From: The Fragments

The gap is full. The fullness exacting. It furthers fullness, and the fullness fades, piercing nothing with its occurrences, it's zeitgeist that concerns itself with itself. And there is an essence there that is being articulated. It is the essence of a void we dissapear into writ(h)ing. And the tides of it are the tides of a sea all air, a sea surrounding a sea imagined.
What is it but air, and the desire that is commingling, the spaciousness of an
angelic cascade, the white wings, and blue wings, the true benign toiling of their blessings as air.

I remember where I came from. There were no bodies there.
No culture. Nothing but what I might be willing to call a kind of moral aesthetic, a heirarchy of awarenesses, in which each of us was embedded in the silence of it, and love was the substance of everything around. And the tides of language were as a murmur in the ear, a distant murmuring in which the human sleep below pulled us toward it again and again, the shore of those bodies, their fragments, the dissolving of those selves into the carreses of each other, all of those shapes, mordant and distant with
abberation, the intelligence so bright , the aphasic sensibilities.The sea of that thickness, the human colloidal
echoes, purgatorio of flesh, as ocean signs inside the waves, and I can still hear it singing, the foam atonal in the night and its knives.

Oh God. I have been... nowhere. The trees have been lost. The white snow collecting against the fenceposts. It is the sheer insensibility of it. This world with its grin of impossibility. Telling me its name, whispering its content into the sheet music. Sometimes George Winston. Sometimes. John cage. Beethoven, Talking Heads.
Orpheus their wrack.

And the ice was glass. Tiny gleams of it, mirroring the other. The air was glass. It thickened and was a stasis. And the tunes of the air as it made its schisms. And the ruins of the air as it crumbled into seats. It was God and it was coming. And we were all inside it. And though there were wars there was hope. But it was not American hope. And though there were wars there was wonder, but it was not inevitable wonder. The sun dripped down as liquid light. And was a habit of light and there were, within its shavings, and its tiny jeweled sepulchres
of spectrum and cloud, little nuances that were like little Henry Moores, little glyphs like tides of candy. And yes, the peppermints clacked and fell, dashing the streets with ice, falling and telling. And the cold lime losenges and yellow porcelain dolls, splintering into the asphalt and singing sideways ditties", splaying out into the cold that had seemed almost to fund the day.And above us all the sun was dark. In its muses we swam and were the tides of Christe. The clarity of the ice as it burned and crashed into glass birds and glass persons-- the brittle cars and the torpid soaked newspapers. Those who hoped and those who had contempt for hope. Even as they hoped for it, from their windows and storm doors.