In a flash you must vanish from where you sit,
run while sitting still,
sit still while running.
The blackest time cannot turn white and merge with emptiness.
Time's advertised moment—
down a hundred-foot-wide road
a procession of wind at a hundred miles an hour.
Darkness on the far shore.
After sunset, electric lights flicker on this side.
Still, night rolls on.
For want of bridges the city cannot reach the far shore;
there is no bridge from one darkness to another darkness.
Recognition is nothing—
just hand touching hand and the exchange of names.
Smiles scattered across stretched lips, the borders of eyes-mouth-teeth,
yet inside, a waterless map.
Some light will roll to the far shore—
a developing nation.
From evening until they go to bed, roughly speaking, the world stays bright in its grand survey—all regions,
hence progress, progress!
In newspapers, ministers practice speaking in future tense,
morning-printed rumors spread across rectangular newsprint,
a muslin cloth woven from threads of truth and lies—
it had plunged into history,
now it's back.
Politics—
a powerful game without grammar or equipment, fluid as all the world's sports combined,
yet full of gifts—
economic, electric;
beneath the earth, in ocean depths.
Cement's abundant use in touching sky's limits,
agricultural land's steady shrinkage policy, poverty's stark spread;
population explosion—
the higher a country's birth rate, the more it becomes, in writing and reading, a vast field of obscenity.
Entwined bodies, an alternative nectar for hopeless survival,
class warfare, addition-subtraction, dialectics, tug-of-war...
yet everyone is a warrior.
That proportional skill of weight still hasn't emerged.
Glass-like lengths of emptiness all around—
truly, sky begins just one inch above the ground.
Everyone here measures sky by their own height.
The body's length with arms spread, beyond touch.
Instantly sky comes within touch—everything—
earth-food-breast-wall—
all of them—all things.
Parallel sight-paths of both eyes.
There—the mountain's tender body,
time's graceful mind hidden within,
natural resources in excavation—
mineral use.
There—
dawn's color—
wet water-veil clouds.
Evening wind...
the horizon squats and curves with earth's roundness,
whose windowless hidden faces lurk behind?
Are they our familiar names bathing in the sea on sandy shores?
Wave upon wave scatters mind and furniture
in wind's water-sculpture—waves.
Across the horizon, abstract methods fill the eye's illusion—
unsanskrit sand grains, ocean birds;
some diseased whimsical bodies...
procession upon procession—prehistoric—procession.
Unsolvable-nature-helpless
sound-resonance, protest, or the comfortable dream's slow-flowing sequence of sexual desire's happiness?
O politics, become simple as love.
Let every free will be valued.
Let there be pure famine of epidemic proportions.
A great epidemic's absence of widespread begging,
let there be an environment where no one needs to beg.
All day long—
work-weariness, then O—
in night's darkness, dew-semen-sweat-breath-rest-soaked,
adorned with sweat-vagina-body-kiss-sleep
let it grow wet.
This is a continuous life-driving game,
moving-beautiful essence—
for tomorrow morning's health,
so they can run and run and cross over
morning's ten o'clock,
noon's blazing one.
Afternoon's cat-gentle five-thirty's
edge touching and touching
midnight's little girl's sweet purpose like laughter in sleep
for whom, O darkness?
Still
many things can fly,
some of them birds;
their vast heart-wounded dartboard,
the swollen elegant vagina's rose-gaze,
the bull's penetrating eye, poisonous penis-bow.
Still
some fireflies
die searching within darkness for more
intimate and deepest darkness,
and truly
that man was never found again.
Unnecessary.
The day before the incident he had submitted his resignation to the office and had visited, for no reason, all his relatives and friends, sexual and non-sexual.
Then he gathered his beloved books and manuscripts in the middle of the green lawn, set them on fire, and with sharp weapons cut his cherished flower garden from the roots, clearing it completely. He cut and tore all his clothes with scissors into pieces. Like birds caressing cotton from pillows and bedding, he set the electric fan at full speed and scattered it all into the wind.
Utensils, gifts, deer hide, bamboo lampshade, brass ashtray, friend-artist's paintings, large framed photographs of his favorite subjects, colorful letters from overseas girlfriend, wicker swing, chairs, writing desk, jute carpet—he turned everything upside down like an old warehouse.
He broke all the light bulbs. Bathroom basin, shower taps, below—whose water pump;
he released all the water from the toilet handle. He tore the phone wire with one sharp pull. He broke all the window glass.
Then with all the strength of his beloved body, arms raised, he let out a fierce scream of blood-flood. Blood from his mouth scattered in darkness's light like tiny suns. Someone with healthy conscience and awareness, mentally and physically capable, saw a man with raised hands become a bird and fly gracefully into the sky. Then he was struck with all the symptoms of illness.
Along with him, another person of disturbed mind saw the bird in flight. Then he became completely healthy. Truly, during flight the bird had bloodshot signs of disgust in its eyes, and for many days no one had lived in its entire house.