let me sum up now ( after this digression )

Meet Srikanth Reddy, a visiting poet at the University of Chicago who --by his own admission-- has always been open to meandering ... one never knows where the rabbit hole will lead...
Reddy finished his dissertation last year ( 2008), a study of digression in 20th century American poetry, a topic near and dear to his heart. It took him a long time to hit upon his topic because, ironically, he kept changing the subject of his project. Who does Reddy claim is " the father of digression " in American poetry?
well... there is a puzzle for you...along with the soft gee...
His most recent collection of poetry, Voyager, has been described as a region of radical unlikeness where inspiration and disorientation travel hand in hand...
sounds like a rabbit hole I might want to explore.... in good company!


When thinking was fun without drinking










and loving was living without









I knew the arc of the back of the cat.

Now I know nothing of that.

But it's too difficult, too difficult...

"If only they'd stop committing reason (on them, on me, on the purpose to be achieved), and simply go on - with no illusion about having begun one day or ever being able to conclude. But it's too difficult, too difficult, for one bereft of purpose, not to look forward to his end, and (bereft of all reason to exist) back to a time he did not. Difficult too not to forget, in your thirst for something to do (in order to be done with it, and have that much less to do), that there is nothing to be done: nothing special to be done, nothing doable to be done. No point either, in your thirst, your hunger. (No, no need of hunger, thirst is enough.) No point in telling yourself stories, to pass the time: stories don't pass the time, nothing passes the time. (That doesn't matter, that's how it is.) You tell yourself stories, then any old thing, saying: "No more stories from this day forth." And the stories go on: it's stories still."

You must say words, as long as there are any - until they find me, until they say me...

"It's the last words, the true last? Or it's the murmurs? (The murmurs are coming, I know that well.) No, not even that. You talk of murmurs, distant cries, as long as you can talk. You talk of them before and you talk of them after. More lies: it will be the silence (the one that doesn't last) spent listening, spent waiting (for it to be broken, for the voice to break it). Perhaps there's no other, I don't know. It's not worth having, that's all I know. (It's not I, that's all I know.) It's not mine. It's the only one I ever had? That's a lie: I must have had the other, the one that lasts - but it didn't last. (I don't understand.) That is to say it did: it still lasts. I'm still in it. I left myself behind in it. I'm waiting for me there. (No, there you don't wait, you don't listen.)"

ascribe to me a body...

ascribe to me a body
easily broken
that I might remember a story of every scar

assign to me a body
that I might hurt
so deeply
the only way to say would be

attribute to me a body
that I might care
enough to miss you
and miss you enough
to care

ascribe to me a body
shaped by moments
so time with
into my craft

author me a body
that I might write
of smoke & spark & flame
blissful fire...
sweet pain
timeless twilight
graceful dawns , easy waking,
dreamscapes, lifescapes, oceans, shorelines

ascribe to me a body
that I might die
with you
as my last thought

That's all words, they're all I have...

w... or... ds
war or peace

strange pain, strange sin

have you ever been punched... really hard?

of course

& how do you survive that?

if you can't avoid someone's fist, you try to move with it.

if you just stand there like a wall, you're gonna get knocked out.

good advice to follow...

silence amidst silence...

Silence is not a mere
       nor a ground for sound
       nor completed through utterance
Silence is pregnant with possibility
       like the horizon
       like the cresting waves
       like the clearing
Not all silence says nothing
Not all speaking says something
Silence is positively brimming

the inexhaustible

It stops there, that's all I know.

من" در نقطه آن لحظه ابدی شد"
و رهايم کرد،ه
پايان را پشت سر گذاشتم
و جايی غوطه ورم که معنايی بر آن نيست...ه
At that point, "I" was eternized
And released me,
I surpassed the end
And now I'm immersing in a place that holds no meaning...
this is the translation of the above poem by ... (Haunted by Satan)


an unambiguous fable: when there is no jay i
makes the gee soft

small/big enough for a country
a language
or a thimble

only the wicked are solitary

I crawled inside a mood to see what would happen(s) & i
wonder even now if what i
felt was jealousy or envy... i
'm still unsure
neither most likely fear most likely
lonely most of all but i
'm pathetic enough to want you
to notice me some scrap of tenderness i
want to impress you
and your gaze and attention
how do i
get across this space when shadows are the colour of bruises
& the dots feel more and more like tears
or thorns
my heart knows that i
deserve all that i
am feeling
Sad to say, my eyes are open*
revenge is a dish that is best served cold.

* with thanks to Jon, June, 08.

I hear, you say I hear.

words are br oke
words f





I think I know what you're saying, but what you think I'm saying is really not what I'm thinking. And besides that, what do you say to someone who says what they think you want to hear?

I want it to go silent, it wants to go silent, it can't

....another day another night. pixie dies again... & again...& again. third time's a charm. Joe can't take this shite. cats make more sense anyway...they're logical more like people. Spike knew what to do with a stupid rat like pixie ... Jane watches for signs of ratgut poisoning no luck so far. no small mercies anywhere. Joe is scrabbling around the house pretending he's not craving, pretending he's not looking for stash. Jesus, four dopeheads flop here why can't I find any f&#@ing stuff!!! he is in Jane's face. He stinks. Jane asks: Where's Jack? Jack is Joe's dealer. I thought he was bringing over your stuff. He's on his way I think...how would anyone know ? the phone's been cut off... all the bill money's gone to Jack. Jane is desperate for cash. Cat shit and dog shit everywhere...pet litter costs money you know... there's a pile of turds on the back step like some animal stuck its arse out the door and just did a dump right there. Gross. It's the only door. Joe is keening.... what's Jack gonna think...WTF!!! what's Jack gonna think?! Jane wanders upstairs and runs the shower. They still have water so at least there's a place to cry in private. For now. Joe is muttering and pacing....Jack should be here.... any minute...

Jane has a love-hate relationship with Joy. This is not a metaphor...or an irony. Here is the message Jane sent Joy the week before:
$ick!! phone i$ off. $orry. i'll w@tch 4 u @nytime pm $@turd@y.
Joy thinks Jane has lost it until she remembers Jane telling her that she can't get the letters 'a' and 's' to work on her computer which is too bad they seem like important letters for lots of words. Whatever. Joy gets it. She parks in the driveway...it feels like it is too late already but there was no way to call just show up & hope for the best. The dogs go freakin' wild as soon as Joy touches the gate. The back steps are flanked by two stone sculptures, a seated hippo on the left and a fat placid buddha on the right ...it's like a shit altar ...there's no way I'm making this up, man... Joe flings open the door...aw, f@#k, man... you're not Jack! Joy stares him down he holds back the dogs on straining tangling leashes but their paws get into the shitpile. Jane pushes past as best she can, giddy with freedom, shoes flopping she slips and steps in the shitty goo that's smeared all over the step but follows Joy like a woman on a mission you can't track that shite into the car, Jane... I'm sorry ....
Jane throws her shoes back over the fence. Just go...she says, dragging herself into the car, I'm good. She struggles to pull socks over her gnarled toes as Joy backs out. She's wearing a man's shirt, green with stripes too big her hair is a mess., skin clammy, breath coming in gasps and pants. OUT...at last. Jane finally crumples, collapsing into the seat. Joy just drives.
How about we go for a coffee she says after a time... I know a place where we can sit in the car and watch the water... maybe listen to the birds ...or nothing, Even better. Joy gets them coffee. They sit and watch grey birds and grey water and grey sky. Jane sobs I'm so f#@&ed, Joy..I mean, I paid the rent but Jack's got all the rest I can't even buy cat litter. I got cash Joy says. I'll give you some. Will; not might. This is an important detail. Everything is quiet except for sips, swallows and gulls. Jane gazes over at Joy. Can we get some tylenol on the way back?

and I can't ever do justice to this unnamable madness of povertybullshiteverydaysorrow.... I want it to go silent, it wants to go silent, it can't.

The devil [...] It's he showed me everything - here, in the dark.

Dear Teacher Satan... without whom we would have never been able to employ our free will, and surely we would have remained imprisoned in our childhood paradise without ever tasting the vastness of being like God.

Help, help!

there is a hOle in the dam...

I'll go on

How can I move across this space?
i start with a dot not a line
the dot I'm standing on
from the dot I extend a line towards the unknown
that it
may be illuminated

I cast off my moorings I lean into a wild tenderness

What's the sea like once you let go of that rope?

The form is the vessel, as Rumi says, to hold the meaning

then I'd know where I was and how far I had got

is not luxury.
Audre Lorde, Chosen Poems, Old and New, 1982

Some slight obscurity there

since I had nothing to say and had to say something

said nothing
forgot what I knew
cast my soul
a letter
let it be
leapt off
broke form
closer to human
more humble
nothing in word
fails to tell
places inside
who could tell
words broke
kept together
duct tape
call them poetry
write lines
similar lines
without pauses
without respite
someone get it
that damn phone
always ringing
almost always
probably for you
I'm not home
how it goes
your move
a tissue
for certain
shall you
no sugar
many varieties
both one and the other
the path
never tells
just waits
a neighbor
next door
at midnight
knell of bells
a necromancer
scent of pepper
white whipped wind
nonsense too
what neighbor
other color
never knew
said nothing


nun de viably

see silly

see ser so

de door busses in kerhoe

nor Silly, dem is ducks!

See wass'in'em?

Cows and trucks.

(That must be how it goes, if I had a memory)

who needs a memory when there is imagination ? i
will not be coaxed into a plot *

wielding my sword of indifference i
decide i
that you can do without
that must be how it goes i
don't ( wouldn't ) need much of an imagination if i
have (had) (a) memor(y)ies i
would have truths and lies and silences

* with thanks to Hopper's story with the brief ambition to be

{in any case equipped with eyes}

{to pass the time}

it's not enough
I hear you
your voice

a smudge
ink on the headlights
dark and ticking
stained and dangerous

not enough
not enough

more tape
more paper
more glue

out of focus
out of time


Love (the dance over the abyss)

the risk of love recoils as it springs
carries the inertia the rush
the plummet
the collapse
the reawakening

at first restless fearing the plenum
as much as the vacuum
then amplitude
thrown into a beautiful entwining

the delicate grace of ease
of flight

I can't go on.

painting by Maggie

hi hb,
I was reading through interiority/exteriority/unnanable and I did some research on Samuel Beckett....so, I thought I could add an artwork linked to the second last line of the text ....'I can't go on'. I've attached a painting that I did in 2005....
I hope I'm understanding the project correctly but you can let me know if it's inappropriate :>

thanks and hope you're having a good day!

this work of art is a perfect match to that sentence... 'I can't go on.'
the posture of the body... the 4 right angles dominant in the painting... connoting stillness... the fact that we don't see any legs... and that the character's back is to us... all reinforce this theme of 'can't go on'...

but i see the last sentence of the text inherent in this beautiful art work too: 'I"ll go on.'
to me the bare body signifies a kind of birth... or rebirth... and with each birth comes a path on which we go on...

so happy you took part in Jon's project...
so honored you shared your precious artwork...
so excited i could step in it...
lots of love

And when it stops?

when it tops...

this story had the brief ambition to be

Do not be coaxed into a plot too soon.
There is a danger in a plot.
Nor should you be coaxed into character.
Once you create a character they require a lot of attention.
Right now there is enough.
There is the narrator.
There is the reader.
Both of us surreal to the other.
Both of us unimportant.
So when I tell you the story that I'm going to unfold just keep that in mind.
None of it's real at all.
Think how the narrator never experienced anything.
Think how the reader experiences something all their own.
Together we will look for the first time at this particular set of circumstances.
This may or may not lead to a story.

I'll say he's I

"Because I love you absolutely, I, myself, am no longer absolute. Recognizing you gives me measure.
...Contemplating each other , we do not lose either the night or the light. Each can leave to the other his or her own life: sun, moon, stars. Being faithful to you requires being faithful to me. Does existing not mean offering you an opportunity to become yourself? 

"Not to bind myself to nothingness but to leave within me a ready place. Is it not perhaps the welcoming of the other which safeguards this clearing? Is it not this which permits respect and generation, which encourages becoming, birth and rebirth? Desired opening. Gathering within a chaste intention."

--Luce Irigaray (To be Two pg. 15)

overcome the fatal leaning towards expressiveness

here is a story of j's. joe and jane live together below the poverty line in half a house that is barely up to code. joe is a female to male schizophrenic transexual....wait, maybe that should be transexual schizophrenic... yes, that one.... jane, his lesbian partner, has severe rheumatoid arthritis and is in the decline stages of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. jane's son justin is 19 and lives with joe and jane. justin's friends john, josh and jessie flop at the house whenever they need booze, drugs or shelter...mazlow's basics minus two...justin's former girlfriend jennifer often brings their infant daughter( julia) by for visits....two dogs and six cats share the house ...one of the cats is feral. his name is spike, of course. jane used to have a bird but found it was just too much...
joe drove to the humane society and got a pet rat. he named the rat pixie. pixie is a stupid rat. this is an important detail. joe and jane have conflicting sleep schedules. this is an important detail. jane is exhausted by mid -evening when joe usually smokes a joint and takes some E. joe passes out and hours later wakes up in a panic screaming for jane to find pixie. jane squeezes her swollen fingers inside a hole in the couch and gets pixie...just like that. she can think like a rat i guess and figures pixie is stupid enough to get trapped inside the couch. pixie races around in the delirious dance of an ex-con. jane does some screaming of her own pixie is your rat what the hell were you thinking... tottering under my own skin and bones ...jane can't be doing this shite...ok so they understand each other. another day another night ....justin, josh, john, jessie and joe smoke some joints and take some E. more hours later josh's stoner moans of horror wrench jane out of sleep and drag her to the bedroom door jane he says spike's caught a really big mouse...i don't know, man....
jane shovels pixie's guts and carcass into a garbage bag and sobs hersslf back into some kind of agony induced coma I can't be doing this shite. joe ventures out and brings back more essentials you know how it is, man, you run out ya gotta get more... hey...he says to jane i got us another pixie...

j is just after i and what is between noise and i .... pain and madness...or everyday life

I was lost

I am lost in the light.

(and if it's not I, who it is, and what it is).

i am i not I...

close my eyes and be in a wood

clothe my aye's and be in a would

or on a seashore

hoar on us, see? ...sure...

woo (oul) d hath hope...

At the place where even pain could never line...

even (odd) pain   
               never (always) line

the place of spurs


If I could only describe this place

I stare into the light until it blinds me, then close my eyes. Behind the lids oscillating marble, yellow-red spot, nemesis of the sun, the only eye of the night. I see unfolding flesh over flesh in technicolor and plaid as if I hit my elbow or cut back a bone spur... somewhere in there. If I could only describe this place.

make abundant use of the principle of parsimony

qaStahvis wa' ram loS
SaD hugh sljlaH
getbogh loD

I always was


They do what they say
They say what they do
The cord they cut though
Can't be sliced through

Unseen strings s......t.......r......e.....t......c......h unbreakable fabric


bind(earth, bone, wind)ing spell

never move again

elsewhere is another matter








"For God's sake! This craze for explication! Every i dotted to death."

--from Beckett's Catastrophe.


It's blind, it seeks me blindly, in the dark.

moving up the Moebius Ladder...

alone alone

the fullness of the void the texture of space the heaviness of the space between us

A Particle of Me...

the sea and the strand, 
the tide's outstretched hand, 

many me's
many grains of sand
a loose pile

swept away
gathered anew
each particle 

not I
yet I


Elsewhere... where the scream is not screened...


A micro/macrocosmic view to loneliness...

It's a lie.


dawn too bestows long shadows...

Molly was 16 the first time a man of god used a dead animal to frighten her
& was 12 the first time she learned to become dead ...
Francis was a man of god; her first...
Thursday evenings' choir practices are the hunting ground...rooms buried in the warren presided over by St. Anthony, the last sentinel, this man of stone, protector of travelers, nomads and lost souls
sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing
cursing man cursing god
his arms hover in a gesture
that will never begin
or end

if only they'd stop committing reason...

Dance first... think later. It's the natural order.
Samuel Beckett

When I write, I discover what it is I wish to say.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty

herd of shites



Learning to fly...

Thus spoke Zarathustra:


"He who wants to learn to fly one day
must first learn to stand and to walk and to run 
and to climb and to dance--you cannot learn to fly by flying!"


"Summit and abyss--they are now united in one!...
Whence arise the highest mountains? I once asked. 
Then I learned that they arise from the sea. 
This testimony is written into their stones and into the sides of their summits. 
The highest must arise to its heights from the deepest."


"'Bestowing virtue'--that is the name Zarathustra once gave the unnameable."

no need of a mouth the words are everywhere...

syn(a)esthesia ... my friendly companion
i am wary...
i have not been so permeable in a time
and the wild is as lovely as I remember it

i ride the tides of moon and ocean
no need of a mouth
the words are everywhere

i am waterbug
i am smoke
i am a shy girl in a strange plaid coat
that used to be a blanket

Easy Grace...

Drops of silence through the silence...

Silent impasse, we fill it with sound, deadlock

Silent    bypass, we empty it of choice, deadend

Silence's          , deafening void

let me count the ways {what would I go mad with?}

1) an underhanded serve?
2) a pickled-herring beard?
3) a forgotten embarrassment?
4) an exquisite harassment?
5) 700 piercing riches?
6) a kiss from Buster Keaton?
7) never-ending discourse?
8) a 12-pack of frozen humility?


What else should I say?
I used to believe in you...
Now I don't.
Kind of like Santa Claus...


if you press CTRL f
you'll find
that the word hat comes up more often than

time in the text, but strangely never as just hat

the hat shown in this photo was a gift from Fern


I am what I am

not what I was before

not writing poetry and lofty lines like someone is ever going to read them, or using the comma or spacing for full stops

I am what I am

I left my home many times and wandered this land

no clue where I'd come from

turning in the crisp air and around that highway through Rockie Mountain House

or was it scrawled on the door of a toilet in Dublin or was it

left unsaid

I am what I am

a grain in a sea of sand

hand in hand and had

I am what was left over from a rhyme about revolution and the way that things could be if there wasn't a Geneva Convention and the protection of prisoners and all that bollocks

where the high water mark shows on the strand

I am what I am






I'm sleeping

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

-- from "The Waking", Theodore Roethke


What is that thin line between one thing and the next? What makes this prose and that poetry? Why is his language better than mine and why does he say things more beautifully than I? Is it because he isn't asking questions? Is it because he is not asleep?

the helping hand...

many people are gathering on the beach... a crane is there too... not the bird but the machine... they are taking something out of the sea... all are watching... it is taken out... dangling from the cable of the crane... it's a huge work of sculptur... a very huge hand in the pointing gesture... but the index finger which is supposed to point is not there... it is broken or something....
the hand stays there for a long time... in midair... pointing... to nowhere...

that was a scene in a film i watched long long time ago... think it was The Suspended Step of the Stork by Theo Angelopoulos, if i'm not mistaken...

story 2

That was enough. Just the sight of those fires along the beach. I don't feel like the story needs to go much further. Sure I need to tie up some loose ends: why the cops shot me and why I died; if I died at all; how a dead person could narrate a story; what value there would be in that; if any; and so on.

But that's not the part of the story that really interests me -- the reality of it or whatever. I'm not interested in the cops and the rain and the thunder outside. I'm not interested in playing chess. What I'm interested in is the dream I had the night before the evening I found myself in the coffee shop, and what about it I wrote down. If only I could remember. All my troubles would melt away. I must have left that pad of paper somewhere. How will I ever find it now?

time 2

sometimes time stands still

time 3

time is the violin we burn

open eyes

eyes looking out
at me in the dark

waiting for them
to stop watching

so I can flee this space
and find relief

i must feel something.....

i am a seahorse penultimate hybrid
swinging and swaying within beneath above
millions of fish
they swim towards me teeming parting fluttering i
feel them glide past
furiously invisible i
see them below me as a cloud of movement and i
don't need to see
or hear to feel or sense and even when i don't i
tilt up at them i
am within and they are all around i
am all around and they are within

i am a baby i
just left my ocean i
am now just making sense of this big
heavy thing
but it seems i
have lots of time



I and this noise.


I sum up. (Now that I'm here it's I will do the summing up, it's I will say what is to be said and then say what it was. That will be jolly!) I sum up: I and this noise. I see nothing else for the moment, but I have only just taken over my functions. I and this noise. (And what about it? Don't interrupt me, I am doing my best.) I repeat: I and this noise. On the subject of which (inverting the natural order) we would seem to know for certain, among other things, what follows: namely, on the one hand (with regard to the noise), that it has not been possible up to date to determine with certainty, or even approximately, what it is, in the way of noise - or how it comes to me, or by what organ it is emitted, or by what perceived, or by what intelligence apprehended (in its main drift). And on the other, that is to say with regard to me (this is going to take a little longer) - with regard to me (nice time we're going to have now) - with regard to me, that it has not yet been our good fortune to establish with any degree of accuracy what I am, where I am: whether I am words among words, or silence in the midst of silence (to recall only two of the hypotheses launched in this connection). (Though silence to tell the truth does not appear to have been very conspicuous up to now. But appearances may sometimes be deceptive.) I resume: not yet our good fortune to establish, among other things, what I am (no, sorry - already mentioned), what I'm doing, how I manage to hear (if I hear, if it's I who hear), and how to understand (ellipse when possible, it saves time) - how to understand (same observation), and how it happens (if it's I who speak - and it may be assumed it is, as it may be suspected it is not), how it happens (if it's I who speak) that I speak without ceasing, that I long to cease, that I can't cease (I indicate the principal divisions: it's more synoptic). I resume: not the good fortune to establish, with regard to me (if it's I who seek), what exactly it is I seek, find, lose, find again, throw away, seek again, find again, throw away again (no, I never threw anything away, never threw anything away of all the things I found, never found anything that I didn't lose, never lost anything that I mightn't as well have thrown away); if it's I who seek, find, lose, find again, lose again, seek in vain, seek no more: if it's I, what it is (and if it's not I, who it is, and what it is).




there is the something
the shoe
the other foot the untied and dangling
the reaching
the river
the narrator

she held his foot
pressed it
cool to her neck
her disobedience meek and craving.

All is Over -- Autumn Floods

"The Way is without beginning or end,
but things have their life and death--
you cannot rely upon their fulfillment.
One moment empty, the next moment full--
you cannot depend upon their form.
The years cannot be held off;
time cannot be stopped.
Decay, growth, fullness, and emptiness end and then begin again...
The life of things is a gallop, a headlong dash--
with every movement they alter, with every moment they shift.
What should you do
and what should you not do?
Everything will change of itself, that is certain!"

(Chuang-Tzu ch.17)

Something else -- Solipcism

When that "something else", that "beginning", that meaning bestowing moment that we all wait for to come from "something else" other than us....is us...is always us....

then the great circle of solipcism closes us off...

Solipcism....would that be so bad? The wait would be a long blind wait. You'd be waiting for you to recognize yourself.


This is the future home of the breakdown of the phenomenological analysis methodology. It's another part of the work in progress. However there is a time line and ultimately everything will get finished. Or it won't.

Meaning Units and Strong Words

There's a story for you! / That was to teach me the nature of emotion (that's called emotion): what emotion can do (given favourable conditions), what love can do. (Well well! So that's emotion! That's love!) And trains, the nature of trains. And the meaning of your back to the engine, and guards, stations, platforms, wars, love, heart-rending cries. / (That must be the mother-in-law: her cries rend the heart as she takes down her son. Or her son-in-law? I don't know. It must be her son, since she cries.) / And the door? The house-door is bolted: when she got back from the station she found the house-door bolted. Who bolted it? He the better to hang himself? Or the mother-in-law the better to take him down? Or to prevent her daughter-in-law from re-entering the premises? There's a story for you! / (It must be the daughter-in-law: it isn't the son-in-law and the daughter, it's the daughter-in-law and the son. / How I reason to be sure this evening!) It was to teach me how to reason, it was to tempt me to go, to the place where you can come to an end.


hit this link

It's not I speaking

It's a story!

I can only paraphrase what I wrote down that day in the coffee shop
in my dream it was still twilight and as I reached the first bonfire
I thought about how one of the cops must have known that I was talking about them already
even if it wasn't true
they were sitting outside in the real world waiting for coffee
I was inside away from the rain and lightening and I took a book out of my backpack
when I saw in the light of the fire that I wasn't the same color anymore
life seemed so much better in the midst of that beach and that ocean and that fire
but it came to me after a time that I should move on

in my dream it was as though time had opened up
it was twilight for hours

in your long dream there's a place for the waking

when I got to the cafe I was soaked
the police car pulled up behind me and I asked the two cops what they'd like in their coffee
both of them said black
this was either before or after they shot me
I don't remember
my memory is a bit vague
the night before I'd had a very strange dream and it clouded my thoughts that day
it was twilight and I was standing on a stony beach at the ocean
beneath a cliff face looking down the length of the strand

there were three bonfires
equal distances apart above the high water mark

I began to walk towards the nearest
sound of the gull
chatter of beach rocks in the tide

It won't be I, it's not I.

it's to go silent that you need courage

I walked into the cafe without any intention of getting the cops coffee I ordered one for myself and sat down in a booth, took a book out of my backpack forgot to tell you that I had a backpack, and for that matter to describe myself at all

but then I'm a wanted man

it wouldn't do for me to go around telling everyone what I looked like I think I was reading Faust or something anyway it doesn't matter there was thunder and lightening outside and I was just as happy to have the cops come inside and get me if they cared that much and I wanted to write about a dream that I'd had, and I don't know why I thought to write it down but I'll tell you nonetheless.



on Film???


a quite different thing

a cop car slides by my driveway, slowly, methodically checking me out, sitting on my front steps they must know there's a warrant out for my arrest, I thought, and are trying to decide if it would be worth taking me in it was Saturday night and so I played it cool, got up and started walking as if I had nothing better to do they followed along side of me and turned when I turned the corner turned when I turned again well let's see if we can't make a night of this, I thought to myself stopped walking and turned to the cop car said to the officers through the open window, I'm going for a cup of coffee you guys want to come along they looked at each other looked at me and nodded and motioned me forward so I kept walking it might have been raining

sounds at night

[Strange this mixture of solid and liquid.]

Strange I never noticed before. I am something other.

looking for