Thrum goes the night the commander of the cosmos lakes of light drying into riven the mind. O the mind. Reconnoiter day of day. A heavy gravity lulls him to the edge of her room. A sound is barely perceptible from over there. Not a ticking nearly a ticking. Perhaps a groan. A bee’s collection of sound. The earth can be round for days.

She may think of currency that holds tight. It holds. The currency marvelous and wants an answer. This direct contact beginning to keep in touch. Swaths of it. Thin delicate murderous she thinks of her fingers looking at them. Have put to death many lights many nights not tossing but turning the ephemeral turning. The burning and the acrid. One decays whilst the other behaves. A fraudulent sky fingers forth. This is evening. Ball in. Now the city arrives splendid city majestic lights for no night may come to pass ever it is the dream and it shall remain rooted here forever. Spreading occurs. Four bees exchanging flower heads in a garden and there are irises bloomed.

Have a spring. The buzzing is loud sounds voracious can be a tedium. The day it is called. Distinguished from night though much the same. Two slugs spackle mucous on the floor. There a moral universe bends as light does far out in space. As cosmos in the mind past the mind forever. Here the thought flits allows every creature in to charge them with guarding a post. No time on watch or to see closely. A screwed up mouth chatters from within frame. Nose inhales the dust. Going to give up shortly. Five responses to her predicament outside the text distended bloated thing one implies a breakage a cracked hull the other simple swelling the light bent has to bend around a thing greater than itself before today never able to say factually light could do such a nasty thing as give away its authority so easily.

But it does.

Scene the Second

The advertisement in her hand on newspaper crinkling. She hasn’t her face tomorrow she hasn’t a place to be. The edges of the room chalked. Huff. She cuts a face from the paper. Stares at the phone. What is the phone. She puts it on her leg the peg of her leg. An O for its ecstasy. She is the environment the chalk. Watching her clip the paper. The all interior argument placing her about face which nose is there eyes is there forehead wrinkles.

She conceived in a stream flower petals floated past. She had gone to clean her feet they slipped her she got wet. Governed by wet. Dipped candle flax narrow for the mind. The container then of less and still less virtue. The bends form so deep give curve disturb the shallow. Some air a swirl some air a current fingers splay up. She has her tongue out. Up. There is love to see her acting. A show the proscenium not yet built but workers mobilized.

She before the mirror facing a face. Sticking the cut paper over it noticing a resemblance. Almost features the nose and eyes spare hair a family then a tribe a family of tribes all good vibes. A head pops out. Life fills the room. Light spills from her lap and red plugs and vapor. Silence. None before loud so silence. During. O she thinks light scary.

It was her foot she had come to say felt awkward. So such strangeness careless mover she became weaving and bobbing. She for a while left her certain for an uncertain. It had been it was now a broken pencil to love and cherish and to remove the parallel chalk lines that just now seemed to govern her forcibly strangely she became dependent on a rule where her finger smudges the outline of the favorite room. So tweaked in the idiom as the culture goes she goes.

She was dumb in the lake. Other rivers poured in on her lap. Course of old songs a labor a heart of an instant for the head poking out. Curse the opposition. Notice her gait the dress wet sticks to her legs still submerged out of the negative. The crusting light begins to flake.

She had plenty of relationship. With the sun. A weather of her a sharp wind in her or a storm. She had made a cautionary remark to keep the safe. Her breathing from her neck. Huff. The river flexes. An omen of the light her first thought to move her index finger and sit back to watch it point a way. Out. It has moved. Before she said for it to. She had not said but had thought it. It moved heedless.

Scene the Third

A tunnel and bubbles over at the end first light not a prism just shine in there the first thought doesn’t have trembling capable of no tremble no outside reference a simple slide into what is a capable set of hands paired for this entrance the first thought arrives simultaneously the light was first now dims and goes to the dark place up in there where the first thought came from and now is secondly.

He is made he then wets the instruments the second thought goes under the third about the more light brighter than the other which is it the relative value of things according to the light the hands form and press there is the experience of being negotiated not confused to be this way with having a head that came before but an other not natural extension of permits cognizance of course no going back but always going back not always sure of it next a course of sustenance there is a slight of hands a flurry these modifiers crank about the light is far too bright to make an entrance or to see a first light or to essay the light as fully in the head which is still being felt very strongly.

Scene the Fourth

The room is all interior and she knows it. A madness. Not discrete. Trays of poison have been sitting for inches of time. These small suicides no longer the idea of a bag of maggots and their hum. Love of the mostly real. She takes a scoopful in her palm and inspects. Swell no release. She remembers the tin head from between her legs. How it wails thro the night her ear pressed to a plane of air to shut it out. It takes less and less to warm the beast ready it for sacrifice. The hue a painting stuck to the wall which formerly existed does not now will appear to hang imperfectly for the next observer. That is just. Some actions have consequences. They are the ones to justify. The black lung envelopes her with beautiful misery. Such beauty in that line parallel to the floor almost a gravity. Suspension of finer sadness a moral sadness.

The hospital not the sun in its place. Rope bought cheap across the street for the room. String it tight she has no mercy for the tine. A righteous thwack and she has done it. There is the way for her body. Boldly lit as she were a matinee the attraction of moths pimping the light. Now her face historical. Her movements about the room so original and large in scope. The radio was not enough. Nor the screen however large. What will there be to say that is not cold and sad? The moon shaved of its light by a river that offers no brook to cross. Something looms. She goes. She fingers a globe of light called sun. It is a construct. There is urgency beyond. A breeze. A flash but of night. The figure shifting.

Scene the Fifth

You are born astride a communication. Systems implore you. You telekinetic you. Watch for stations the occult the big loud raising space to animate give sense nurture take the hand of walk to the market with scrub the back look on. One casual imperative ribbons away in a wisp of intellectual wind. The harps glazed over in museums in the one museum housing all museums. An old man operates the tea service in the second room on the third floor adjacent to the room of objects sitting down enlarged to full scale miniature size. He operates twin levers with twin functions. You must ask him only one question and he may lie or he may not lie but one response is assured. If he pulls one lever you will alice away through a portal and you will be powerless. The other lever transponder lever places you exactly where you stand only three feet further along. Do not ask what is the obvious deduction at this point. You may not go home. The moving sidewalk beneath you carries no destination in its system necessitates taking you back to front in loop. Beg&steal. Be smart you inevitable you.

What wivery drives you to embark. Some plunging sun remote it is none bleaker than. What nave feeling parching the mite squadron of shelled feelings nested in you. Blemish participant looking at young girls transform into videograms one limb appended to another rococo phantasm you are dwelt in. Think of the isles. One windblown day on a stray beach flinging rocks. One gull one sun one wave over and over. Or the city’s gyre. Gyve against the prowl of this ancient boated land. Wait in solemn repose for crates of blessed hands been chosen to trace the sea trace the snails crawl backwards to the sea. Go rewind the boat. Echoes reply the intimations of crew and skiff set adrift set aside the table for two the nail to hang one wave one bleached sky one impervious predilection for the cragged scrawls of hands loping lamely the sea O the sky O the shifted land so behemoth that land starts an imitation never stops does not see the gentle knife glint under a moon a multiple of noons spinning into night one sail too dark one lonely caw. Night delivers. Penance.

Scene the Sixth

An occupant appears. Moist forehead resembles a glazed wet mirror. No cavils. Barter instead for all time a dowry of permission. Linen cross hatched two hundred times as phone cable. Lay. Remain. Sticks ornament a bed of limestone. Mantras shrivel there. Hedges kept neat. Bulbs hung as earrings from the branch. A few winds gust.

Weeping holding appling weeping hooking oranging with my pinkie. Heaviness. My arches hurt. One casual cause for the fire the statistic of wood and flame. Murder over champagne lambent candles veined floor. Your shape fumigates the room. Coins minted as your grace permits. I see this slowly as of permission. No substitution for that. May I speak seraphically. Agreed. Essentially one fog aware of another that is all. Whether this or that one must follow some source to the leak. To plug or no. Thy velvet lobes. Thy fiery waist crackles with near delight.

Scene the Seventh

One musk of no certain accord entered. Placed things on the sill.

Scene the Eighth

Terrify me no less than terrify yourself. Obligatory crux we made slopping through that day in the vessel maudlin you made. At a.m. found no remorse nor hound to sniff it out. Yet there shall remain some interlocutor. I want transmission. Ability to control the flow.

Tenors prepare for a concert in the drawn room silted light carted dust from one continent to this. Aged linens aged doilies middle aged intellectuals gathered around a manuscript. Laughter the steady contagion of it coughing out of these spent lungs. Music comes to a pitch falls intines the light and dust and ambience hang in the air. A reel begins against the wall knocked down to reveal the improbable garden of this dilapidation estate. An historian from the coddled band of merry makers rises his hand to observe and remark. On the event. Supernatural is dead. What governs the queue?

Scene the Ninth

Air stewing in the lungs. Connectivity on your mind. A woman flits about the room. Massaging her temples with such as you have never seen fingers that long. Yes her head thrashes her mouth ovals a static purges from it is deafening. Some possession through her.

Scene the Last

Early into the twenty first century the world in all its transparency became if not sordid then romantic. Birds generated nay willed to be just like each other tweeting notes just like each other. Not inexactly either. Not imprecise like a half century of poems before them made them. For a time this place was heaven with no strict conceit that heaven was a place of old friends. Keening toward enslavement of the senses implies some master and some mastery. Binary just some old code we coddle. Pathologies we trot out like wallet photos. Look at this one. To have credibility means to have pathos. Picture the rain starved child fetal in the vacant room. Pathos pooling in him. Image sequence not derived from cinema. Mother figure trolling round a room displayed as a room with gauzy light and graying coloration. Nobody is in the bed. Image two abuts carried as a bundle of firewood. Blue discs of light spin above his cradle. Lightning commingles with darkness and thunder. Sister two prays bedside whilst weeping. She prays for more tender hands to put her to bed. She whispers God I am incapable of freeing myself from these earthly fetters. Sister two asks how to identify that which cannot be purchased. Image three. Image four a field of perfect grass at ground level waving in an inviolate wind. Children trample past the eye. One child spies the girl in the accident. Her head is red. Sirens eclipse. Desire nothing.

At the intersection cars rest. Wrapped around each other. Operatic swell of time and emotion. The boy crawls down the block to get milk. Ask. Get. Got. The tears well in him like the compass needle pointing him north. Foreverly. He trusts the siren plings to orient him. He does not waver but for the gray van situated on the street outside his home. Wherein the belfry bats crimson and gray begin their whirl. Ants traipse the sidewalk in unkempt rows by the hundreds toward their slight definition of morality. Work. A blown elm leaf skims this seamless line of ants moving down into the ground to get out of the forthcoming rains.