re : call: the Library not the...

take the word Call, for instance, the way it snaps back against itself, and you reader , how you make it your own, by a fabricated self, not certain a spiritual becoming that holds against your intensity, your company , love, your lips, slipping between the image and its metaphor, its darling night against your sense of the poetic odd and its nodal power, the way margins completely baffle your self, forged by the nano seconds, the seconding of a self in language, and it is not even that complex, any more than object is fake bird Bell



or I submit this to your will


by the feelings

all over the place forcing the prose moment of our happiness


then thinking of an evasive time and place


you huddle down the tracks
happier than a dog in heat

escaped by the bodies and who cares then, what it is?
it is Rimbaud in the light

keeping the speed
by Abyssinia

and not these other rude awakenings to language and other crap. So then, what is happening, what is going on , when you waltz the street hoping for the rainbow prayer of the moment to unfold, unfolding in your fears, the anxious navy of your hope and the unheld bodies of motor oils,


not so avid
to make breaches
you promise primroses of summer


then again that turns out to be a lie
trundles around the corner of your self
a trombone of repeating season's
where sankee sink a coffee

relieves your selves and the girl you loved


those are the pieces of a boy in an unfinished french city

yes like when you stayed over there, in Paris, and all the live long day was Shakespeare, not ruined Being and Nothingness





the Voice reaching withinward





not another didact reassuring her place in history and the history wait there is the Library and that is not the Same






not the same at all





not even similar there's no thesa...