Give Me A Lever and A Place to Stand, Series I


When I thought of the Crystal Jaguar,
Wrench Boy withdrew to Black Box.
Violet took Melee by her curvature
and went looking for The Mole.
Across the surface of Black Lake
Big Noise seemed a great exaggeration.
Exploitation constitutes The Nation.
Build me a fence
and I'll ring your bell.
In the closet
vapidity and fullness
refuse complete saturation.
We all stood in awe of The Glob.
Hammerhead was asleep in his vault.
The African Rattle contains all our dreams.
The zoo is alive with a taxonomy of recalcitrant tongues.


The Mole made a big noise
that echoed through the vault.

Violet sat beside the fence
planting fresh violets.

Jaguars proliferated throughout The Nation.

Violet arose and stood listening
at the gate of the Vault. Violet
refused to be distracted
by so many avatars of Jaguar.
To her the sound of a bell,
black-box-like, brought hear-tell of everywhere.

The avatars of Jaguar studied the vapidity of The Nation.
Jaguar himself was in conclave with Wrench Boy.
It was the matter of considering what, if anything, to DO.

The Glob was still in The Closet.
Its saturation of Jaguar-space was Not Yet.
The sound of the bell to him
was not at all like Black Box.


Crystal, oblivious to The Nation,
sparkled as Jaguar's Diadem, one to an avatar.

Wrench Boy studied the crystal
stashed in a closet full of dreams.

African rattle refused
to assume the mind of Violet.

This was rather a matter for Black Lake.

Wrench Boy considered Black Lake a species of crystal.

In The Closet there was on exhibit a kind of Zoo.


Jaguar sought to saturate saturation.

Hammerhead was on the fence
and irritatingly put questions to Violet.

"Fullness is all, is it?"
Asked Hammerhead.

"It is, in any case,
not Saturation.
Glob is but a Big Noise.
If it is smothered in its closet,
you cannot hear The Bell.
I draw my violets
from a Black Box."


"Every tongue
has its closet.
Let not closet seem
an exaggeration merely."
Remarked Jaguar.

And a giant mole
ran between the cavernous gaps
between the toes of Hammerhead,
who, for the moment had bloated
to the scale of a small mountain
or a large hill.

Jaguar refused to consider this.


Melee took Violet by the hand
and brought her to a covey where a bell

"If you strike it
you wake up
the somnolent intelligence of Wrench Boy,"
Violet told her.


Melee was puzzled by Black Lake.
She gazed into its waters and saw no reflection
but only received an impression
of fathomless depth.

Hammerhead had accustomed himself
to something similar
regarding Black Box.

The Nation fluttered about Black Lake
like a huge ghost
and received no sensation whatever.

My tongue was wasted and tied in so many knots
by a kind of universal exploitation.

But Black Box would supply
a stash of fresh enigmas,
Hammerhead, nervous, inadvertent
systems of misdirection.

Ah, Black Box, you are Fullness itself,
but a tongue is like a fence.

Wrench Boy's tongue is a closet full of subjects
ripe for exploitation,
and yet he withholds
his exposition.

Some tongues articulate speech
as crystal prisms light.

If you deploy Black Box
to the point of saturation,
a little bell is struck:
you must refuse to commit such saturation.

The bell's tongue
is a fence
to interrupt Wrench Boy
and cause him to stutter.


A closet
with a glob
is like a zoo.

This zoo,
an exploit
of Black Box,
attempted to classify Wrench Boy.

Jaguar rang the bell,
and all the animals changed their spots
or stripes or miniscule skeletal properties
in a radical move to obviate taxonomy.
Then he shook the African Rattle,
and did not refuse
the assignment
to be a mole with a bell,
the bell--itself a kind of an exaggeration--
no big noise but  a spate
of obfuscating analogons:
a tongue to propagate a melee,
a glob to activate a tongue--
a fullness that might as well
be a vault;
Black Lake--saturated always.
And a mole to punctuate Vapidity.

There was a glob
oozing from the black crack in the box
as if . . . but I do not know what "as if". . .

I refuse to saturate Black Lake
with the sound of a bell.


We must create a fence about . . .
put a system of violets
around Black Lake . . .
prevent the exploitation of . . .
exploit the mind of Jaguar
with a strange bell
to inculcate The Dream.


Violet saw The Mole
come out of The Gray Glob.

Wrench Boy thought
to exploit his own name: "Wrench Boy."
What could it mean?
Eternal youthfulness?
Surely not this thing in his arms
made of tempered steel,
an ominous claw at each end of it!

To say that a zoo is a closed world
bounded by human ignorance
is no exaggeration.

Wrench Boy thought all this
as he too watched
the enigmatical Glob. "Wrench Boy,"
(he was addressing himself
by that strange name) :
"You wish to comprehend the gray vapidity
from which our closed Zoo World
seems to be taking form.
What is this place
we're all supposed to be
happening inside of?
Is it like a Nation?
Like a crystal?
Can we dissolve the Zoo with the sound of a Bell?
It surely  is but a cruel exaggeration
or other cognitive mischance
to think the Zoo
an enterprise of Jaguars
and eager little Wrench Boys!
And what if we refused to build
a system of railings and fences
to hold in all this animal vitality and fullness?--
refused to barricade beings
in the thoughtless taxonomies of zoos,
to elaborate a nation
out of heartless crystal?--"


Hammerhead lept the fence
to vanquish his own vapidity.

He was on what, without exaggeration,
one might call a "Quest"
to configure his own world
in the geometry of crystal.

Meanwhile Glob
for many nights
had dreamed he was a Zoo--
an entire nation of beasts
both tame and wild.
He slept in his closet
till the realm of his dreams
reached a kind of perfect saturation.


At that, and at just that moment, the Mole
trotted through the foyer
full of old coats and candles.

Melee gasped.

She herself had recently emerged
from her dream of a Black Lake.

She wondered:

"Can Saturation be a kind of fullness?
Yet one must, I think,
refuse such an hypothesis,
lest satiety put Old Hammerhead
in mind of his own Vapidity."


Wrench Boy remained circumspect,
as did the others,
but resolved to have no truck
with the attitude of Nations,
even ones apparently
inhabited only by Jaguars.


Melee started preaching
in all tongues at once,
but spontaneous fences
shot up out of the earth
and, as if to match this magic,
African rattles
sprang up like gnarly trees
from vacant lots.

It was no fake, this magic.

Black Box
could make a zoo
spring from the right choice of air.


"I remember the Big Noise,"
said Wrench Boy suddenly.
"It came at city dawn.
Enormous trucks
rumbled from their vaults,
spilling refuse,
forcing themselves
down their vapid courses,
smashing through fences
whose curious latches were fastened
by curious crystals.
A Giant Mole
sat in the cab
of every truck--a Giant Mole
at the helm of every Nation."

The memory was just too much for Wrench Boy.

He fell into a dream
of pointy pickets
fencing in
each discrete world.


Black Box
is the Mother
of Melee;
Saturation, the homeland of Crystal.
Exaggeration, the attitude and mindlore
by means of which Crystal
displaces the dream of Big  Noise.

I held my smooth green stone,
its crystal lattice
invisible; its metaphysic
set to satiate
everyone's fascination with crystal.

I kept my metaphysic
hidden in a closet
full of dreams.  My "quality"
was ripe for exploits with Jaguar.
He dreamed of crashing all fences,
as did I.

Big Noise needed no dream
for such an operation.
He spoke a tongue
whose crystalline fullness
fascinates the Nation
even today
in spite of its evident vapidity--
a fullness--a dream
exploited by certain
darkly tinted Jaguars . . .


Give me a Bell and a Hammer.
I shall not refuse to strike it
and strike through the Dream.

It will not terminate Big Noise
or confound our Melee's
fulsome vault of crystal.


Hammerhead sometimes dreams out of Black Box now--
Black Box and its phantasms of crystal,
its closet of puissant dreams;
its fullness; its license; its accessibility to Melee;
its Nations of Exploitation . . .


Give me a Mole with a Dream
but that it imagines Black Box
is Being merely
an opportunity to refuse
that very dream
and its magic closet,
its idea that Zoo and Big Noise
are creatures themselves
of a Dream Tongue
whose utterance skims across
the silent recipiency of Black Lake . . .


I want  to discuss all this with Wrench Boy.
He must improve his fascination with Crystal
until it becomes unsusceptible
to any exploitation
in any tongue--
even its own.

He must discover pure crystal
and the use of African Rattle
to startle The Nation.

He must attain an attitude toward The Glob
so that with Melee he might find
a place to stand
and open its fullness
to a margin of violets. 

5.   (fragments)

Wrench Boy Valorized the Margins.

He thought:

        A fist full of violets.

Big Noise.

Jaguar chops down African Rattle
and plants cowries
all around Black Lake.


In one hand a Bell
in the other a rather
diminutive African Rattle.


Differentiate dream exploits.


Hammerhead remained
asleep or awake
but inside his own head. 


Over the fence
lies fullness.


Crystal be my witness,
my tongue is a zoo.

5. (b) 

A Wrench in the shape of a small boy
swimming with violets
refused to mount his jaguar.

I don't know why,
but that he made so big a noise
that the jaguar
who was himself
toying with an African Rattle
sauntered away
until he came to a calm black lake.

Why black?

Because it attracted jaguars,
it would refuse to turn black
except for the jaguars.

Hanging from the low sky
was a bell
and a very very large
African Rattle.

Exaggeration has a loose tongue, I know.
But this African Rattle was so large
it might confuse a whole nation.

At least you could use it
beside Black Lake
to make yourself sit still and listen,
for inside the sound of the rattle
was a veritable zoo of living forms,
not only jaguars.

There is a demon of vapidity
and an Ifrit of Exploits
in a mother's magic closet.

In the absence of all vapidity,
the African Rattle becomes inaudible.

No it doesn't.

Even exaggeration
holds its tongue.


All the jaguars
congealed into a general
spotted glob.

The African Rattle retreated
to Wrench Boy's mind,
as Wrench Boy's mind
quietly turned into jaguars.


A small bell sounded.
The African Rattle
shattered vapidity.

A jaguar
leapt out
of the mind.


When saturation comes
there also is a bell.

At that time the jaguars
rebel, sick of exaggeration
                                  and its zoo-like
to the irrepressible productivity of Black Box.


Now there is only dream and its exploitation
and the deeply oriented meanderings of Hammerhead.

He, for example, whenever he came to a fence,
despaired of approaching a requisite spiritual fullness--
grew envious of jaguars,
searched for castles of old
and dusty closets,
as if his mind were really vapid
rather than just confused.

He longed for crystal clarity, truly,
not some woman named "Crystal";
but his spirit had no true tongue
to talk him through the zoos
                                            of attitude within him
that masked his own true fullness.

He did not need to ransack ancient closets in old castles
or in his own old mind. 

All this was the concern of Melee.


Fullness is no closet,
Vapidity only empty dream
and cannot bring one
in spite of its sometime veridical intimations,
to the lip of Black Lake.


An African Rattle is hanging from the sky
when the world is a zoo.


There is a Mole
in my mind.


Night Crystal.

Black Box.

Where does she go?
periodically diminishing.

Is it licit to furnish a tongue
to the Ifrits of Black Lake?

   (Tongue lash
           the Keeper's Vault . . .)

The mole's red tongue:

         fullness -- tongue-tied

deep in the earth
beneath the fence:

                   The Vault.

Grand orchestral
basso sonorities -- tubas and bassoons,
whole zoos
of nocturnal instrumentalities
articulate the subterranean vault-crypts.

The exploits
of impassive moles. 

           Vault dreams.

Put your tongue
back into its closet -- don't exaggerate.

A small bell
in a dusty closet.

A black vault stifles
a big noise. 


The Zoo in Winter.

An African Rattle
in the hard dirt
outside every cage. 

Beneath the beastly cabinets
grubs the tunneling mole.

A vault
with a sick bird.
Dream like clutter--
the secret of her tropical coloration.

A frozen Melee
chatters in the taxonomist's office.

The rattles will not quite shake.
Exaggeration, frozen,
saturated with a gross immobility.

Vault crypt,
caged jaguars, iron fences
lock up the fake savannah where the cheetahs shiver.

If only it were Black Box--
a dream of summer--Oh open the vault
that a big noise
might escape
like trapped gas
and galvanize the Nation
out of this hibernal vapidity--
all the great winds--the south, the west--
clapped up in a black box--
only Boreas
let out of his arctic closet
to screech with furious tongue.
The very idea of violets
among this white frigidity!
Vault of a world!
Crystal spicules pricking mammal flesh--
The vapid vault--
apotheosis of fenced-in  life.

I refuse.
But no, O Wrench Boy,
Black Box
               is not just some magic closet.
It is a tongue from the void--
the thing that springs and circumscribes
the very space of dream.
It fences glob;
it opens Closet,
gives Hammerhead the power
to exaggerate Exaggeration
and in the end to hammer his long way home.


Jaguar stuck his paw
through the cage bars
and grabbed Wrench Boy
by the left claw of his wrench.

"Get me out of this vapidity.
You know I don't belong in any zoo."
His friend WB was a "mole,"
the zoo his target,
vapidity the condition.
The Zoo was the form of The Nation.

Hammerhead tarried at Black Lake
stuck stupefied in a general dream called:
"Hammerhead's Exaggeration."

Melee took thought for Hammerhead.
She brought an African Rattle to the Zoo
and a broken bell
that made a big jangling noise and shattered the glass fence.

She brought the bell to Hammerhead,
who tarried at Black Lake, all frozen now,
and unstucked his dream.


Black Box had all the keys.
Hammerhead awoke with a start
and wondered what
had happened at Black Lake.
Here was Jaguar and Melee and Wrench Boy--
even Crystal
in the form of shining ice beings--
all together again.

Jaguar was overwhelmed with a sense of fullness
among his friends
without mediation
of any sort of Nation, and most of all--
Escape from The Zoo!

Black Lake would thaw quickly;
African Rattle's sonorities
bring to the friends
the whole world.

Crystal shined above the secret vault--
Big Noise--Big Joys--
sound to the point of satiety.


For now there was no question of
how long this bliss would last.
New Exploits!
Open Closets--forever!

Wrench Boy shook that rattle
and up popped violets--
a veritable melee of raucous coloration;

it even gave satiety, however immoderate,
a tongue.

Big noise will swamp the Nation,
abolish the Zoo and its vapidity--
the Zoo and its morphology--
another kind
of Nation.


The Zoo cannot refuse
its own exaggeration.

Melee and her Big Noise
are utterly charming to Wrench Boy.
Vault and Magic Closet--

but nobody considered the Glob.

Nobody was watching the Glob . . . 


No tongue wagged.

Crystal maintained her highest state.

The closet, though unlocked and unattended,
was nevertheless closed.

Dream-life level: normal throughout the compound.
Only Melee showed some perturbation in her dream activity.

No one was presently dreaming of Glob.

Violet, however, had a strange dream
about the closed door of a closet.
Suddenly the dream changed
and she found herself embroiled, indeed, in globular exploits.
The Mole seemed somehow all bunched up  inside him,
and the head of the African Rattle
had become a glob.
It sounded like there might have been a big noise,
but it was all snuffed out or bottled up,
and Violet was following the glob
as it rolled or oozed along
the cold bricks of a golden
                                    underground vault.
All at once she realized this was no dream,
for they had crossed a fence
and come quite close to the lip of Black Lake,
where the roots of the Nation
had been clipped
and there was no way
to re-cross the fence
unless The Glob give up The Mole
or completely become him.

Precisely which would occur
depended upon the sound of The African Rattle.


A Big Noise followed by a clear Bell,
and the exploitation would terminate entirely.
The Fence would vanish
just as if it had never been,
and the bell sound,
as it diminished to nothing,
would initiate new exploits of  Hammerhead
in relation now to the Glob.

Now fences go up in earnest.

Crystal floats in a globe above Black Lake,
and The Mole is released
to run through everyone's dream,
to threaten with or generously deliver
a mysterious sense of fullness.
But whose dream was it?


The Big Noise stopped.
Violets were growing all along
the path about Black Lake.

At the center of each violet
there gleamed a crystal.

Fences divided the land
suggesting to some
that an avidity for order
had come over most of the nation.


Hammerhead looked quizzically at Violet.

The Glob was gestating
in a subterranean vault.

and their crystal centers
had changed the sense of The Zoo,
so that Black Lake,
around which they had proliferated,
was somewhat integrated
as a special vernal part of it.

One went to Black Lake
to saturate a dream,
just as one might shake an African Rattle,
both to generate and to reduce
a sense of exaggeration.


A Bell made of crystal
hung from an empty sky.

There was no fence
around the dream of spring time.

Wrench Boy rung his bell
and up popped his syzygy.

Were such doublets
in evidence everywhere--
well then, we might have
our other kind of nation.


In spring time fences mark gardens.

Vapidity diminishes,

Jaguars leaping from Black Lakes
throughout The Nation.

Dark dreams
return to dark vaults.

Exploits, not to be refused.

There is a luminous memory
of celestial nations
banded across the stars--
fenceless, except to subdivide The Glob
and foster violets.


There is no final word.

"The whole world
cannot be a Zoo,"
said Jaguar.

"Consider the fence that surrounds us.
When I shake the African Rattle or plant violets,
the Rattle sound expands to saturation and
I do not find
Black Box inside
this place
where I am
That there is a rattle
proves that the source of the bell sound
that comes to us from afar
is not one of the sound strands
inside the complex African sonority.
Am I making sense?
Perhaps there is a slight exaggeration somewhere,
but I hope
soon to reach
the point of saturation.
Now consider the Mole.
Whether he is a rodent or an operative
in either case he boroughs  and assumes
there is a vault
below, not  in or of. He is not satisfied
to take his information from a night
of gazing at Black Lake,
and Black Box for him
might be what all of this
occurs, frankly, inside of. But
the saturation point? Come on.
You might as well
ask old daffy Hammerhead
or put your question to an African Rattle. Why not?
And The Nation is another thing.
There are of course both none and many of them,
material and celestial;
and for all the borders between them,
there are moles to cross them.
But enough about me.
I have been exploited by this Nation all too long
and to the point of saturation.
Call out that mole and tell him to open the vault."


A head kept trying
to come out of The Glob,
but the surface of its forward bulge
was a kind of fence.

"It's BURROW:  B-U-R-R-O-W,
not BOROUGH, the way you have it,"
laughed Exaggeration.

It was the first time
Exaggeration explicitly had found his voice.

"Now we're in for it," thought the Mole.

It was his head
that abutted the fence
from inside
the Zoo
inside the very tongue of Exploitation.


"Dreams are not all
chimed in Melee.

I myself am like that--
it's my nature."


Hammerhead thought:
"I must be making this up.
The level of logical slippage in
the discourse herewith
has become my way of life.
is not the only
principle of errancy here.
But perhaps I am confused."

He put down his hammer
and reached for the head
of the one that grew as his signal protuberance.
He couldn't budge it.


"The divine realm and the spiritual beings within it
are like crystals, not like circles.
Saturation is a process.
The world is not  a zoo
in one sense,
but in another, of course,
all things are, as it were,
bound by fences
that confine their natures,
unless Nature itself
is an exaggeration."

Who said that?


an answerable

"It is possible
the Glob
includes the world
and is herself
your universal Black Box
whose saturation
is the lever, as it were,
that produces it."

Hammerhead now was expounding
existence itself
to Wrench Boy:

"Consider, for example,
that Glob perpetually
gives birth to The Mole
and, as she does so, no
Vapidity encroaches
upon her Saturation."


is the antidote
to exploitation.

Keep your closet

Let African Rattle practice
exaggeration to
satiety as he may;
The Glob, I say,
is The World
in the mode of
Black Box.

And no amount of rattling can
prevent an
avalanche of Jaguar avatars
or some other melee
or Big Noise
from postulating and disassembling
whatever mental fences.

Jaguar is the Ifrit of Exaggeration.

The appearance of The World itself
is a maze--
its nature, inalienable fullness.

The Mole is like a mind
whose imprecations cannot be refused.

"Hear Hear,"
said The Rattle. 


No more ontologies.

Dream tongue.

A Bell

in a vault.

The Black Box, Vault-like, refuses
Wrench Boy's anxious inquiry. 

He put it to the Vault
that vaults
are just like fences
confining, for a time,
the Big Noise
that processes the refuse
of the world
for the sake of violets.

Hammerhead must have his say--
no sense to refuse him.

The Mole just stared at Wrench Boy
and refused to discuss his report.

The Glob, in fact, remained
gestating in his own vault,
not plotting yet
any sort of exploits, functional or material--
no need for Melee to correct him
or to panic
the prime exaggeration
that is The Nation.

Could it be
that intimate refusal
is the true cause of Violet?

Everything now
was a puzzle to Hammerhead. 

Nothing was real--
all up for the testing.

When a new idea or novel sensation
threatened to topple him,
his hammer got hot.


At the end of my tongue
a profusion of violets.


Do I truly want Black Lake
to drink down The Nation?


Let not Tongue be Big Noise,
but consider Vapidity.

It is the antidote to saturation--
that's one thing.

Another: Wrench Boy is at a loss, truly,
without the memory of his syzygy.

Only refusal of complexity and sententiousness
will dry up his inner glob of somnolence
and restore his intellect
to the state of cognitive crystal.


Exaggeration requires its antitype: Vapidity.

And fullness waxes after Vapid dreams--
to obviates Vapidity.


Can the broken bell
not be re-fused?

Must it ever sit in a closet
vaulted shut?

Either way, exaggeration.


Big noise--big deal.

Wasn't the vault
in the bank
where they kept
the Mind of Money?

Rattle retorted:

"Sure. I new that.
That was when the banks
creeped out The Nations--
no fault
of the vault."

The ten thousand avatars of Jaguar
exacerbate, extenuate, indeed
exaggerate The Nations,
but you cannot exaggerate
the scope of exploitation.

In the mean time if you want
to exacerbate exaggeration--

shut up the Zoo

in its own vault.


Wild herds of wildebeest
swept across the mind
of Hammerhead
in his camp beneath the porches
of the Old Hotel.

The Glob was a gourd
in the sky.

Night and Day
Summer and Winter
Hillside and Valley--

fast forward at random.

The Old Hotel is gone.

A desert in full moonlight.

A camp on an oasis.

Rainforest and betelnut now,
but how to pass from here
to somewhere more propitious,
more replete with temporal distractions,
satisfactions, necessities, and tasks.

Night and Day
Season after season
World after World

fast whatever, now.

[The "Now" is a term in a text.]

beneath a betelnut tree
in coolest contemplation.

Deed after deed

Thought after thought

Revertible process reverting--
the others? dissolve
according to the law
inherent to themselves.

An enormous hollow
encompassing and inevitable
simply present
at the bottom of the mind. 

There is a moon in it.


The Mole
as big as a World
encompassed by a Glob
as small as a betelnut.

Trucks in the morning
rumbling from their vaults.

What do moles do in winter
or when The Nations
into intimate, inherent

Return to the Globs
in their night vaults;
their closets and their stones.


I was out bowling
with my relatives.

The World had disappeared.

It isn't true that one must have a world
in order to have relatives.

I could make a list
of favorites
and their vital situations:

Jaguar--his avatars;
Melee--her wild red hair;
Violet--now she requires a world
                        to suffuse with special sweetness.
Crystal: Hallelujah! The World wants Her.

And of course my avatar,
in Wrench Boy and his syzygy.

We live in perpetual, transitory conclave
on the happy sofas and ottomans
of Red Lounge
in The Old Hotel.

Long River runs beneath us.

This is a possible summary,
not a unique one.

Conflagration impends and surrounds us.

Exaggeration minds the store.

We await some further system
to house our dreams.


Of course, no dream
wants a system.

Outside The Old Hotel
and its invertible chambers;

Outside the woods that, primordial, was all there was,
both source and encompassing World;

Outside Glob or Globe, encompassing that:

A bug hopped on ticking sticks.

It was the morning in a poem by Rimbaud.

All the creatures stretched and yawned in the dawnlight.

"Soon" is a term in a text.

Being wandered.


After the idea of textuality had subsided
and language itself had condensed
first to system and vocabulary,
then to transformation through a glob
and its inordinate homeomorphisms;
a garrison of narratives
with variable regulae
and regemina compelled
from infinite points of view.

These too
attained their lists.


Now the guides have taken us
passed the luminous grasslands
to canyons on the hinterlands of the "Chuan" culture.

We run up paths in our jeans
to ledge after ledge--
pebble roads and muddy gullies.

The paths swirl around inside each other, each choice
to further vistas and greater dangers.

Our jeans no longer suffice.

Only mind-shifts
to alternate situations
can save us now.

["Now" is a site in  a dream.]

Otherwise, terminal entrapments.

The guides are gone.

We pass from now to now without succession--
tunnel across
diverse worlds,
even to wake up in our beds and daytime dangers,

together or alone in The Manifest--

Process without End.


An African Rattle was the principle instrument
in the ceremony to reopen the Zoo.
It was the lever to leverage The Nation
applied by new-man Hammerhead
and his companion, Wrench Boy--Me.

Hammerhed had tasted Fullness
at Dawn
seen the Vision of Crystal
so Hammerhead was uniquely positioned
to renovate The Nation.

Black Lake
at the bottom
of The Mind
is the condition of Fullness.

Black Box
its manifest avatars in Glob.

Fullness, the dawnlight of Everywhere.
Melee, welded to Crystal.
Fullness to the point of saturation.

Hammerhead freed
from his own exaggeration
built Justice as a Garden of Violets.
Big Noise--pure sound's exaggeration--
itself an avatar of Fullness.

In the center
of the Garden
a Black Box
inside a clear containing Globe
that viewed the wrong way on
appeared as its inversion:

Contained containing; Container contained;
circle in a square in a circle in a square . . .
to exploit
Black Box
and the institution of The Zoo.

What if the Moles and their exploits
would have to be put to work?
Hammerhead was up to it Now.
He had Crystal in tow
and a closet for every Tongue.
The exploitation of Big Noise
and its tamed exaggeration:
It was the very essence of a zoo
to reach taxonomical saturation.


Rumbles under the porticoes.

Parapets of Ignorance.

Putrefaction even in dawnlight.

Hammerhead was circumspect
with the application of fences.
Hammerhead recognized
the liberative persepctive of Crystal.
He skryed into  a black globe, did Hammerhead.
He entertained a glob.
In his left hand
an  African Rattle.
In his brain
waxed the root
of his diadem of Crystal.
A violet on his breast plate.

He would manage the riff-raff, the refuse.


Black Lake at the bottom of everything
would not be terminally looked at.

Hammerhead went into The Vault
to secure further tools for exploitation.

He heard a big noise like a Black Knock.

Was Now
but a dream?
Was Fullness?
Had he misunderstood
the capacity of Glob?


Jaguar -- strangely absent from his serenity --
leapt out of Black Box
with a new species of violets,
the girlh, Violet, herself
embraced by a fore-paw.

Saturation itself exceeded.
Melee, embracing Fullness,
uprooting the salutary fences.


"I cannot fence in Fullness!
I hear The Bell!"
cried Hammerhead.

"My god, I am The Glob!"

Vapidity transversed by violets in Violet's heart.