2nd piece ________

I'm not so impressed with that last piece I wrote you, that
Impressionist painting where I staked out the high places and the low.
I was not trying to do that, I was hoping to do something else, like
take the cue from where things led off and where they went across your
face and through river and brook a coat wearing me as its self could
not walk over any other space, expressed by telling instants which

opened a walk in space trudging through any open ended comedy of
errors, errors where men live and commas take place like Estella's
smile and the other one, the one's her name in the Bible, where the
big smiles are, the big easies, and the wild country roads; Oh, they

are like a last set of teeth, a smile that does not revert to its pain
fainting all the while talking and walking and rocking in the cradle
to sleep at night a myth acknowledging a jocosity in the interest and
the interactivity which chooses us to make destiny a smooth place to
butter mean time repeating the pat phrase of yesterday, such as this
is the time for a taste of what pulses via love and its second-day
gardens, a jocose turn of the wave while the real radio plays on. This
is not "even my language". __ it is your language, ___, I love you,
and I write these words and this style because this stylus makes you
happy, sort of. So I understand. I hand it to you as part of the plate
of melting (and shifting) genres, my mixed biography and yours.
Sister. Did I tell you about Anti? I must have it occurs to me, I must
have, especially if I have called you Sister, Sister the Anti-gone,
the Antigone. I keep trying to make a pun out of your name, scallop
shelling it out, from the outer (the otter) lips in and toward the
inner. But I can't remember the terms, the figure of speechs, ah, yes,
the speechs of figure, in the broken singular possessive , yes, of

love, and its other countries, but I will go (and I am not Tristan
Tzara although he is there too, but where I don't know, I have to find
my prosopopoeia mask, and I haven't found it tonight distraught as you
are) then the libraries are waiting their skirts held out swaying for
me close to nearer numbers of their names their crisp labels stilled
in pause for lips which come crumbling down to them a kiss which
endures all night. I don't like that expression "all night" it seems
to say the 'seme' is not working that my thesaurus is big enough to
bridge the gap between me and my language, it looks like I am
deterritorializing too fast, looking for dates and a time to rest my
machine. Is the poem I was wiring and hot wiring to your name
previously. She told me once she used to write "confessional verse"

with contempt, I am a better scrivener than her with my eyes open I
see the seven suns to the night, I am across planets with scripts
strung out over across my lips, I push language and I pull shovel and
grip it to its very limit. At least that is what I think. Wend like
that I am crawl line slunk through the imaginary streets of my real
city. _____ _____ this is for you .