If it wasn’t elegizing personal preoccupations, then it was
a knack for the confused turn, as if among complex phrases, the true thing
would feel itself move outward, away from its first appetite, to reach something
alternately structured that would relieve its demands. For dawn comes from a
dark place and the innocent might suffer it, yet another kind of clay, limpid
and chilly, no one else but the fatal you apprehends, may be enough to remake
the world. First one gesture with quick fingers then a decent shape for whom we
might destroy the chants of night. Through the final rages of its firing the
dark, such as your eyes urging forward, flows, and is what we enter when we are
ready to stalk from door to door in the village nearest our base. Taxed by the
values and shades of the ominous gesture, we asked what was there that we could
take. But were we actually the reason why it happened. One breathes in a mountain
cave the air smashing over the city. One knows through raging, the air in emptiness,
even if afterwards we recognize it as a banality, without seeing the tattery
books aflame in a dumpster. An image of ourselves? Are we a thousand men in one
radiant conflagration? The commercial for itself tells us to pack our bags. We
hurry then. An opalescent jar searching for its treeless hillside. What had
gone out of the world as they moved forward in it they tallied, freeing things
from blanks and gaps. Thus we celebrated the power to muddle and absorb the
objects of the senses, sink them deep in a world of nourished things and
annulled things. A voice was mumbling. Is this the new sacrilege? The leaving
out, to stuff the ear, down atmosphere, the helicopters feasting on the air,
every object and idea comprised in their fuming wilderness. The uroboros, the
mobius strip. Yet there is always the chance that the first act would be
misspeak, leaving out the surprise of its violence, then another.
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