soft: another hat trick


Guattari repudiated Lacan yet some of his followers  think he was a poet, but he was no more that. no.   He smoked cigars!

I prefer cigarettes. and roses, an velvet. and eyes, yours i saw, as the comfort of softness

there is a tale . finding between the spaces  of country, ocean, book, continent. How
indigent we are to live our lives!

what smoke of harps.

sending thoughts of protection   ~




how about ?


     how about Iceland?

                                                   how come you were ?

                     Ah that's another story,  a tale spun and wreathed with long rocks, and golden leaf,

                         ~                                                                             `



     what were you doing in Ireland?     spying

                                                                            for God, if you don't mind   ,



twice you thought


 twice you thought you were someone else failing that me wondering

        about the hook of your hand the turn of your waist
                        the circling of your eyes

                                    the twinning your hope and mine in the sunrise weave of  the sky

                            (and) ran we ran down the road raising dust and love, breath all awry with  ,





  tramping the hills  near Pisa  P.  in your  backpocket

             one glance toward the hills Padua

                        rain came went splattering,

                            sun spattered pavement


you thought


   you thought reaching a bridge in the water's where you'd find me
      but her kiss was me was mine holding arm in arm round the lake

    her arms circling your waist was I and me holding the darling beloved
                      escaped to me of all men

     Now if Jill got dramatic she'd writer ' crucified in the sun' !

                               what hyperbole!

 but beauty is what r'e we speaking about an fear, fear in the  body being beaten

 as-you walk the street, strangers jumping out pounding your face into the ground

that was in your body, which in this instance,is me, mine, the me I, the one what's not fictive

 but reigned

   in but fictionalizing it was the person-hood of Persephone,
            of your lover, the woman you'd call your own

clad in gold not a book,  a dumb  book more boring than print, deader than a song,

 a  record, a disc,  a tape , we  wanted something alive

   int he moment,


                     hours later, our bodies tumbled
                                   headlong into the void

                                 ass over belly backwards,

                                                out of the mother's thrown womb
                             hurled panic,
                                        yet somehow softly landing  , falling  into the world o,  f,
                                                             immanence, the real thing, eh,



                       her kisses were mine
                               her lips were mine her happiness
                         which was joy on her face
                                      made me happy glow
                            ing to see her, glow,


                                               what word was that Orphee?
                                                                                                  we'll come back later


                                    (not pretending like those  that      `     )