"After playing Chopin,

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The Translator Is The Original Coast

"What I don't know, I agree with," Antonio Porchia didn't get with. If it's as dirty as a secret, who cares who
knows. That word has its own designs, anyway.

What he was translating that afternoon was obscure as a sleepwalker eating cereal
and as slow. Neurons
nested around a dimple, in the air, of it, both neither and both--then the echo that
was audible
as the curvilinear, three bones, cartilage, Argentina, the purposeful, grandmotherly
through
grotesquely patrician and parochial
freedom that spelled it, held it, almost without demagogues or ropes.

Flat, cow-rough thumbs. Mud pliable putty. On the wheel, Milky-Way inflected, spinning.
And then synchonized
with the technology
withheld from him, this. A two part aphorism on the nose.

To travel. To reflect from every angle, every unsolicited inch it impregates, without a pose.
In a flourish
counteradvance, like feathers outfalling a camera raised to chop them into one, as the old man
sheathes
the skin he doesn't even own. Even as slowness speeds up considerably constant cheap deaths
around it
pushes the further destination point closer, to roam. You, younger one, you lady whose age is
as so, immediate as anyone
appearing in the second person--whose apparition is nice, I have kneaded it, and is personal.
Come home.

From The Inner Dome of The Temple at Wilmette

In the Signature Room on the 96th floor of the Hancock Tower narrow as the quick of looking through and woven
around, the interstate, also a number, I-90/94, from a mouth affixed to full lips next to an ear in advance of
a whisper, that has and continues to arrive, as itself, and only thirty-three years indifferent to some century, "how many?", almost
as if drawn, a splinter in lieu of a thorn, what bush, no wound, then one is there, "how many
heartbeats
do you think are hidden out there?", far as flung, a forest, and only sometimes in cahoots with a tree, then
two, mostly in care of ancestral erection--both meanings--that seem buildings and elsewhere. Like a mandala almost
but similar
to the Baha'i temple of Wilmette. That the afternoon also held, a Rusty Nail, a mojito. Up there
as intricate
as enclosed sky is felt. Echoes made inherent and relevent, and the surprise, architecture is emotive. Static
set in motion, unity in complexity, with busyness of relief written woven from columns, freeing enclosure
from walls. Just like this, from zero, Chicago. Funneled from two pairs overtaxed. Retina, rods and codes. Cone-forms
created ocean. So where ceiling sees from once felt can fly. Appearing just like thinking inside some old woman.

Pragmatism 2b

he will teach you
what you have forgotten
or googled
past, ignoringly

Pragmatism 1b

when limning a clown
bring a bassoon
soon

Pragmatism 3

Meaning is the mode of poetry in which sacrifice is the victim.

--Bilge Gataille

Pragmatism 1 and 2

1.

when filming a clown
bring a bassoon
for background music

2.

in "Zoo Music Girl"
when he sings "O God please let me die beneath her fists"
he summarizes approximately
408 half hour sitcoms
and 18 hours of presidential
stump speech