is that then

Is this text a final version? What version is “the” version, when the moment of publication urges its sending? When does cut-up and fold in become the drapery of self and other, becomings the name of trees and lakes, and fatigue takes your body for a rest, the text no longer its mating, and meeting, between the t’s of teeth and naked bodies cheek-to-cheek and memory’s wild lake, and your lover like a song, urging always, something futher, pushing a comma, a dot, or pudding where red weddings take place, the taste buds between the sheets, or wearing bells and cape, or bells and boots, what was that memory , Hamlet? Hamlet? will your shining become all the nights of your ward and award, and it’s your first book and second, and the pain in your ribs, the club of night and day, den and thief before the always twisting place name of elm and willow, weeping into the river, that glows, as usual, a night, an alphabet, a seizure, a king of sizes and days.








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First Saw

Oh ho ho and a bottle of heigh Heigh ho the ninny pushed by water and so it goes when she first saw my lips wangled she reckoned by the flay of their stoppage I a recondite deer twittered against the window of winterage and husbanding my land I awful I was the Irish accent of the voice reading Finnegans Wake when a young lad a young ladding and spinny as she was there was no choice between theory and practice and the boat we rowed was like this against the territoried god against the deterritorialized sinner chained in his shackled husks by the sea the sea of alcoholism which made the books of the sea and this what made what we are throttled by night and height we sang the song of rushed trout of boy scouts not cubs hammering down motorcycle hill and I missed my youth and missed yours as well the skinny boy I was spent too many years alone friendless homeless sexless no wonder she was crazed crazy when founded out to the foraged field

Now be my lip O lover of memory

__


So the envelope speaks


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