the spirit is universal and without
identity: its habitations, singular
and unreproducible, become slush:
slush and spirit make
the worlds: they have a flare for
invention: they make one of each,
even when they make millions of each:
it is therefore impossible for one
thing to become another, identity
on the one hand one and on the other
unique: if you have arrived with the
pattern and motion to be in the world
then you must leave it: there will
be no need for your like again: I
overheard my neighbor, speaking to
his gardener-helper, say that he
overheard his father say to someone,
possibly a gardener—“The axe creates
more beauty than the spade”: I didn’t
hear my neighbor comment on this, but
I supposed it meant—pruning beats
planting: the spade, though, is also
associated with plantings of another
kind which, doing away with old
depleted things, may be another kind
of pruning (improving the beauty of
the world by another kind of deletion):
well, anything inquired into gets
mixed up: surface shifts sift out
beautiful language best: it is the
motion not the mark tells: (if I
tried to explain that you wouldn’t
find it so easy:) Socrates destroyed
worlds looking for definition: he
found none: by the time such narrowing
locates a carcass, the carcass has
no stomach for meaning: by the time
anything gets that narrow, little
is in it: what is beauty:
you don’t know, don’t ask: I could
say it is when your pecker rises:
ask your fucking pecker what it
thinks: and beat it bad till it
spits at you: if it spits, though,
it may be more evidence of the
same thing: nothing having been
explained in 2500 years, we best look
to some other mode of explanation: counting
on the wrist is a classic: smelling
bad turns you away: touching someone
creates belief: the solid world eats
and shifts, I mean, shits, runs in
and out of waves, plays pinochle,
and never says a word: words, their
world lost, the wind sweeps up after:
no dust left, the wind
dies: a disappeared language never
was, never can be, exists nowhere: