for Abraham Veinus
1
Whatever
is
entirely deprived
of light—
the palm
of the hand—
goes
between when
and conditions
of almost, a-
round this great fire
presst against
the air, this
contrived
silence, night scene.
Here are
all the meteors
and the faces as
meteors
wave
as in deep
water as
giant flowers—
say
“Wonder’s
of a man
passing
from one
stage to another”
(& fast)—they’re
interested
in him, la
capigliatura
disfatta nella
fuga delle
costellazioni, a
messed-up
dragon-fly.
2
Of the night scene. The
figures which
fingers
of the hand
point
are not the same
in going as
appears
dark against
the brightness
in coming
back; all
comes from, goes
to, the fire
which you
now, is
… flowers! and
above them
the figure
by the darkness,
by night.
Figures, the green meteors and other personages; figure, the man.
Is he dead enough?
And not
in the brightness,
fire, itself
undulant pink
shell, palm; he
should be half
shadow and
with a
long and regular
curve
half in ruddy
light.
3
Water
snake, the
crab &
lesser dog: the personages
disguise
their pursuit
as a samba. Or
staggering
in sand tor-
mented
by lizards,
gradual
fish, or hunters
shooting shapeless
arrow heads,
solidified—
vermilion!—in
flight toward
the turning of the hand backwards.
Those farther away
will be done
with great
rapidity
and the aether
rushing away
from mouth-
eyes-hair should
be dyed
more deeply black
as
the final urge
of the motive
power
requires
much
leaving out.
Like an interview. Bother
you like cigarette
smoke in the nose
whispering
So Fletcher
I’m gone!
Why did you leap?
They had trucks going around town for all
the dances and this excited me, so I
plunged deep
into death with the whole of America.
But are you dead enough?
What do the wifes say? I say the dead
shoot the living.
That’s say trapped say
sweetness, la danza della libellula.
I’d have taken off
the other night if I had five hundred dollars.
5
And not
in the Alvin Hotel
Broadway & 52nd St.
on the ides of,
old just returned from
Europe. No.
Here are all flowers
and faces as flowers
waves of white
emotions, say, re-
frigerator currents
conceal
the figure
of the man
half in dark…
light… like a
scene on a stage
with its
curtain burning.
Maybe there’s too many flowers, maybe there’s
too much smoke to breathe? Maybe
that’s a get-away.
Let it all be dark… and then July! if
he’s dead enough.