1 The whole world in a mule cart pulling up the hill. Beneath the hill—Who? Pulling the hill up from the roots of it. Pegs that strap the hill down onto the world— Hills' roots reaching to the soul of the hills' world. (Ugly old night, with raunchy smells and rotting smells—smells from the old garage and that damn car trunk stuffed with moldy rag smells— * The hill the mule cart trudges. The rank(s) of night beneath the passing worlds . . . * Hi. I'm fine. How Are you. How are you this evening. I'm just fine. Fine. Nice to see you. Nice to see you all. How the hell are you? Well? Well, well. This evening, well, I'm just fine. Just fine this evening. It's a fine evening. How are you. * How far Up the Mountain trudge the mule? Dawn break. Stop. Watch it Crawl from thatch of Self. All a blaze. I have a head of tiny grids and animals. With this I constrain the world. The solar entity strikes my capacity. One of me glistens in the dawn. * a Break in the work. Something stops or is stopped. Something broken. Something at last made whole. Take it up again in a new place. This text cannot consume itself. * Across the gap between the worlds— an angel above The Great Divide watches an animal of the field (running about down there in terrified disarray looking for its place, its mate, its business going about its business— * I am going about my business being me, not being somebody else—not being YOU for instance—if you are you then I am not you. I am "not-you." The Angel moves in a circle I am not witness of yet it circumambulates the life I write and is its hidden term and secret order ... * I'll be on my way. I'm going home. I'm getting out of here. I'm out of here. Get out of here. Don't talk to me. Don't you dare say that again. Say that again? You can say that again. Why don't you talk to me? Just disappear. When you are quiet and listening— that isn't gone enough. When I am quiet also— Moons and Palaces. * It is like a lake. At night. No birds. No mules. The Widow sits on her bench. Dogs think. * The mules are full of marbles. They labor up the hill and the green one's rattle. (Sounds of marbles rattling inside mules... Donkeys. Monkeys. Tired ones. Tired little monkeys sitting in their rows at the end of thinking * I am waiting to return from my journey up the mountain back from the tiny room in the small hotel where all my needs have been provided for Now I have to get back down the mountain to town to catch a train to go back home in another town. Disturbance in the information structure. And now I'm standing in the halls with too many packages— * Awake then sleep again . . . Again I'm up a mountain— disturbed. There is a woman more disturbed than I— She has not been "imitated" "intimated" "intimidated" "initiated" She has not assumed her place in line— She thinks there is going to be a process for getting down from here in an expeditious manner and therefore she is frantic lest she "miss the bus" * Dogs and strangers. Myself alone on a barge. Terrible weather. What to do? Go down in the engine palace—monkey with the gear works * Nothing is in the way of the soundings. The hard machines inside the wind. It doesn't have a "thing" in mind. No aim or outcome hankered-after afore-thought. It Moveth as it Listeth the tiny dory "lists" on the tumbling breakers— a wave pulse comes over it from somewhere other than it—it "lists" along the wave pulse * They assemble assembling the things each of us has to give them to use. Each thing we have is a "nerve" they touch an erotogenous location on the paradigm each has not contracted for. The being they have is of the being we bestow upon ourselves—“Don't Do it Don't Go for the Presidential residence the honor of the dead the moment of totality— I see one mounted on a basket with a calculator passing into a cloud above your damaged hideaway. You think him Real and Not Real no words you own compel his dissolution—He Stands in the Place of Yourself—the same locality and IS as you must be * As you are the terror of your own annihilation, is the Prince that Destroys. As you are the excess of your own release, He the monstrous Guardian rattling keys. * Be quiet in the posture of your ownmost passage out of determinate being * Falling asleep. A lake the rowboats we are riding in are, in the darkness, filling up with water. Mine keeps moving however, and I am puzzled at the logic that compels we must go on. Now the boat is passing inside chasms inside water roads in a mansion in a mountain— The passage is too narrow There is going to be a sharp Veer to the Left / and we do veer— Another passage. Deep through the innards of the inward mansion a boat or trolley carriage careening as it must towards further darkness I am struck by my own concentration down the blank career—Think "askance" at the Managers of this labyrinth—the beings through the bowels of whose domiciles willy-nilly all night I am coursing ... * That Which Is is the First Identity. It throws I out on a vanishing world. I sunders on nothingness . . . That nothingness now glows real— real with the many scintillations of that fracture. * Go away. Make the people BLINK so I can hear the thunder register disturbance in the weather capacity—I need a table and a tall drink... * Tiny mites die as we all fidget to eliminate the itches these mites unwittingly stimulate stuck in coiling hair ... a fish in the murky pond water attempted to eat my calves— I leaped and hollered— dogs punish people. They don't want to be trained or kept in pleasant quarters while their masters galavant— they don't want STUFF sprayed on their delicate forepaws : the dogs get mad and crazy leap-through-windows crazy bite the arms of gentle attenders, benevolence not what dogs want * doesn't want to eat animals wants to eat tomatoes infestations of anything Not Think Not let mind know anything of larval infestations * The world is walking a dog across the little lawn patch the dog people live in a cottage in front of the lawn patch and the world they have is walking the dog across this lawn into the general neighborhood * Everybody happy always never a blue moment never a tired time never a dream— keep the people smiling through terrible weather show them the shining rooftops show the blazing seas keep the cosmos winding keep it white keep the lawns pruned keep the dogs walked keep the dark world away * My hen might begin to bleep. My little frogs sit a long time on the mud bank then leap when some thought strikes them * You need to (dis)play the matrix out from which these speeches compel themselves the Bed of itches and compulsions beauty spots and zones of ancient valley pleasures which . . . * Primal Notes and blotches little prongs of nervous excitation threading strandwise through the thought flesh that . . . * The House of Space that worlds these elemental nodules the logic on page zero the topologies the algebras Then the ghoulish legislation that commends ... * A woods a matrix a wet morass a system of ducts and runnels houses far in mountains deep in night a banquet and a journey back or down from night stop on the way people attempting to exchange things they want to enter deeply into another State investigate the minds of others penetrate the place of selves and others' places trees and huts and the dangers of contagion: if you touch the living exudate of mud creatures deeply you lose your nature or acquire the mud of others you go out from your house in the day and all has changed * paths and little depots going for a long walk with no idea of why but some dull propulsion urging down among the bluetts * You are a little child. And it’s the feeling of a new place you have moved to: people are trees and wolves and huge tan Bagel coats exhibiting alien functions wide white arms that push people off the round green table arms that lift fat logs and finesse menacing gestures so you dwindle where you thought to be a major player and are hoisted up too high upon the table where, in all accuracy, you chose to be so small I didn't want to come here Mrs. Doughnut has a Bagel Coat everybody has one—Oh to have a Bagel Coat and BE * Too much Buzz in it. Too much "pop." Put that bat back in the bat rack buddy. Make this hat blow away. Go awake. Go away. Go awake. Go away. Play it like a pro. Go slow with it. Say it like a pro. Throw it here. Throw it out. Make doubt. The gap that rocks rocks—in that gap sparks and a special little hissing noise. Leaves in a net. * I am a large bird a whole bush a whistle I whistle and I sputter I cackle, warble, peep I sleep in a bush while I bite the stem of a thistle. Push the rock across the field Make the field yield. Then cross it. Cross it in flight. White Cross it in sleep. The line of bushes bordering the mayfield cropped like ruly heads in an ominous pattern. Green but inky black green. The light of the sky behind black bush lines crackling. * The door in a noise is as small as it has to be to be able to allow that which has to pass so to pass (Light crash through noise door) * The envelope opened. Closed noisy boxes dropping on linoleum sodden pudding suddenly similarly dropping on it. The Maid with the braid took note. This person held her words. Held her wooden box. That's the way the noise arose. The words the Maid held rattled in the box. She fixed her gaze. A stack of trays. * We were learning about weather mathematics. Everybody knows that now. The old shack shook in the formidable wind commotion. You could hear the tinny rattle of bronze oak leaves— you could feel the front of the wind on the front of the house. Loose, the glass in the windows made its sound. Whiney, singing, narrow tones mewled through board chinks. How the rain beat down. There was no town. Only these few shacks scattered on the plain exposed to the wind. Around the plain the giants formed a ring. Around the plain the giants gather. They're not supposed to know or like each other. Suspicious creatures alone in punchy minds. The general slander. But this is the truth of the giants: They form a ring. They hold a little box of polished pine. Something kept up close in there. Something in the dark the bearded mothers nurture. The wooden shacks rattle as they wager. They have a wager. Solemn giants, waiting on the plain. 2 The King's Ink draws the ancient lines: on this side those on that these and we remain on our side they on that side * Beyond the King An Imperator blanches as the world he organizes shines in its minute— And then That Man recovers as the world he ravages grows white cabbages * The worlds are not assuaged by the languages they rigorize. The King's mule pulls the cart. Punks and deadbeats weedle in the court yard. Beat the gong. An elephant is stalled, haltered, detained at a booth. The King's warts are emphasized by dots. Adulatory tunes brittle the room air. 3 Beginning somewhere is not nature hair grown on famous old bald mountain stone / time increases with advice / the people take too seriously / their actions are infected by the voices they distinguish the forest of noises is rife with little voices * birds in the atmosphere. A black one seers through the boughs. Mind consumes the sight and reads it ominous. (Ominous of what though?) A hole in mind's own act flies in black across a tree of space thrown out to catch the mind's OWN trees— * Stein, You Thought— What 's wrong with that? The balance catches. The man is swung in the night from his own rigorous necktie—"Oh yeah? In this culture people no longer WEAR neckties" rather they grow WARTs at certain THOUGHTs— (informations weedle through All Things and then some) their mastery of speech has grown so thorough—deviations in syntax from the INNATE NORMS induce spontaneous corrections called "Performance Pustules" * UP we raise our eyes and close our dry soul s' holes up with a sort of spiritual caulking compound drawn down from the thought of God— [the thought of an odd hat that sits on the heads' tops imparting SUPERVENIENCE to the partial thoughts therein—I want to rise Up Go Up shut UP sew UP my own predicament within the precincts cynctured just for them soar UP Close the holes Water the souls * wise. old wives alive crazed raises eyes' brows Up at that flip attitude bruted about about what gods do . . . choose or die. Words don't make it true a person's reasons each in its own little thatched thought hut collective breathes its own kind of li(v)es . . . (the genre of the Market marks it with a dry, conspicuous reality exempt from material properties save for those that mark it) Live alone with the open space released beneath immediate things of sense hence: Fence. Whose? The boss's? Lunch. In a pinch on a bench the wench winced when we wanted her to shove along so as we could sit down and discuss a little business. Give me the business, will you? A crime has been averted. The wiry man returns to his own lunch hunched with a leer on his lip and a queer glance proffered The woman finds a new bench. A life clenched in a closed hand an organ bound to abuse its own secretions free molecules bond licitly quick in the froth light in the gas (These phrases spotted in a space such that the genres of speech shift locally giving play to mind's abuse of brain matter brain's control of all the other organ lives who turned on the lights within the body cave? (and how to make sense of it 4 1957 the smooth, wooden (shiny wooden armrocker with strawberry patterns curled up on in against the fire with chemicals added to make it look blue and around the corner a lot of books on metal shelves with names the complete works * going to be myself for a change going to be as I am be who I was when first I thought about it I was confused for quite some time I put the question that had best be left unasked it turned out to be quite unnecessary to respond at all to the charges I had leveled against my own, what do you call it, nature? it wasn't nature it was just the way I am * I ruled out the property and opened the gulf lurking where all thought— unnecessary only the sun at the bottom of emptiness calling with a strange little voice not words but a quiet humming that grew into a wolf, actually as you tried to distinguish its contours while the mists rose as figures across the lake so still below * I saw woods where none had been where nobody would tell you woods is either they hadn't seen it themselves or they were hiding the fact that they too had fallen from the zeppelin and were as hungry as I or else they just didn't know anything about the business—had been so enclosed in their lives that the exit and entry problematic never arose for them it would be enough to black out sharply when the quickness terminated 5 The King does not believe it. He "hears" with his "Ears"—spies Eyes. Instruments and "moments" passing from the throne across the world and back to it with the speed of Holy Beasts according the Categories Kick the King in the Ass with his own exegesis "I can't see!" ... Don't conduct an argument but Sheep Dog the others down the field head for the Dome throw rocks against the walls remove one stone run sit watch watch it settle watch the stones of the edifice bestrew themselves return examine execute participate imagine imagine the King emerge from the empty throne majestic rubeous halcyon refulgent fragrant resonant judicious ugly loud an imp a twit a puck a waistral a vagabon a song do it for a song to make one to make amends for something for someone to bring one back from the dead to use a sign and keep quiet under it to be among its instances a bearer of its tokens to be its cart before its horse its noble rider prancing toward combat and later policy amiss predictably the combatants rise anew from the general field no good come of it ... 6 Nobody thinking this. The thought itself lifting itself out of the mind that thinks it -- off the page or digital apparatus the abstract code in the auguries of the possible in the unresolved ontology of its lodgings poised ensconced enthroned stashed in memory UP there -- IN there -- away anyway off somewhere where the indigent poetries gather themselves to offer a last assault— Do we seek a queer alliance with such poetries? with mysteries? hooded wizzards on the peaks of harried distances? hoodwinked by their inner prepossession? The Emerald Bauble in the Wizzard's Tower on which the Missives of Divinity visibly inscribe themselves and vanish on the instant they're perused? Up Top. It. The logic of zero commutes with the trick of Now . . . 7 I was asleep (probably) on the floor of my office in the middle of day it was supposed to be Monday we were driving across the Bronx River Parkway at Underhill Road and the car had a way of climbing hills even if you didn't put your foot down on the gas pedal and that's what it was doing as we approached Tuckahoe even though there was no hill and I kept asking are we going to my house and where is my house? I was certain you had to turn left in the middle of the village, drive along the railroad tracks towards Crestwood but I wasn't sure that sleep was where I was —for one thing I hadn't fall 'n asleep and then too I could feel my body lying on the carpet head cranked up on a purple pillow right hand making a V beneath my ear my mind all the while remaining anchored in my lower abdominal region the accumulated affects of an unpleasant interchange voluble still on my liver tissue * now that's better,” and I can bottom out make my energy smooth prepare to get into the car and drive in spite of carburetor anxieties across the Hudson bridge to TK's clinic 8 The primordial nature of language if it has one anyway a way to get things started I was lying in my crib it was dark I couldn't speak I couldn't go anywhere do anything but flail and exercise my finger muscles. There were already however certain things that were true: the corner of the crib at night was a responsible locality it gathered over the gaps separating its instances into definite place and any singular occurrence of its coming to mind betokened the whole * your crib they said yer berb her brib fur drub you are lying in the corner of the darkest palace when the lights go on it is ourselves that have caused this to befall you you cannot control the light you will grow into a house by your own reconnaissance at such time as that occurs—then the hazard belongs to you but now we incur the damages of your every contingency you are the edge of our world your activities perturbations in what we know of our own ministrations towards you * It was less luminous, less warm, much more like draining away— something is draining away— you have to stop it; You have to cause an arrival to come from below and staunch the passing of immaterial fluids from the image body— This is the technology of stillness: to summon an influx from the reservoir below to work the organ tissues till their contours loosen far into daylight and the reason for the compelling vision of the gross materielle no longer seem good reason— You can taste the dissolution of solidities beyond their grim topologies and the subject of existence itself drift towards the luminous. . . 9 some trip on a railroad cart up the mountain but "inside" up to misty vistas and dark declivities. I'm up top but now to get back down the cart slides down—no brakes! only a small switch and of course the power of gravity 'll outweigh that— Later. Angry. No one wants to hear my near death, near miss experience. I'm pissed. And throw in the sponge. And hit a friend right between the eyes. 10 dead light dark life The Mule on the Mountain against the sky. The sky inside the Mountain. The Elephant’s sky inside him. The Lion. No where to go. No challenges. His stalking is accomplished beforehand. .His rest contains his fire. * A cave, a hollow, a grotto, a platform, an altar. A station on the passage upward. The light flashes across the tabular surfaces, flashes off the sheen of rural roofs. In the grotto beneath the summer trees the beings pause. * Situation obtains but vanishes. You breathe. You know. You retain your mind between the intimate heart beats between the thoughts that, harsh, assume the mind. You stand aloof, alone, indomitable—but off somewhere. Can’t get to me. Get to me. Through to me. Can’t cut home. Can’t reduce this thing, this site of the last reduction— one’s own being cavorting with The Menace 11 What Justice Is (ii) how old is thought? (in the criminal degree— the thought that bucks the mind Angry. The mind is angry. undrinkable coffee. (well, then, hell don’t drink it.) Cripple people, hobbling through the parlor, old women in pink blouses, gathered ’bout the luncheon table—they compel the world with their brittle attitudes (You don’t believe me—but this old biddy OWNS half of Dutchess County and ’s got DIBS on the rest) shut up. Convinced? subdued. The other mind’s words grind your own mind down on its own words—Stay in the fray. Stay where you are. Find the final theme, the Ace proposition—that from which the other thoughts flow like bees from the fecund hive to chase the honey badger back from the honey trove, the wisdom culled in nodules of golden vision, clean in the heart— A thing should be praised for the way it is not because it generates something good in others— to do it is to love it to be it is to be the blessed thing (The holiday spirit, but solemn, bright, September— the noise of the horn, the people walking among yellowing leaves to the Holy Apparatus Shack there to cream the Cow at the summit of Being for all she has to clean the beings out with lucky juices the vow of ancient thought to think again Ancient people live again anew who crave the crystal cleaning pouring down through the cranial suture —enters the veins and covers the ground and cures the will— And lightning flashed and the meadows opened and there was a horse of bronze with many doors and a corpse therein that wore a ring (for chrissake can’t you remember how much of this stuff you just made up and how much you copped from Heroditus or whomever?) And if you turn the ring so the bezel points into the Lao Gong point in the palm (to calm the heart) you become . . . inevitable! (Invisible) inevitable! But The Just can become invisible and yet remain just. They Do What (They) Will at the heart of The Law, The Law convened to constrain the profligate estranged from the Just in nature (though Law’s secret ends, if not its ways, will be their own “Being just and seeming otherwise” "Being otherwise and seeming just” Must 12 The Dog put this in my head on the Eve of Nuts. Is a Text a place to stand? Will it stand? Will it stand in my head? Will my head stand land on a text? Will the Land Stand? The Grand stand and then men and women quietly gathered therein. Now they must choose. Who’d choose the rules by which those rules were chosen? The dog in your head. The dog put these words in my head. I heard dog words. I said I heard dogs words. I wend dogwards. * Must choose. At night amidst a torrent of the Possibles. Water coming out of a crack in a black stone. Only a trickle. But the water becomes UpStanding Men and Women that fight against things with noble fortitude and ominous footsteps. You sit alone in your house on a sunny monday and hear these loud stepped persons stand against the rock that made them persons. The land that stands against can't stand for long. Soon it is a rock a wall a tower aloft in the mist. Upstanding ones comprise the tower. They show the beacon of their nature and bespeak the dog whereof they have that nature. There is something on which to stand. A shout of joy a moment brief and oblivious when all the possibilities flood the light you get out of the rut or trap, take off your muddy trousers feel all new all over. Stop your thought in its tracks. Find the bright interior. Stand in the light of the blue dog.. Abort the text. * Wheels and deals and I have nothing to do with the thoughts I adjudicate. Let them rut in the dirt. Let thought rut in the dirt. Let it propagate its opposites, let it spew a spectrum of nuance a range of compossibles let it SMORGE all over the type face that oblivious to its nuance supports it with a dim aplomb a dumb neutrality. Well fuck you you type face. . . * I am going to peel my face from skull selected for me to have myself the inside and the out of. It comes right off. I pack it in my case. I take it home. And where do I live in this "home," this addressable domicile? Inside your mouth, you crotch heart. I dream within the spume beneath your tongue. You eat my words. * It is almost blue it is growing inside my forhead it rides bicycles but not loud bicycles it effaces the path by which it came to be here" comments the Dog * a man is standing on another one's forehead or perhaps it is not a man. It has hands and legs. And his left hand looks like it's just poured out a can of nails onto the earth but there is no can and no earth neither. Behind him there are drops coming out of an invisible source and falling evenly into a bird bath with a small hole. Drops appear where nothing is. The edge of shining worlds. Crack that wrench on your knee and hold that smile. Lick that bench on your tree and weld that pile. Clack that bunch on your beeper and scold that owl. Trick that lunch from your chopper and build that tool. Fick that kanch from your dipper and fild that mool. Snak tok gonch dom tor dacker ind fold ak dool. Crack lick clack trick fick snak wrench bench bunch lunch kranch gonch clack knee tree beeper chopper dipper dacker hold weld scold build fild fold smile pile owl tool mool dool ak 13 The large frog face has been here from the beginning. It sits on the spectacular mud oblivious to odor. fifteen minutes twenty minutes an hour not dead not sleeping not waiting a large bug passes 14 That bald tall leaning creature without a mouth attempts to impose his nature upon the other thin bald tall one. Both men have ears. * This other holds his ground. He is firm, stands tall, won't lean when leaned on won't take in the mouthless force * The hair grows from the rock and has no friends. Associates, possibly. Companions, companions at arms) length holding a black string. They all hold black strings. It might be a snake. A headless sliver profferred to the absent force to force it OUT -- and STAY out. Stay Out Blank Force. Or Rise In My Head 15 Over the masticating Ocean HALF HEAD hovers and throws its image down upon the seething water to wait for the water to smooth over and the re- duplication of its nature inverted to appear. * A carpet spreader named Pete and his three companions stand at the corners of the room and lift the rug. Pete gives the order in response to a huge video monitor he has to keep one eye up on as he works the dust from the surface of the carpet into the shadows on the air. * Now people can peep into brains and see the shadows of personal ideas creeping across the thought flesh. Behind the shadows Half Head Hovers. * If seventy percent of my time I actually feel like the man whose name I carry— that's the question I wanted to put sitting beside myself, in a public room among the other supplicants: Which what am I? I walk outside my body and into the surface of the expressions I see opposite to mine. Then shut up. And sink. Into the enigmas of my own locality. 16 The Vacuole the up arm turns the wrench and the down arm comes out of the bald man's beard he is back to back to a creature with a single sickle blade riding out of his skull one finger up to the sky tangled thoughts a mouse with a city in its seminal vesicle * there are bridges over turbulent water ways so the people that live in the holes across the bay may behold their smaller and tree-dwelling relations we are culling our ancestors as they ourselves cull —a single [unitary mother in a large tree giving birth to variety. There are geese and ducks and a few goats wandering in among the spinning wheels and items of wooden furniture at the end of the road after the turn in the hill where the muddy-coated mammoth goats graze in the purple light, you never see the proprietors * inexhaustible funding a yellow field of spectacular growths embellished on the menace * "people keep fooling around" standing in their own regard holding "positions" and large crepuscular beverages in goblets in their forepaws before the dawn clears * nothing you can say will drive the world crazy enough any more the existence of elephants as large an emirate whose legs are the pillars of the sky * the speed of light exists in the state of things and THERE no time is passing * little men address each other : good evening and how do you do here is my string there I see you too are holding string * ink blotch holograms and wiry snakes for hair if there is only one string between them there is only in essence one of them * dis- gusting. Alone composing the entire procedure the world will use but you are only a small person with thoughts on account coming out of your more civil orifices your needs happen to be our own so we make you into an oak tree and grow your roots in a field for all to wonder at all to wonder that you convene yourself in the form of an oak * the philosophes mumble ....sit in correct manner and bring attention to bear: an entire world (in a mule cart) connected to its parts and everywhere the independence of the plasma is thought by the managers to bless the enterprise while others of us rue this same connection and labor to convene a vacuole in the social cytoplasm 17 excuse me. little sphericals hang in the sky the tower is built of bricks a feather licks the crown off and the people topple. Or Are not these little spheres terrible holes— holes in the air to show another zone— terrible holes in the world so that another world you cannot know you know now hides there (? [ The woman is a star. Black crow in finger's trees. * Read it all. Find the thought that spots the little pictures in the mind. That opens doors beyond oblivion (what is beyond oblivion? The little dogs' tongues wag as the moon drops. The sun is as bleak as the snow. [ The word goblet. The little gobbler the cup gulps down the night juice It is logical the head's mouth gobbles down the tiny blue cup before you can down your draft the goblet has done it before you so you come later after the ancient cup [head that is] has downed the night juice * on the other side of the night the intimation in the form of the grandmother creature must be lies). beguile you with no more than the fact of it * come let's buy horses and ride them in houses till the windows pop out on the sky. That will express it ... *[ mind hungers for words a pond And over it things to be eliminated hang from an enigmatical lift apparatus * Frog Damage. They sit in the black mud forever, actually. The smaller dragonflies crossing each other over the black water * All the living animals in the night in side their sounds are projects of the dreams that grow about me I am all drunk down by surroundings black and rich I sleep and fall into the phases of a passing far within and hold the secret image inside my hands * When will the aged Rinpoches come out of their cars and hold me in my dream in a bubble of clarity against the murky substances the living categories that consume each other then all are gobbled down by the mouth that swallows all gobblers— (bliss of origin * Blue Light. Or LIKE blue. (Analogy in a zone without structure ... Our failure to understand is as peculiar to the history of each of us as our knowledge, wisdom, calm abiding insight into … * each particular item enlightened] freed from the world (returns to the zone of beings whose light it shines mind resolved in its ocean. * Sleep cycle stopt. Who just happened? World out like a puddle resolved in sun. Late at night or early before dawn. One bird in blank auditorium. One shadow line of willows against the wet light.