Editions MSS
Editions MSS
Fourth Divastigation

Airy and light

Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
§ 70.
Propping lusty thoughts on liminal stilts. — And should I ratify this custodial childlaw? Common hospitality for firstborn castaways. Positional gloom of glum pulsation. To crash fullfront down from rock to courtyard, third story curtainsill through shards of glass that clifftop stillbirth in a batrachian flight of toadstool matrality falls roofhigh into toothswallowing sand. I said law school, stupid! Out my window a swingarm fountain stops, starts again windmill tinkling, and blooms a poor dull cactus. A smooth pink scar.
§ 71.
To pivot about an axillary origin. — And should I unzip my twist of cloudclad sky? World would banish body from this mossdark hollow. My amphibian hipsway swimming spiral out. As natural as any blind or knowing sin. Though you might proclaim a bit too classical. Unhook my dawnbright supposition from that crucifictional starghoul’s claws. Amphigorious annointancy glacing my matriculous braids. All rosy and tight as a dangling yakshi this luminous thighfruit. Rhythmic drowning of an insightful young worm. Slowly sinking into a glossy black hydroid’s ophidian coils. All bloody this bait. I grin and swallow.
§ 72.
Slavish or vain. — And should I worship a sparrow’s augury? Moral act of owlish gloom. I’ll find things out that you didn’t want known. Without warning. Hawkburst snatch of airy thrushdown.
§ 73.
Mouthing off a customary opinion. — And should I insult your suspicions? Cold my ass and hot my lips. I must admit how lazy I am. As if by now you didn’t know. Morality of loquacious cowards. What I’m up to. If only I could accomplish it. Truth is a punchjaw slut.
§ 74.
Who knows most must mourn most. — And should I find words to say it straight, I’d kill both art and form with primal morality. Iago’s fatal truth is this: paint it not but with slant frivolity, and no upright fool can trump your faith. Pictorial confusion. Filial affliction. Bulimic scansion. Romantic guardian. Amatory confusion. Parsimonious salutation. Agonistic conjuration. Romantic guardian’s plathitudinal byrony. Sartorial confusion. Rigorous pacification. Pathophilic action. Romantic guardian’s plathitudinal byrony’s kafkacious musility. Filial confusion. Amical conciliation. Contradictory acquisition. Romantic guardian’s plathitudinal byrony’s kafkacious musility’s dickinsonic parkinsonianism. Whippoorwill whooping in a dogbark shaft of muggy dawn. Bulimic scansion. Filial affliction. Rapacious association. Tony hamiltonian.
§ 75.
Arrival, A Lucasic Imitation

Stasis in obscurity.

And now an unbodily skycolor

Pour of tor and faraways.

God’s lionbitch,

How singular you and I grow,

Pivot of hocks and talons! — A furrow

Splits and transits, sororal to

That brown arc

Of spinal column I cannot catch.

Splotchy myrrh

Fruits cast dark

Hooks —

Black unsalty blood mouthfuls,


A thing that’s not this thing

Hauls us through air —

Thighs, hair;

Chips from my talons.


Godiva, I strip —

Moribund hands, moribund constraints.

And now I

Foam to corn, a gloaming of stormy aquacity:

That child’s cry

Dissolving in walls.

And I

Am an arrow,

A humidity that soars

Suicidal, unitary within this plunging

Into ocular

Crimson, this cauldron of morning.

Not to think of all this. — And should I notify you of any stray acts of transformational simplification I may wish to slip into my hybrid toil, not with any thoughts of mumtazification, mind you, but simply to round off a gawky angularity or two? Though I hold that a plurality of gods mirrors most naturally this lyrical world of ours, I could satisfy your curiosity with a dual singularity [1], an invitation to an imitation or two, say, of Victor Lucas:
War Hymn to Amiot, An Artifactual Road of Gay Old Paris

Flux during daylight
And again an

Arbitrary mango
Drooling toward you artists,
Physicists of sorrow,

Diurnal somnambulists.
Jaguar of a loving

Trivial or non,
How into plurality
I shrink!

Turn and pivot
In a physiology of rut
Scaling arbitrary

Profanations of sororal
I would catch

If only I could.
Not to think
Of all this.

Unnatural shrug-functions
Touch hard books —
But look!

Salty gray nostril spray
Of soul and spirit.

A nothing that
In this
World only — Is.

I halt on a dizzy
And to think — I am

Surgically black
Among this crowd
Of sad

Gray ghosts, a physician’s
Act of sounding.
And again you attack:

Still as plains.
No arms, no hands
No back

No stomach, no thighs, no
Lips. Suicidal

Arrows down into
Iris, cast iron

Sky of dawn.

  1. Dual singularity. — Or singular duality.
§ 76.
Staid womaninity. — And should I brush away this proud frisson as simply a hardup broad’s idiosyncratic frivolity? Juicy hogwallow quadrumanic skinclutch small of back. In a solitary room a cat is dying. Knit your brow in horror. Iniquitous thighs and most rowdy pussy always watching. Impromptu shaft raptor stands a gosling’s gasp of worldly joy. Woman’s infinity.
§ 77.
Just starting out. — And should I mollify mad looks with loving simulation? That bitchpimp madrigal I sang to fathom lack. Constantly losing my virginity. I could ask. Sight-tiling from city ranchward in a cloud of dust. Cows grazing along a willowclad bank. Robins rhyming at dusk. Alas, that witch saw us doing it out back. And so soon I find it all. Bucolic, ain’t it? Infamous shacks burning bright through night’s crackjob watch.
§ 78.
Grounds for suspicion. — And should I knock back this glass of mortal rum? By way of a winding mountain road. To catch him that morning I ran through rain tumbling in milk-cold drops from a cast-iron sky. And into it I did put too much thought. A fistful of raisins and almonds. A skip-coin fountain. I am a virtuoso of mood swings. Cat stalks parrot across a dizzy piazza. Knight claims rook against an orchard wall. Small town variation in jaythirds and hawkfifths. Distantly thrums a crowblank chorus. I swallow. Half by soft proxy and half by acrid truth, a throat-high prismatic umbilical transformation. Slanting octagons of carrotty light and womb uncoils from brain. I simply cannot avoid it. And still I’m that child I mourn. Hyacinth bowl of bristling shadows. From torso to cockstring and scrotal-root bloom of anal pinch, dark hands claw a totally nonabstract justification of my slim firm thighs’ morality. Pillow down hard I push, lustrous black hair spilling.
§ 79.
That things of this sort still... — And should I doubt that proof is lacking, I’ll call this miraculous child my own. I stand. Park-stroll Sunday morning spring. Rigorously from out of a distant past black dogtwins pull a pump-shod pantsuit with woman to match. Slant sunlight kiss of quill tip to squint of word. Antiquity’s gift to any ongoing discussions of originality. In shallow mud for worms a solitary starling scouts. Mirror-blind glints of last night’s only surviving handpool of rain. Across that storm-soft hillock a cruciform shadow bids us not work and bids us pray for our sins and bids us claim lightly this compulsory day of symbolic ringing ringing ringing. Grab a warm plastic fistbag of labrador shit from a bark-spray hound’s clip-tail libation. Snow-bright signs of that world’s bloody intrusion into this. Wingtips drag turf against spookflight’s possibility. A skirmish party of robins slowly advancing. I am bound by tradition to do so.
§ 80.
Summary participation. — And should I joust with happy words? So brightly to cloak my dark inspiration. A wary soul’s lusty proposal. I call upon a chainmail shroud of palatal stops. So plump and mad my young bottom is. Contrast with sighful sibilant labials and most profound glottal gluttony. Soft crimson stain of infatuation. Languish in anguish. Sorry: I was lying. It wants a strong whipping.
§ 81.
With no particular warmth. — And should I hint slyly half a drop of splash-wax titshow to duck a blowjob obligation? Local custom’s to swim broadly into global comparison without any sort of taking into account, cosmological, -politan or -gonic. Physoulical justifaction of sophiscatological philosopain. Why could I throw it away? Purchasing bad for good, it colors my right mood wrong. Magical opinions coax hollow music from such a wiltwind horn or unwound string. Groins grow moist from most any a turgid grinding. Damp incautious products of this profound country’s tarpaulin purity. Why should I throw it away? On that ivy-sprung wall an orgy of sparrows clings. It’s an oily gulf, though thin, dividing crinkly foodspray canvas from traditional sculptor’s work. Posing’s what I’m paid for: why would I throw it away? No strict art forbids a stray fuck. Backdoor smuggling of spirit into craft. Call it what you will: thought is form.
§ 82.

Bruno, G. 1583. Sigillus sigillorum. London: John Charwood.

Flawndol, S., Johnson, W. M. M., and A. K. McLaughlin. 1993. Town city plain. A cultural history of Tagma and Intrussyan incursions into Fukariland. Owlstain and Paris: Urdostoist Publishing Assn.

Galvari, G. and M. Ravigiallo. 1999. Glamporium. Owlstain and Paris: Urdostoist Publishing Company.

Gombrowicz, W. 1937. Furdydurkus. Warsaw: Sarprostium.

Kant, I. 1781. Critical puritanical rationality,. Mitau.

Kant, I. 1788. Critical practical rationality. Mitau.

Litarn, Ms. 1999. Cultural activity as parasitic mimicry along a human–nonhuman continuum. Journal of Sociophysiology 7(12).

Raymond, A. and C. Kidjaki. 1995. Social anthropological transawakalations. I. Introduction. Journal of Sociophysiology 4(11).

Vighdan, B. 1992. Globarš: A ritual Tagma physiological philosophy. Journal of Sociophysiology 1(3).

Wright, G. H. von. 1964b. Norman sanction in word and action. Shatsbrook: Appalachian Spiritual Institution Publishing Corp.

Towards a schizomythology of ritual (IV). Do not ask, How am I to act? but, What should I not do? — A swirl! shouts Ms. Litarn (1999), a limpid baby swirl of rabid accusations, sir! Shiny black hipboots stand a plaid skirt proud. And impishly nothing, oh nothing at all! (as our glorious old-school law commands (Kant 1788)) to stop a quimcurious hand from clutching furry truth. Oh, frivolous ambiguity! Oh, gracious mixologist, hail! Actors all, I say, and I my own author. It drips a viscous trail of hot coinish lust. Pollution is a boon to this bi-cautious john, Mr. G. H. von Wright, who, in his Norman sanction in word and action (1964b), says calmly, A spiraling whirl of rank, orgiastic litigation, ma’am! Both, in turn and truth and all at a fumbling swoop (Bruno, Sigillus sigillorum), lubriciously grin and harlotishly wink and, arm in hot arm and hand up up skirt and fist zipping fly to orifactial grasp (gasp!) of mouth-limb acquittal of ardolatrous suctation, most slutfully swoon (both!) and fall, tumbling, writhing in thick ashy sawdust of a bar room floor as if so much hay in a barn could contain such passion! Hiccup. A barstool built to pivot. I turn to watch. Fuck all your taboos! And down with all your irrational mouthifications of myth and such. But our story, shy drunk scholar, drags on, proclaiming our right to our folly. Out back’s a shack. Ambiguous frivolity. Gracious mixologist, hail! Two rhums au citron, two! and a light cigarillo if you don’t mind, kind sir. It wasn’t that I wasn’t just, you know, having a full-moon affair with him and, you know, carrying on so much as simply allowing our moon-mad nuptials to slip into a kind of, you know, gravid paralysis. Hiccup. Gracious mixologist! how should I say it [1]? In a habitually, as always, lucid analysis of just this kind of a similar situation as this in which I drink (rhum au citron), Galvari and Ravigiallo (1999) stitch an accusatory figuration as to how custom and tradition and quotidian cultural political artistic uplift and aspiration and all that your normal common habitual, as always, sort of normal (gasp!) non-uppity folk hold most distractingly in adoration of, how all this, sans taboo, sinks sighing into foaming gasp oblivion of moan moral obscurity and sighs arbitrary authoritarian usurpation of thighs (Gombrowicz 1937): cynicism, apathy, anarchy, corruption, pornography and prostitution cannot but soon follow. Out back’s a shack [2]. And in this fourth part of my Towards a schizomythology of ritual, I will show you that a possibility for a solution to that infamous conundrum, How should I act? (Kant 1781), consists, in fact, of a multiplicity of partial solutions to this paradox I ask you, gracious mixologist: What should I not drink? Taboo, in sum (rhum au citron and a light cigarillo), constrains parasitism, giving birth to rationality. Look. This diagram displays my Manicarnic (from Skt manas मनस्, ‘mind’, and L caro, ‘body’) Paradigm of Schizomythology (MPS) (look how luscious our first initials kiss top to bottom!):
Manicarnic Paradigm of Schizomythology (MPS)
Manicarnic Configuration (MC) tauto(tauto) tauto(allo) allo(tauto) allo(allo)
Manicarnic Status (MS) tautomanic tautocarnic tautomanic allocarnic allomanic tautocarnic allomanic allocarnic
Rational Ramification (RR) tautoconciliatory tautoconflictual alloconflictual alloconciliatory
Implicational Ontology (IO) “my mind, my body” (conscious) “my mind, not my body” (unconscious) “not my mind, my body” (mirror or kin (MrK), practical or virtual) “not my mind, not my body” (situation of altarian disunity (SAD))
Ontological Action (OA) voluntary involuntary paravoluntary panvoluntary
Ramificational Activity (RA) ritual ritual schizomythia mythia
← conciliation          PLAYGROUND OF TABOO          conflict →
As shown on our diagram’s mossy ground, taboo marks its playground’s bounds from conciliation to conflict and back again. Simply put, taboo is a basic tool with which parasitism (or symbiosis: call it what you will) binds an individual [tauto(tauto)] into its social group(s) [allo(allo)]. Throughout all gradations of manicarnic status (MS) and, thus, homologous proportions of rational ramification (RR) and implicational ontology (IO), taboo obtains in tauto as tauto’s cognition of allo’s intrusion into various of its loci of ontological action (OA), constraining its ramificational activity (RA). Conflict and pain follow, and tauto, striving for conciliation and mollification, fights back by way of ritual; that is, communication. Mythology, thus, is a synchronic corpus of acts of communication (or ritual); schizomythology, a diachronic corpus [3]. In contrast, thus, to various traditional anthropological and sociological transawakalations (Raymond and Kidjaki 1995), taboo is not just prohibition; it is rationality’s originary root (OR, from Tg îbtîda ra) flourishing in conciliatory soil. Irrationality is proportional to conflict, and rationality, in a word, is cosmological harmony as it flows from this act of communication (or ritual) to that, from allo to tauto; it is a dilatory point of articulation and confrontation within various implicational ramifications of taboo, ritual, and (schizo)mythia; it is a sociophysiological and quantum phusological fulcrum within that labyrinth of fluid stability, both diachronic and synchronic, in which all acts of communication (or ritual) occur. This lupanar’s too smoky. Abstraction is foolish arbitration of non-propositional thought. Wanna fuck [4]?
  1. Say it. — From my windowsill I saw a child strolling hand-in-hand with its mom throw crumbs to an orgy of sparrows. I could talk all day about birds! And from my window I saw two starlings rob crumbs from that orgy. About birds all day I could talk! A short discussion of moanzy (Moanzy ninsrata) will follow.
  2. Shack. — With but words I did fuck him, tooth and claw. With but words.
  3. Diachronic corpus. — Pay mind in particular to allo(tauto)’s RA, ‘schizomythia’, which, as I will show in my fifth Towards a schizomythology of ritual, plays a most important part, as, taking into account a fifth, and most rampantly conflictual, MC, nonhuman, allo(tauto) and its homologous attributions focally pivot in a balancing act of world and taboo, human and nonhuman, attaining instantiation as marrow-rich, paravoluntary hub of all sociophysiology. Allow for now but a singular illustration: Only on that final and most auspicious day of Glo Barš, according to Norlian tradition (Vighdan 1992), is moanzy (which wild pandoric spirits typically inhabit) a bird of culinary pursuit, providing a sort of symbolic trans-cyclic gustatory catharsis to that cyclic symbiosis linking Norlian snail (Nimloidu spp.) to portal scorpion (Girtablullu spp.), moanzy to human. Similar symbolic-parasitic ritually built obligations involving moanzy haunt high-mountain Fukari and high-plains Tagma habitations in Wyoming and Flouziana (Flawndol, Johnson, and McLaughlin 1993).
  4. Fuck. — Spring. A bush rat rubs its groin in soft dirt.
§ 83.
A particularly difficult labor. — And should I punish him by holding in my laugh? Frankly to admit disgust would also only gratify. His tyrannical admiration’s simply not worth it. Background mountains of snow and dusky firs. Across bucolic plains a stallionshadow bolts a mint gallop towards a barnyard confrontation of cowboys and iron quoits. Brown pants, plaid shirt, straw hat. So proclaims my diary. A journalistic intrusion. A painting by Gloria Galvari. Cognisignification [1]. Solitary cock guards its flock from crow and hawk. Carrot-brush scratch blots a bold girl’s gift to roan. Mouth to hand. Tooth-gnash dislocation of faith’s kissing custom. Bad timing. Or good? This childish hostility sports a thigh-split mask of brutal hospitality. Salt in a cobalt bowl cups a mango drop of yogurt. Atoning for all my sins, spoon a dollop of tar thick into it. Shaving my armpits bald. Am I right or am I wrong? My own brand of abstraction conjoins a quantum dot of dusty acid to a spiraling comb of foamspray ruins drifting in filthy liminality to a full-grown woman’s habit of black starvation. Am I right or am I wrong? Dutiful politics coming bubbly into hot oil. Cumin stuck in asphalt. A fatback boiling down of cinnamon stick and cardamom pods. Long and short and thick and thin: no limit to a glowing pupil’s rising banks. Kajal vision. Floodflash my strict food’s brink for a compliant fool’s supposition. I paint my lips loud. But why did I do it? Silk-soft axillary hair signals a giving in, a total confusion of aims and motivations. Proximal to any physical domination, I gird my womb against his wild riding. A nominal boundary’s doubt. Stop complaining. But don’t forgo a hands-on opportunity for licking. In opposition to his loving stand of pavid lust, I posit a rival’s conjuration. I’m no sot. Nor am I suicidal. Two blind orbits of bodily armor. Two painful associations with what is past.
  1. Cognisignification. — W. Abish, 1980, Just how Dutch is it, chum?
§ 84.
Paths in high mountains. — And should I list my complaints? Mix and match a tract of lusts. Going thus through history. Trashblow mopping up of mown grass from mosscrack cobbling of park. So loudly it ruins any possibility for philosophical matinations. Downright ugly. Harsh tubular wind from a back-strap trunkthroat. Not labor’s fault, I know, but capital’s. Not a farmpoor planning of parts and tasks, but a falling short by way of soul or slacking off by way of cash and hours. Downright ugly. And all surrounding buildings downtown shot through with that high-punch strutful tyranny of airjack and sluttish whining sawshout. And a throbbing bus pumps tourists gobbling out. My body stallion-straddling climbs mockly fucking gushing plain and moral high past any such vain opinions. Kill-diving for rabbits a falcon sightracks rock and scrub. Following tight a mating-call trail bats at night find frogs to kill. So I think. And calculating a humming-bright function a chalk-drawn finch hunts wasps. And today in class I was told how a particular microorganism or two can transform sulfur or iron or cobalt into mitochondrial food. But what can swallow survivally a smogtar cacophony of highway sting and airport buzz? In town and factory man hunts man, awaiting a god to hunt him. Think about it. Though all is natural and parasitic, what is most natural to man is an imaginary pollution on which gaunt idols grow gravid and miscarry. Puzzling inconstancy of a happy birthdivinity’s sublimating parasitism. So much for spirituality. Cynic. In contrast, I’m only coming.
§ 85.
Law and ritual. — And should I catch a lust for stunts? I caught it last night. Going down’s a groin-fruit truth. Back straight in a straight-back chair shin-squatting to boot. Start again from scratch. A chain-smoking drunkard drools. Joyous vacillation of full-throat linguality. This book burns to touch. Two by four and four by two. Gold rings on a saffron couch and dirty nails fist oral. A man’s got a will with saints such as I. Tattoo a pink blossom to my thigh. Or arching smooth dolphin omphalic. About writing I was talking, not sucking. A dissimulation of kissing. A clit-lick subordination. Talk talk talk. Unconditional titfuck. Now and again if only a bit of dirt. Rolling in it. All in Vishnu’s morality is holy. And Shiva’s moon with Brahma on top. It kicks back handily. I’m in training. Roll all my passions into pang. A paying man’s got a right to put it up my ass.
§ 86.
Thus a psychic knot. — And should I admonish pity’s wish to marry? Too kind I was from honor. From chastity too curious. That word again. A woman casts anchor at this point I don’t know. Blank frown of most unlovingfully disgust. Voicing that solution aloud in a birdsong park I don’t know. Dying off of dogwoods. Owls and bats at dusk. Supposing such souls in flight could march catty across that lawn. It’s all about forcing a body into waking. Profound flight flashing up from gray rooftops a black crow pair hurls guttural lightning. To my right a canvas-clad woman sits a thigh-tight violation lightly down. Pointing black talon grinding into dust a ball-pivot philosophy of suspicious flirtation. Taking up a path I soon abandon. Paradoxical apology for bumpy timing’s mark. I was afraid I don’t know. Much too drowsy I am from an Atlantic crossing postflight’s contractual simulation. Polaroid compassion snaps shut shot shit shat shout shying away of full-frontal virility. Such a sandwich-munching god I was facing. I was afraid of taking it. What such words as this would do I don’t know. Only by forcing faithfully could I hazard a solution to that lack. Chalk it up to Kant for proving Kurlandish philosophy’s worth. A clackwork hand’s click clock cluck. Without womanly warm compass of any kind nor poultry’s worms. But why this critical compulsion? Painting was for him a profound sham. Words and thoughts proving monstrous. I was brought up ignorant of all that. Facing what only I know. Honor to that child’s amazing proudgrant I rightfully I don’t know. Stir in a poor play for loving lightly. Who knows but that this particular path may pay off handily I don’t know. Abandon it I won’t. I was afraid.
§ 87.
Hold it in your arms. — And should I ossify my daily fiction into scorn, into form too holy for soft scholarship’s quick appraisal, it’s not my fault. Bank to bank a span of suicidal thoughts. As I was saying to him. This wish to disappoint commands a hands-on approach. Nightly finds my path, if not too difficult to walk, too tortuous to chart in taffy-pull fashion. Pontoon jump of doubt or faith. No hit or miss living’s had from such a light killing; no child’s play to aim airy arrowscript. It all adds up to shouting. Spot a citation thus. That child I was trying to string a bow. I could kill by clutching. Soar swimming into a man-hard flight of words. Puffy syllabic flux as Spitmarkx originally taught us how to sculpt. Fortuitously torturous, not gratuitously rough. It snaps into my virgin wrist a painful rash.
§ 88.
Striving for distinction is striving for domination. — And should I gossip grandly? Animal insight dawns a sun on infamous cosmologist’s conundrum. Pounds a post into traditional transformationist’s paradox. Sitting back-straight in oakshadow and birch, I push my proud round tits tight into my black blouson’s soft front. That such voluptuous joyfruit could sigh so lovingly bold from a timid swan’s arc. Causing that kind man to slash his own arms. Pity’s razorwhip. Boiling cosmic wind birthing swirls of possibility. Taboo’s violation works, not by pulling boot-strap up, but by carrot-cart driving down. Ridiculous minimum of sad blood to banish happily a maximum of sinful activity. To bind what’s most robust to fragility’s ramifications, inward and out. Cardinal was hopping from branch to branch. Snowy morbidity of all things natural and parasitic. Black dogcollar buckling playful shyact of flirtation changing big living into small dying and back again. Thus it holds fast, starts a basic disposition. Unwary tourists’ lawnpicnic. Cardinal hopping from branch to branch. Gray parrots diving through brush and cataloguing what is most lowly and solitary. It finds duration in singularity, and singularity’s profound lack. From virus to god circular symbiosis cuts top from any mountain too controlling, too constant. Social flux of quarks and protons. Among daffodils and tulips full young hips fill firm burgundy plaid. Punkstud wristguard arousing any god’s mortal lust. That dark mass hiding far from sight is blow by blow pulsational gazing, barbaric divination with which Brahma Vishnu Shiva construct an infinity of actual virtual worlds. Spiral splits from spiral within cosmophusological warp and woof. Luscious loom of laughing imagination a child’s hand draws from dot to dot. Cardinal hops from branch to branch. I lift my skirt up to my chin.
§ 89.
Formal analysis. — And should I tally my most common actions? Unwilling it sports a social conscious burning and turns away lagging, this facial scar that tags my scorn. A clay pot full of sand and roots. Typical vocal conflict of womb and its turgid antagonist. Rampant biological compulsion casting shadow. This particular patch of history in which I stand. All this I do not doubt but know, writing it as I think it, inking it crimson as it blossoms into sight. A shard of cornbloom among wind-blown shrouds of iron and raw buildings’ gold. I’ll count to four.
§ 90.
Almost without noticing. — And should I vat this duty strong? Transports to action a grand intoxication. Disgust’s arrow I dust and draw. Things you didn’t want known. Such an assault most happily at night making what’s lain dormant dominant drown. Again that total nobility of action. So long to that studio too small. This artist crafts a world.
§ 91.
What of this soul is holy. — And should I qualify my lavish vision with a wink? Cowardly pinch of functional communication. Punching gray fiction bloody. How I attain my virtuous lust. Hiccup barstool across sawdust floor. It’s not my incapacity to say things plainly that slants my art thus, though a bit of morbid truth might lurk in such a blind assumption. Straight down that spiral path I was running falling flying into strong hands flapping wings grown soaring. Famous vampirical transformation. Blood works magic for that wan attraction.
§ 92.
Mask of a city. — And should I satisfy just any philosophy’s conditions? Wind whirls dust from this crunch of sand. Passion will not wait. Hollow orbits of a howling skull. As too many historians paint it, antiquity was not as kind. Calf-strap sandals march half an arm-swing strut stiff with handbag hanging. From high ramparts in hot sun baking poor old dogbards strung to dry crackling. Coastal landsharks chant iambic. A focal patch of skin. A slash of lofty ivory. Flyscript body of allusion. Such did a good soul wish for in days past or now, tomorrow and tomorrow making clay by simply calling, molding form from form’s omission. Local words laugh a global map, an atlas of aging, a sagging man and wax of world, hot soft quickly dripping. This is my kind of faith. What that grand author took such pains forcibly to posit, I wing so lightly, soft hot sympathy rhyming viscous. It was in an old book I found it. Ugly translation. Night still holds tightly this thing I hold apart. Thanks.
Antlion. From a photograph shot by Otto X. Goldbarg, c. 1924–1927, of a Mountain Fukari clay bowl (#2004.24.13595) found with Ossuary 162 in Room 21 of Swarts Ruin, Grant, Wyoming, and on display at Harvard’s Display Institution of Old Folks and Tribals in Boston, Mass.
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Copyright © 2010 Michael Sean Strickland