of
insight, a daily collapse, repetitively rebuilt with
enthusiastic memories of childhood___hindsight is
an Aristotle Purposefulness:
What is the purpose?
Discipline of poetic energy relaxes me, or no neuroses
could develop: EXEGESIS of particular wandering,
particular skill, skulduggery, shovel-less, my grave
has been overcome___abortive, Thucydides

right-&-might schooling, fooling eye of insight___
hidebound cloud, fuzziness of prosperity & brother
-hood___invincible obstacles in the immaculate musical
soul: sopranos, contraltos, tenor timid of testimonial,
monumental, ungovernable impulses___our eon-ancient
entity, ie. earth, has a face that grunts at the conflicts
between the status quo & the pull of Power, sparking
from the flint of money, like fishes that need the flash
of a surrounding organism to be able to notice them___

inadequate black box rescued from sitting in the
ice of the sun & air, rounded by snow, height
& coldness, chilly; are chilies thought of the same
way in their homeland as they are in foreign fields
& lands where a diet
s difficult to melt? what voices
of multitudinous horrors does a black box hold
within?___anesthetize amnesiac America! ortho
-doxy of bomb-making plots__clerical bull-pens
withhold relentless growls; who will let out the
anti-celestial choir? anti this, anti that, I foresee a
new century of instigators: The Masters of Tragedy
are soaked up as an attempt to escape from
materialism & urban contempt, malnutritional
Monsanto lingering over society like a flaming,
residual piece of steel___who avoids thinking?

aging reappearing in different guises; harmonious
spinning of danger like a master machinist making 

mistakes___aches, leaving the sea must be like being 
in a non-musical family that became musical, then does 
not remember being musical: the sketchy waves score it, 
most of us lack money, contacts & the proper platform
___who cranks your intestinal equinox? rebec & symbol, 
connoting evil? psaltery & the harp, sacred pageantry, 
objets d'art of stars with plump pink cheeks, twinkles 
in eyes, walking like penguins___A. S. W. Rosenbach, 
considered the Napoleon of the auction room, paying for 
The First Folio of Shakespeare, libraries, liebraries, 
a pimple inside the nostril, Button Gwinnett buying the 
original manuscript of Alice in Wonderland: what is dust? 
sizable clientèle, boom-years blew away years ago,
& now, nervous dictions in the ominous belly: 

a dialectical shadow, vortexes of  baroque sunbursts 
from our notably unknown retellings of life, what memory 
will reward or haunt___what convergence, what 
ramifications to be had for obeying the wrong voice, 
like wearing a clip-on Qlippoth___ofconsciousness, 
ofdwelling oftransition, offputting resonance still sly as 
a fox, smug as a shepherd___music arcs into me, dispatches
itself with Peter Pan-skill; my future-self, threadbare,
a feeling of having passed beyond the body___







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