Money Has an Enemy: Ring 3

Money Has An Enemy 1.3 : Wrench Boy's Story

In my bank "infinity"
spells "infirmity."

I am Wrench Boy.

My uncle is Hammerhead.

Things are a bit precarious, tending toward melee.

I found a special crystal outside of town.

It wasn't just a handsome rock.

This crystal seemed to harbor
an infinite interior.

I showed it to my sister we call Wrench Girl.

She also saw Infinity.

We two, together
are both called Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl.

We have this song:

"I am just a little boy,
I am just a little girl,
and when our fingers touch,
it is not only we who disappear."

I better stop talking now.

Next stop: The Bank.

Here comes Hammerhead.


The light inside the crystal, if you watch it,
becomes The Old Hotel,
which shimmers like a crystal.

If  I don't stop talking
soon I'll see The Bellows.

All along the road are patches of violets.


We are limited in our vocabulary.
We don't have "aberration."
We don't know "infirmity."

When we work our wrench a certain way,
we meet the Jaguar.

It is he that calls us "Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl."

He introduces us to Violet.

She lives on a rock.


We like the number Zero.

Crystal! Crystal!

Shake your Rattle!

Initiate Transport, Crystal!

Or else we'll have to jump
into a Red Book.


Blow the bugle.

Put  a charge
in Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl.


Now Long River is running hard.
Transport makes us fly
a running course above it.
It makes a sound
just like an African Rattle.
Jaguar runs with us also.
I think it is his mind
that makes us Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl.


I am just a little boy.
I am just a little girl.
And when we make our fingers touch,
it is not only we who disappear.


Return to embryo.
That's the aberration.

A crack
in the rock--
a quivering light
through crystal.

High on the hill
The Old hotel--The Old Hotel
where Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl dwell.

A crystal tale
in a Red Book.


Now The Bellows shows.
Within and without Red Book.

No one knows where Crystal is
until all time
returns to a Black Box. 

I am just a little boy.
I am just a little girl.
And when we make our fingers touch. . .


In Deep Deep Storage
we sit transported,

"Aberration" is not yet
in our vocabulary.

I am Wrench Boy, Wrench Girl too.


is our Infinity.

no aberration.

no aberrancy.

Hello, Violet.

Where is Hammerhead?

No need for rain gear.

Hammerhead wields the tongs.

Money Has An Enemy 1.3B : A Note on Theory

They keep their secrets
tied up with The Bank.

is beset
with infirmities.

Complexity drives on to infinity.
Wrench-Boy Girl is instructed
but her drive for knowledge
is not sated.

Hammerhead insists on solutions
to the most abstruse equations
and thinks that without theory-proper
the mind reverts to melee.

Crystalline intelligence
can be considered from various perspectives.

Consider the analysis of rock.
It reduces to a rather dull and uninspiring
species of crystal.  

The theory of infinity
fascinates Wrench-Girl Boy.
Infinity overwhelms
Wrench-Boy Girl.

(Or is it the other way on?)

It has apparently
little to do with The Bank
and, to Hammerhead, is inconsequential.


Vocabulary is subject to aberration,
even for him who
is not subject to intellectual infirmity.

And yet the Jaguar
made himself known
to Wrench Boy

and Violet
on her rock.


It is not nothing
to contemplate Zero
and the recondite theory of crystal,
and to boogey all night
to the susurrant pulse
of an African Rattle,
or to combine all these
and compel the induction of Transport.

There is a dream,
attention fixed on crystal,
seemingly otherwise than theoretical.

There is the work
of writing in Red Book.


In the Dream--a bugle
and a small bronze African statue
of a boy or a girl
holding a large wrench.


Long River allows itself
to be provisionally abandoned to theory.

Theoretical transport remains theoretical only.

Theory people do not turn a deaf ear
to the sounds of an African Rattle.

We do not theorize Jaguar,
except, perhaps, in some cases,
and then rather disingenuously.

Wrench-Boy-Girl hesitates typically
but in the end with some reservations
is able to perform theoretically.


Violet offers up
an altogether singular instance.

She is in essence
oblivious to theory.

Contrast Melee. 

Though quixotic beyond determination,
she takes an active interest
in how one arrives at her condition.

Wrench Boy studies it all
including all that theory adumbrates
but never can encompass.

Infirmity seeks remedy,
and that includes of course
the subdolous deployment
of the theoretical.

Our entire discourse cannot make anything of tongs,
and this does not escape
the intelligence of Wrench Boy.


Experience: sudden transport
to The Old Hotel.
In one of its occult chambers
a Vision of Being in  Embryo.

Pervading the entire event
the lucidity of Crystal,
and yet not without intimation
of incipient conflagration.


When the thing is done,
have it again
in writing
in Red Book.

Wrench Girl presents this to Wrench Boy.

They are amazed to behold their own embryo.

They take an afternoon walk
in the shade along Long River
and talk about each other's
unqualified infirmity.

Infirmity for them
is still  a Black Box.


The mystery, in theory, is this:

Just one embryo
for Wrench Boy and for Wrench Girl.

This presents no difficulty for Crystal.


Portent of Conflagration.

Portents and their inversions:

a subject for Red Book.

But Wrench Boy aka Wrench Girl
still must  integrate their embryo.


A task along Long River:

It runs straight through
its own infirmity,
it brings infirmity
to life;

returns all manner of things
to One Black Box.


The Theory of Deep Storage
is theory indeed.

It places transport
in Proximity to Aberration
and arranges to resolve the matter
in ceremonial rain gear.

Infirmity follows its course.

Rx: Tincture of Violet.

Is theory in such a case
itself aberration?

A crack in the Measure:

The Vision of Bellows.

Money Has An Enemy 2.3 : Theory Master Jaguar

If Jaguar were
Supreme Theorist,
infinity would be
his bailiwick
and that fact alone
would allow him to exceed
The Bank.

Consider him then, to begin,
Supreme Theorist In Embryo.

But take along rain gear.

African Rattle
were his most pertinent implement--
that and two sets of tongs,
one blue, the other

All this
most decorously
committed to Red Book.

Even the tongs.

Was The Bank
in a state of


All but metaphoric, fiduciary embryos
meant nothing to The Bank.

The proliferation of embryos--
the multiplications of lines
extending from points of time
was everything
to Master Theorist Jaguar.

The Master Theorist
had something better to do
than seek a Master Theory.

But just in case,
he also invented rain gear.

Supreme theorist that he was,
he required,
and indeed had access to,
an astonishingly rich ontology.

First, on the docket,
he had a free hand
with Deep Storage.

Besides the proliferation of embryos,
he knew, beyond the world,
the suck-swoosh-blow
capacity of supra-cosmic bellows.

They blew into apparency
any world whatsoever
and sucked it back again
according to logical convenience,
material contingency,
or some rule of cyclicity
otherwise unobservable.

He himself
wore on his brow
a diadem of crystal.

Thus he controlled
the whole continuum--
infinity within the gem,
infinity without

and with a cosmic attitude.

And all of this commuted
freely with Holy Zero.


Hammerhead had no root
in any embryo.

Deep Storage intrigued him,
but certainly not its infinity.


Every cosmic theory
keeps an eye on Melee.

Strictly speaking
Bank does not have a theory.

soon, as it were, were
theory out of school
and smiled at Melee.

Such thought as Bank commands
quickly manages
every suspicion of Melee
except its own.

It thinks itself a rock
and counts on rain gear.


The Old Hotel
takes variable place
in our ontologic heterarchy:

violets in every window;
Melee rule The Lounge;
Long River That Flows Both Ways
disgorged from the magic mouths
below its porches.

Magic of Zero

Magic of Black Box

A closet equipped
with ceremonial rain gear. 


You may have judged it
from the vocabulary exacted here.

I am Jaguar
and work the tongs
despite my predilection
for theoretical elaboration.

The theory the Bank has,
my tongs scratched up
with a view towards ultimate,
or rather, intra-epochal

I am by no means
fixated on my own embryo,
though I do work matters out
in my red book.


Aberration is ineliminable from theory,
and The Necessary Bellows blows and sucks
and Conflagration lurks
in every embryo
waiting to be fanned
by some contingent bellows.


There is, of course,
a general theory of Embryo
that allows it the Door for Transport,
because in the concourse of existence
it is the gate, first station
passed Zero,
first inclination
toward ontological cloaking,
no ordinary rain gear.

Vocabulary seems
curled up inside--
a principled aggregation
that nevertheless tends toward Melee
and cannot quite be reconciled with Bellows.

But do know this:

Actual Infinity
springs from Vocabulary,
yet the latter is nothing
if not but

When I need a break
I prowl about,
leap into Red Book,
and sate myself
on a bed of violets.

I sink into Deep Storage.

Then once again in embryo
I am Jaguar.

The Master Supreme of the Theoretical
and not only in embryo.

Money Has An Enemy 3.3 : Under a Cloud and Into The Forge

Can Black Box
be under a cloud?

Consider The Bank.
It queers its own intelligence.

The principle officers
dismiss the jaguars
posted as its sentinels.

Black smoke bellows so broadly
that innocent entities from everywhere
blow a bugle of alarm.

Omens of conflagration
are reported over the plain . . .

Hammerhead makes crackling noises
that project grim glee.

Deep Storage recoils
within its darkest chamber.

Hammerhead replaces Jaguar.

How long till Bellows
sucks back black smoke?

Can Jaguar climb The Mount
and wield the unwieldy Bellows?

Is there a chance
for supra-cosmic badinage?

What goes on in Black Box now
that Being itself
is under a cloud?

We tune the bugle.


The tongs, not magic blue,
are strong
and made of rusted iron
and difficult to operate.

Hammerhead has his hands on them
but is not happy. He watches as

Long River of molten iron
spits forth fake African Rattles.

Jaguar, his force and intelligence,
has small business here.


Hammerhead, under a fiery red cloud,
wants to devour Wrench Boy.

He thinks that this small creature
is a magical being
and might somehow enhance his iron bellows.

Invincible tiny black earth things
work in the forge. 


Long River of molten iron
requires a mighty bellows--
a bellows with resonant access
to supra-cosmic force
approaching the infinite.

Transport of this sort
is the soul of conflagration.

The forge and factory fabricate
a hefty quota of hammerheads
according to production formulae
dictated by Red Book.

No infirmity in the workers
will be tolerated.

The Bank is fully invested
in Red Book's calculations.

Grim Hammerhead devotes himself to the business
like a father working for his sons.

Tongs plink stones
in the hot stream
until the matter in them goes to zero,
and all the force recovered
is available to Hammerhead.

He wishes to force a crystal
as big as the world
free of all aberration
with iron tongs
and report it to The Bank
in exchange for credit.

For this he must devise
a deleterious vocabulary
eliminating every
jazzy superfluity.


Melee, eliminated beforehand
by Hammerhead's invention
of invertible rain gear:
rain gear that puts rain inside
and stifles Bugle.


Fortunately for all of us
Violet need not witness this.

She sits
on the bank
of a water river
that has no iron in it
with fair Crystal
far from Hammerhead
holding delicate
small blue tongs.

She sits on a rock.
There is no matter in it.

But Hammerhead thinks
he can use The Old Hotel
as a forge

and struggles not to hear
the distant music
of a well-tuned bugle. 

Money Has An Enemy 4.3 : Wherein Jaguar Speaks, and So Do The Officers
of The Bank

All things redeemed through Zero.

Jaguar at full-tilt,
theoretical and magisterial.

Black Box is Pure Being
not just a congeries of world-views.

Long River flows into itself, flows backwards, flows
both ways.

Vocabulary coagulates, dissolves,
covers everything.

Wrench Boy,
Wrench Girl,
wear invertible rain gear
in a ceremony
that concentrates
The Old Hotel--

ceremonial rain gear
fetched from Black Box
to cover the meager specificities of beings.

Long River flows forth all beings
in the fullness of themselves.

Zero reconciles theories
through thaumaturgical operations
with vocabularies.


"Theory ought not seem
timeless or rock-like,"

continues Jaguar.

"My tongs, my rain gear,
my temporary accommodations with Hammerhead,
the structural magic of Red Book--
even the querulous attitude toward aberration,
inverted rain gear's compensation for infirmity
should jibe
with historically trackable variations in vocabulary.

I wish I had space
to deal properly
with infinity,
but even for Red Book
it is a topic too theoretical.
A shame.

Consider Long River
when it flows
back into itself--
hardly an infirmity--
it is one way that a sense of things
might be without an end.

Red Book knows this very well. That it not
find patience to expound it
I consider an aberration.

And still, as Jaguar,
I have other uses for Red Book
and must keep accounts
for The Old Hotel."


African Rattle can speak for herself.

She anticipates, depicts, and conducts
ekpyrosis, that is, Conflagration.

At the very sound of it
Hammerhead hallucinates
Long River flowing
with ten-thousand hammer-heads.


Long River flows
with everything whatsoever,
exciting an enthusiasm for Melee.

The Bank, however, has a net
and extends it
as a narrow but knife-sharp deployment of vocabulary
over everything.

It is its method for exteriorizing infirmities
and enforcing the ontology of money:

"Feed them to a forest full of jaguars,"
says its officers,

"Let them wreak havoc
on The Old Hotel,
the hell with their feeble hopes
to provoke a conflagration.

We The Bank shall own The Old Hotel
and put straight its motley guests and ghoulish chambers.

We choose which embryos prosper,
which shall be aborted
to avoid such monstrosities
as Wrench Boy Females,
Jaguars with intellect
twixt beasts and bureaucrats.
That obstreperous feline
actually commandeered our red account book
and filled it up with so many aberrations and oddities
that we ourselves once howled for Conflagration.
But we ourselves are not an Old Hotel.

There's no such thing as Wrench Boy--

(girl   ((boy
                                         (((boy           girl ...."


Will Deep Storage speak?

It seems to us it already speaks through everything.

Violet speaks through her tinctures.

Conflagration is the end of speech,
yet its Transport, if speechless,
is nevertheless never deaf to Zero
or Deep Storage. 


Crystal rests beyond serenity
where all Long River's moods
flow passed Inversion
and Hammerhead himself is crystalline
and Bellows commutes with Bugle
and Wrench Boy and Wrench Girl cohere
to resolve infirmity,
and Jaguar dreams of speech
that is better than theoretical.

Money Has An Enemy 5.3 : Seven Lakes of Crystal

Can Aberration speak?

Ask Black Box.

Language sits at the lip
of Zero Lake.

Next step:
The Seven Lakes of Crystal.

America A Prophecy
of Transport
abuses her own embryo.

Native emblem: a bugle.

A matter of Stiff-necked denial
and exploits of Infirmity.

Bugle, then, O America
the potency of Zero,
court Asia,
support her promise of crystal.

Let Aberration bespeak
strange conductance
to stranger transport.


The human body would be an Old Hotel
made new as a Temple to the Infinite.

Secret bugle-calls
open the body's
seven secret lakes.

Varieties of zero--
varieties of Infirmity

fuss about the lakes.

Jaguar lurks
about Black Box,
senses its infinity.


lets spend a week
in The Old Hotel.


Hammerhead is expert
in hammering out

He set up a franchise
to package and distribute
an infinitely marketable access to Transport--
no matter what one's infirmity--
in a shop
in the lobby
of The Old Hotel--
nobody's body now.

The little bugle-tunes, a penny each.

Melee slowly rises
unsettling every lake, no secret now.


I don't feel so well.

Emergency rain gear
out of Black Box
plucked by tongs
and readied for transport.


Conflagration right about now
too steep a remedy.

Put the bugle back
on its emblematic nail.

Modulate to moderate
application of bellows.

The body's secret lacustrine harmonies
are wise to retreat to Deep Storage.

No bugle-call for that.

A fine business
that one's quest
for the infinite
had ought to be moderate. 


The Bank is cognizant
it isn't
the only trip in town.

It only wants to assert
its inalienable serviceability--

All other pleasures
must submit to its orders.

Deep Storage must limit its store,
Crystal glisten
for a fair price,
not grow too fond of her power
to buoy up Infirmity.

There is room for all
in some old hotel;
that is, until there isn't.


Money is no longer based on a rock.

How old is your embryo?

Better ask Wrench Boy.

The Old Hotel
has an eerie white glow--

the whole human body
one white crystal.


White Crystal's body
reflects the color of violets.

Jaguar's white eyes
flamed like crystals.

Infinite light
filled The Old hotel.

Six hundred pages
were bound in one red book.

It took that many to produce
the blast of a single bugle
and waken Wrench Boy
to his dream
of an amazing crystal

and that his body
was an old hotel
made new
by seven black crystalline pools
that absorbed
every last one
of one's being's infirmities.


His vocabulary  was expanding equivocally:
each item just like a crystal
whose structure
flashed the infinite
and settled at last in a lake
that was like Black Box.

Long River flowed backwards then
into Deep Storage

until Infirmity received
its own Infirmity.

Money Has An Enemy 6.3: The Will To Count

Melee surrounds and pervades.

Zero encloses and reduces.

Aberration corrects.

Tongs chooses.

I choose violets.

Bellows disposes.

Vocabulary will not be dispensed with.

The context and content
of an infinite universe
contest with Vocabulary
for the proper use of Aberration.

If you develop the deployment of tongs,
Aberration is an asset.

Melee a scattering of violets.


Deep Storage stores entities
without prejudice of size,
from punctiform mentalities
to rain gear that covers the heavens,
the entire reference set for Vocabulary.

Just blow the bugle
and all space fills
The Old Hotel

with the sound of an African Rattle;
each seed as it crashes
into the wall of its pod
stimulates Vocabulary.

But The Bank has erupted
with fiduciary instruments so abstracted,
it looses the possibility of Violet.


The infinite, in embryo.


Transport must abandon
its dependence upon tongs,
even quality blue ones.


The White Jaguar zooms
in a fiery ring
around The old Hotel--
all vocabulary a blur--
exciting African Rattle
to enter an embryo
at rest on a bed of violets.


This text is chock full of abstraction, I know it.
But not enough to specify Infinity
or pull from Black Box
sufficient vocabulary
to render number
an absolute ontology.

Put on rain gear for that.

Acquire an adequate tongs-set.


They'll need to write music for Bugle
and determine precisely
the tones and measures
of an African Rattle.

Even Vocabulary must submit to a count;
even the spectacle of the Sun
putting on rain gear;
even the scope and force of Conflagration.

The impulse of Bugle begins and ends with Zero.

They'll particularly put number to Rock.


Wrench-Boy Girl won't have truck with number.

Vocabulary attenuates too severely.

Long River runs on in oblivion.

They'll turn The Old Hotel
into an Institution
for excavating and constraining Vocabulary.

This is how the continent of Europe
became a bank.

First the abuse of Zero.

Next the suppression
of African Rattle.

Last, the invention of Hammerhead
in bliss with his hammers:
an icon of the Will To Count.


To achieve all this, however,
the function of zero must divide

from the character of crystal. 


Red Book takes it all in good stride.

The Bank comes after
the measure of everything counted.

Use of tongs for that.

Aberration itself
brought under a measure,

and there is no rain gear to stop it.

We all awaited the games
to see if they might determine
a privileged access to Bellows.

Money Has An Enemy 7.3:  No Ideas, but in . . .

"Our impression is that Cosmology today,"
the lecturer continued,
"is in as much disarray
as it would have been
if an African Rattle rattled numbers
instead of seeds
in its rattling pods
and nature's constants
were some aberration
determined in the sound of it
read out as random calculation."

The lecturer might as well have been Hammerhead.
His mind was like a rock.

"So much water has flowed down Long River
since coherence ruled our intelligence,"
he began again
in a sort of intellectual transport  -- dot dot dot . . .

In another chamber:

"The bank is hoarding the money.
It is not possible to transport property
anywhere within the system.
We're only days away from fiduciary melee.
Hammerhead has taken control,
but no one can say what he'll do once melee comes.

Hammerhead himself may play things out
quite as if he were shaking an African Rattle,
while representing himself
as a staunch proponent
of the rocklike and the stable."


The Bank itself
is on the brink.

Aberration, Infirmity, Melee.

Time for Rain Gear.


"The Cosmos is a Black Box--
anything but a transparently ordered 'cosmos'.
And yet the infirmity is ours.
The line between such mythology
as that a cosmic Bellows
organizes history
and the hope that we can quantify existence
without acknowledging a theory of Infinity--
might serve the interests of Hammerhead
but it does not satisfy ME."

Said I; speaking
to a half-attentive multitude,
randomly gathered
in the Red Lounge.

"Intellectual exhaustion
enriches Deep Storage.

Each mythologem induces
its own sort of transport,
but keep your eye on Infinity.

Contrast the mythologem of Hammerhead
with that which articulates Jaguar.

The orders of abstraction
are not merely a matter of Vocabulary.

Shake an African Rattle at The Mind.

Respond to Melee.

Continue to contemplate
the Wrench-Boy-Girl-Boy syzygy."


Rain gear.
Say it! No ideas
but in the play of Absurdity.

Hammerhead will not come to express
the absurdity of Hammerhead.

We relax a bit and allow
each of our twenty-seven characters
release through Zero.

But try to think through the Bank
the myth and theory of Infinity.

Aberration is serious Business,
and still the Jaguar prowls
within his own mythologem.

And the possibility of Transport affords
a daily moment of Crystal
that Hammerhead cannot find.


Violet affords sweet relief
from the reaches of these complexities.

Hammerhead reaches for her.

Jaguar is circumspect and reticent.
He does not seek relief from Aberration.


Hammerhead wants
to straighten
all these levels out
and write them up
in his Red Book.

He concedes,
after much frustration and denial,
that a proper theory of the infinite
might assist in this endeavor,
but will not configure as mythology
either Jaguar or himself.

He does not acknowledge
the category of Transport
even when it transports him.


In every room in The Old hotel
another lecture.

One of these works out
the History of Bellows.

Another has the title:
"Does Every Aberration Lead To Conflagration?"


Hammerhead is as likely to close down The Old Hotel
as he is to build one.


Infinity is Possibility.


Every occasion is an embryo
whose subsequent history
may occur entirely as Transport.

And Crystal is far more than a Moment,
far more than compensation for Infirmity.

Transport conducts us whither?
To her orders.
Jaguar knows this.


Blow the Bugle.

Don't whimper over Infirmity.

Apply the tongs.

For God's sake,  Apply The Tongs!

Money Has An Enemy 8.3 Enough About Rocks and Rain Gear

Conflagration. The city on wheels
into itself
and the flames
are not
to be voided.

Death of the gods.
Big Crunch.

In any case,
social Melee.

A magical ecstasy
with rattles out of Africa.

Ceremonial transformations:
uniforms, costumes, disguises.

Clothes makes the man.

Weather makes Rain Gear.

What goes on in Red Book
stays there. 

What's stays there
manipulates History.

Crystal exceeds crystallography
but still is only a symbol
of that which she portends.

Happiness in
and Happiness beyond

Jaguar panther p(y)uma wild-cat pimp car
haunts and prowls
maintains his human avatars.

Violet makes love in the rain
with her secret consort
to the distant rustle
of African Rattles
and under a delicious sort of Rain Gear.

An African Rattle
is a sound
inside the perfect silence
that prepares pure Being
for every sort of Rain Gear.

Cycles of Conflagration
recorded in the Book,
one of whose avatars
is a Red one.


We are trying
as is our wont
to take stock.

A question just like
"shall we transport Rain Gear up Long River?"

More frankly put:

"Shall we shake a Rattle out of Africa
or invest in iron Tongs
to manipulate History?"

Is "I" a variable
whose values range over these:

Zero, Infinity, Rain Gear, Jaguar, Bank?

I know I am Long River;
I know I've a passion for Melee;
I rise like a figure in music
from the incandescent rush
of an African Rattle.

This is not a question about "this person"
but about the variable function
that an  "I"


I can give rise to Infirmity,
respond to a tincture of Violet;
I--a Black Box
I--a sentiment
up Long River.

In fact when I respond
to a tincture of Violet,
I go into transport.

I am Wrench Boy-Girl
                                              boy           girl
                              boy . . .

I am set into relation
by my unisex Rain Gear.


The Old Hotel
has a hundred heads
stuck on the ends of long necks like flames
out a hundred windows.

Long River is being tongue-whipped by Wrench Girl.

She blows her Bugle with strange gusto
and exports an alien Vocabulary.

Violet has no idea what to make of it.

She runs to The Bank.


I think I am Aberration--
an artifice of Red Book.

There is no escape except to an excessive Infinity.

The death of one god is the death of all.

You, me, or any god. 

The expedient: Conflagration

or the blind girl with a fist full of Violets.


Rain Gear. Brain gear.

I got my foot
caught in Deep Storage.

I chunked out an old block of Vocabulary
but thoughtfully garbed it in Rain Gear
before chucking it all
as Jaguar fodder.

Jaguar retired to his haunt along Long River.

gave up on Infirmity.

It was no challenge for Rain Gear.


Enough about Rocks and Rain Gear.

I'm just about to jump
into a Black Box.

Will I turn out to be Melee?

You'll have to pump the Bellows
to retrieve me from Infinity.

When the gods get sick of their own Conflagration,
that's when they start to whine about Aberration.


Transport a whole box of Wrench Girls
with nose-gays of Violets
and a DVD with lessons in Vocabulary
to be fed to all fresh Embryos.

Transport Melee to Deep Storage.

Money Has An Enemy 9.3: Breaking The System

'Long about now, everyone wishes
to break out of the system.

Wrench Boy has an African Rattle
with which to initiate Conflagration.

He can blow The Bugle
and cause Deep Storage
to rupture so that Tongs,
picking Rocks
and gazing into Black Box,
can see that just those Rocks
have inside them
the very life of Conflagration,
so he too
Blows Bugle.

But Conflagration, essentially,
has already "broken out,"
so what is a Bugle to him?

Wrench Boy exchanges being
with his Wrench Girl consort.

They touch fingers
and rupture Deep Storage.


Is this wish
Infirmity, then?

Crystal in her most elevated avatar
and Jaguar in his
have no such wish.

The one may be the object of Tongs,
the other, at times, the subject of Infirmity.
But Tongs themselves are the very means by which
disruptions to the system
may be effectuated.

Crystal is the system itself, in one way,
but also always very far beyond, outside
in an ideal, conditionless condition,
and in perfect Transport.

Only in a lower avatar
is she--not she at all, really--
to be plucked by Tongs.


Long River
will flow where she wills
broken only by
contingency; that is,
by the placement of Rocks.

For Hammerhead
the very idea of the system,
its virtual identity with The Bank,
is so entirely like Rock,
that the probability of his envisioning its outside,
let alone his wanting to go there,
approaches Zero.


So what is this wish,
and who expresses it?

Certainly not Violet,
her indigo shadows--
utterly liberal proliferations--
know no systematic restriction,
even if one might argue
that that does not reduce the system to Zero.


African Rattle.
Her music when called upon.

It conjures through a kind of mantic propensity:
a lordly need for alterity.
What might not appear
within its white sound?
What indeed.

But then where are we?
Outside inside inside out.



Is this not the system itself? 

But with its blow-suck-swoosh
is there no room
to Bugle out alterity
and thereby usher in
transforming Conflagration?


exhausts the system
and then some.

Once we see this
within the white
quivering filaments of Crystal,
we know that Zero
rides her Jaguar
invisible through The Bank,
transmuting blank Rock to new Embryo.


Bugle plays the system
throughout the Old Hotel
till Tongs picks Rocks
and agitates The Bank.

Black Box is
graciously at the service of Great Jaguar:
his nature
is Black Box.


But perhaps
when Aberration
the anxious officers of The Bank
themselves grow whimsical
and set up little pyramids and Crystals
on tables in the vestibules
and write on special banknotes
ornamental symbols of Infinity.

Anxiety is its own Bugle.

Zero is no Crystal.

Flames of Conflagration
tickle the hams of Hammerhead.

Go get your Big Red Book,
O nervous officers;
advise the public Bugle
to keep the news at Zero.
Pretend that African Rattle
has rendered Vocabulary vicarious,
and that it is but a foolish Bugle
that blows its own Bugle
to instigate unprofitable Melee.


O Crystal,
when true Conflagration comes,
and all our Rain Gear
glistens like Crystal;
when true Conflagration comes, O Crystal,
you'll ride your Jaguar
across the cosmic system
out of Deep Storage.

Money Has An Enemy 10.3: The House of Dreams

Embryo turns in on itself
and what it finds deep inside
is no conflagration.

in deep deep slumber
uncovers the beginnings
of new vocabulary.

The Old Hotel
is a House of Dreams.

Hammerhead has no dreams.
He fosters only empty embryos.

Zero is a membrane
between deep embryos
and there where Wrench-Boy-Girl
activates vocabulary.

Every dream for Wrench-Boy


projects one item of vocabulary
into an Embryo
which gestates
in The Old Hotel.


To dream about rain gear
is to enter the weather.

Will nobody absorb my vocabulary?

The outer world can go to zero,
but I tell you,
the Black Box first thought itself up
on the already attenuated pages of Red Book.

But that means Black Box
was already controlled there,
while dream life (famously)
exacerbates vocabulary so wantonly,
that the only remedy
is the subtlest contemplation of zero.


The entire vocabulary
penetrates dream.

In dream,
first infirmity
relaxes; then it seems happy
that dream too has
a Red Book.


Violet's aroma
becomes atmospheric;

Aberration sets hairline fractures
running across each rock.

You have to look it up in your red book
to catch its quality.

And even then, at times,
its measure is Black Box.

If you opine that this is
an abuse of vocabulary,
your score is zero.


The mind of the  dreamer
is not only Melee.

Its jaguar can be indexed in Red Book.

Its Wrench-Boy--a jack-

Once his spring is sprung he uses tongs
to delicately pick out simples
from that black box that sprung him;
acknowledges aberration;
sets out along Long River
and sets up a Trickster Shop
in The Old Hotel.


There is no zero in the mind that's nothing only.

But like a bellows
that blows vocabulary
through vocabulary,
nothing's wave
an African Rattle
out of Deep Storage.

Vocabulary is capable of every Aberration--
all the way to Conflagration.


Dream's Infinity
enflames Red Book
and jerks around
with Bank's vocabulary.


I looked into my crystal;
suspended all vocabulary;
acknowledged aberration;
set out upon Long River;
and came to a place where zero's

bugle blasted
through sleep itself
and magic blue tongs
from the dark side of dream
faced in a direction
more absent than zero;
found a Black Box;
snapped three times
invoking the inverse
of Aberration:
all of existence
seemed one rock.


Give me those bellows.

I'll speed up the cycle
prescribed in Red Book,
from Zero through world to Black Box and back again.


My vocabulary did this to me.

A state of transport.

Money Has An Enemy 11.3: Across The Boulevard

Take the bellows, Wrench Boy.
Pump up an Embryo.
Enter High Transport.
Leave no infirmity
uncovered by Rain Gear.
Take from Deep storage
the antidote to every Aberration.
Evolve from Deep storage
The Embryo.
Transport Embryo.
Transport Bellows.
Restart Infirmity.


Jaguar, Hammerhead, and Wrench Boy
went on a retreat
up along Long River,
transporting themselves
in a high finicular carriage.
During their passage and the confab that followed,
conversation was as zero.

They all shut up Vocabulary.
Hammerhead asked nothing of Embryo.
The exceeding intelligence of Hammerhead
stayed fixed on a rock.

That which was to come of this confabulation
was to be and was
a Black Box.

Long River just kept on rolling.

Deep Storage rearranged its similars.

No one anticipated Melee.


The father of the boy across the boulevard
owns the Bank.

His sister wears her red hair
in a fashionable melee.

Not so easy to transport oneself
across the traffic of the boulevard.

Relationship thus
in embryo only.

In the vacant lot
a pile of rocks.

Stashed in the closet in the hall
all sorts of rain gear.

There is a small red box
and in it a statue of Wrench Boy and his wrench.

Mother quivers with infirmity.

In a nearby neighborhood,
they say there's an African Rattle.

In "science" in school we learned
the meaning of Black Box.

The president of the class is Hammerhead.

His uncle drives a jaguar.

In the fog at night we develop tactics of transport.

I cannot stop thinking about the girl
whose head is a melee.


Time is as a zero
stashed in Deep Storage.

Crystal rides above us,
a sweet lure for Transport.

We stashed Tongs in Deep Storage
and an old military bugle.

Nobody goes into the basement anymore.
It is a Black Box.

No one knows what
might be down there in Deep Storage.


Episodes of Melee.

A sudden explosion of violets
about the ancestral maple
in the front yard.

We sneak into the attic: deadly transport.

The attic of the garage
at the end of a ladder: another
sort of Transport.

The summer itself: a kind of conflagration.


Melee herself, a kind of Transport.
I brought her a fist full of violets.

In the little red box I possess even up till today,
the statue of Wrench Boy.


Myself, a life-long infirmity.

In the summer we stay in The Old Hotel.

The humid odor of its lounges:
another sort of Transport.

The contents of existence, conjured by memory;
another sort of melee.

Displace the mind of memory itself
to the mind of Wrench Boy.

Money Has An Enemy 12.3 : The Golden Dawn

Long haul, Long River,
where time is forever
in embryo. Now
the bellows blows
and the world appears
a field of violets
flashing at infinity.

Swoosh and suck:
World Night.

Bugle: Taps:
all across What Is.

Lights out
in The Old Hotel.

Bellows poised
twixt blow and suck.

Aromas of violets
spread along Long River.

Then nothing.

To Infinity.

Worldless world without end.


The ghostly structure of Existence:
World Night in The Old Hotel.

An infinitesimal, almost invisible crystal--
the crystal that a somnolent intellect
can feel in the absent world.


The cosmic jaguar prowls the absent world;
circumambulates existence in embryo,
listening for the slight susurration of an African Rattle--
pulsations attuned to invisible crystal.

All things, one rock.


The world is clothed in ceremonial rain gear.


When everything is empty,
the bellows is full.

Interior of Black Box.


We receive from Fed Ex
a package of new rain gear.

The Great Change has come.

Rain gear out of Deep Storage.

World Day dawning.

Dawn's One Crystal
glistens in the east
before bright dawn burst.

Violet yawns and marvels:
the world is nothing but sprouts of violets.


As for Hammerhead:
he didn't sleep well at all.

He stormed about in the dark and empty chambers
of The Old Hotel
trying to find his vocabulary.

Not even one syllabary.
Absolute Zero.

The Old Hotel slept soundly
dreaming of an African Rattle.


by Universal Night,
begins to scrounge around for fresh employment.

African Rattle
jiggles its seeds and listens
for signs and sounds of The World To Come.

The golden dawn lights up
the eastern windows of The Old Hotel.

Spiders and pebbles,
ragas and phonologies
spew from the Bellows' nozzle.

Cosmological hypotheses
reformulate themselves
in the face of the most recent
anomalous data
and vie for full-tilt
cosmogonic stature
replete with singularities
and normalized anomalies.


Zero unsays itself.

Does anybody have some rain gear?

Transcendental Crystal doesn't change.

But a few anomalous persons
in recycled rain gear
catch an innocent glimpse of her
through all this exuberant burgeoning.


It would be a good time
to start designing rain gear.

Aberrant species
rattle about
trying to find their niches.

Everything feels like
its analysis goes to infinity.


Deep Storage experiences
light from above
and--in its corridors, stacks, and cellars--
shadows form.

Ten thousand crystals
shimmer in nooks and niches.

Lights go on in The Old Hotel,
one room here, there another;
soon in the kitchens and lounges.

Someone opens to page roman numeral iii
in his own Red Book.

Cold tongs hang from iron hooks in the dawn light.

Thumps and rumblings
coming from basement three
must be stirrings in Deep Storage.

Such is The World In Embryo.

The Bank: Only ghosts of deposits
from accounts gone by.


The whole tableau
brings promise of Transport.

A colonnade of Giant Rattles,
spic and span,
at the front of the generous porches.

They start to shake and sound
laved by photons of Dawn Light.

Universal Ebullience in Embryo.

Long River just keeps on rolling
from the old cosmological epoch to the new one.

Infirmity obliterated by Universal Night
suffers ominous possibilities
as intra-cosmic darkness comes to its terminus.

The Old Hotel is the Form
for an instant only
of Universal Mind.

Only Wrench Boy knows this.

Money Has An Enemy 13.3: A My-Song To Crystal

O Crystal,
no bellows blows beyond you,
Long River shimmers beneath you,
though you are but a rock.
Bank has no access to your order.

a Universal Vocabulary.

For every infirmity,
shake an African Rattle.

Infirmity washes away,
down Long River's mighty streams.

Rocks do not block it:
Long River grows multitudinous
divided by mighty rocks.

But you, O Crystal, remain
where no division of language or bank can abuse you.


It would seem  that in your light
all things are, by being things, only aberrations.

Long River runs after the noise
of some flamboyant bugle.

But Zero unfascinates rock,
releases so rich a conflagration
that African Rattles
tall on their porches
make flame of Infirmity;
and the tongs of Zero's industry
causes Bellows to blow for you.

Deep Storage releases your light
that all beings shake their rattles
on The Old Hotel's
generous porches.


Aberration is celebration.

Tongs plucks gems
in black Aberration's despite.

Conflagration configures The Bank.


Must I go on in this manner?

It seems that I must.

Embryo seizes the bellows.

Conflagration would ravage Deep Storage.

Universal Vocabulary
travels its capacity
o'er rock and flame and high water,
as if all things ever bespoken
might be divined from the sounds
of an African Rattle.


I myself am thrashing about
in a Black Box.

It is my infirmity,
my perennial affinity with Melee,
though we are far from each other now . . .

my eponymous association with stone,
though I am no rock . . .

my abstract sympathy
with Distant Conflagration . . .

Must I go on in this manner?


I must but I won't.

I'll keep my own Red Box.


Give me that bugle. . .

. . . And with my other hand
I'll jiggle African Rattle
and call back Old Melee from afar,
and once again shout
"the hell with infirmity . . ."

go for a cruise down Long River
arm-in-arm with red-haired Melee.


May Violet be my side-track--
(put that up in there
a few lines back--
I'll do it with verse-writer tongs)

confession be my infirmity . . .


Stop short here.
Even backwards forever. Measure time
by so many lined-up rocks,
one to-be- or having-been
kicked off per instant
till Conflagration Come.

That guy, Bellows, can't control this.

It's raining. Lets take a room
in some Old Hotel
(too wet to sleep in a tent)
quivering with irrelevant history:
History--Long River.

What this story needs is Hammerhead.

No. What this story needs is Wrench Boy.

A jinx on all aberration.

I might just start talking in tongs.

Consciousness: poof! Set to Zero.

Poof! I stop kicking rocks.

Or you do.

Conflagration take a back seat?

Bebopadoowah. You Bugle.

Nothing ill can be uttered about Long River.

Transport impossible in rain gear.

Zeebopazowee, My Bugle.

Nothing derisive 'bout Long River.

What this world needs now is more jaguars.

Money Has An Enemy 14.3: Talking in Tongs

Tongs said:

"To use me as such
something has to be hot.
Cold tongs are nothing but impossibly gigantic--tweezers."

"Lets reinvent the universe,"
yawned Long River.

"I see why you're so bored, dear,"
said Crystal,
"It's already been done--In Red Book."

"They say animals don't talk,"
said Jaguar,
"But I talk,
and I've been dwelling for epochs
in a state of absolute transport."

"The universe isn't everything,"
opined Infinity.
"Can conflagration
at the start or the close
cover The Infinite?"

Crystal offered, "Red book
has the structure
of an N-dimensional crystal.
N is as big as you please.
Red Book knows all about Tongs and also Tweezers.
Its pages fly by
like jaguars."


All grew silent and listened.
They thought they heard the song
of a distant African Rattle:
an intricate white rustling
surrounded by zeros.

Red Book whispered,
"Everyone come here
and look in this Red Book."

It instantly took the shape
of a big bank ledger
with hundreds of columns and rows
and hundreds of Red Book ciphers.

"If you look too long at such pages,"
said Wrench Boy,
you'll think you see the seeds of Conflagration.
I know I do. "


Hammerhead was everywhere.
He could find at a glance
the exact course of Long River--
from Long River's sources--
fiduciary and geographical--
to where she would run off beyond horizon.
He could find the local cost
of every sort of rain gear.


Red Book is Black Box inverted--
its infinite contents, exposed.

There's one on the night table
in every room
of The Old Hotel.


The sound of the African Rattle was growing wider,
if not quite louder.

The bellows controlled its scope
and opened, at long last,
a somewhat juvenile debate about Infinity.

"I can pull a world full of violets
right out of Red Book's indices.

I have no need for everything.

When Conflagration comes
I fan it up,
then blow it out,
from Embryo through Melee,
to the embers of a spent Vocabulary.

The sounds of the African Rattle
are contoured to this pattern.

I am quite content with this Red Book."


Deep Storage was a large, morose person,
an unkempt person,
with peculiar wafting varieties
of odors and aromas
that emanated from the very center of his being
according to the operations of his attention
deep within.

He had no interest
in the information of Red Book.

If some smelled Infirmity,
others marveled at Infinity.

But all he had to do was
turn his attention that way,
and African  Rattle's ebullience
obliterated everyone's
obsession with Red Book.


Bugle intervened
to prevent a melee.

Aberration was furtively
insinuating itself everywhere.

Red Book looked about anxiously for Crystal.

Vocabulary closed ranks with Hammerhead,
securing the columns of Red Book.


Everyone was picking up rocks
or looking for big ones to sit on.

Red Book opened up to blank pages.

Only Wrench Boy saw this.

African Rattle shook louder.

Vocabulary grew broader
and from its novel entries
Aberration developed exculpatory ideologies.

Red Book became uncertain
about its commitment to Hammerhead.

Jaguar reinvented The World in the form of a jaguar. 

Money Has An Enemy 15.3: Hammerhead's Emprise

Hammerhead owns crystal mines
all across Africa and Asia.

He manufactures tongs
of all materials and sizes.

He has and keeps trade secrets.
He acquires and tends Deep Storage.
As far as the world is concerned,
he runs his business like a Black Box.

Code name for the entire operation: "Indigo and Violet."
Public face of his enterprise: The Federal Bank.

Not possible to integrate Wrench Boy
with this conspectus. 

Hammerhead's personal pair of tongs--
attached to his person at all times.

This instrument has an archetype in Deep Storage.
Tongs and all other manufactured articles
have such models there.

Deep Storage, however, far exceeds
the functions it performs for Hammerhead.

In this way, it too
is like Black Box.


Contrariwise, he runs the Bank
for himself alone,
in spite of its public office,
as if to mend infirmities.

Its mysteries expand and contract
according to the rhythms of a bellows.

But if African Rattle has anything to do with it,
providing random interventions,
disrupting cyclic patternings,
there is no genuine transport,
no cultivation of embryo
succeeded by sudden ecstasy.
Deep Storage withholds such ecstasy,
requiring Wrench Boy for that.


The deep industrial storage
Hammerhead makes use of
has no recourse to Infinity,
though the space available is unlimited.

There is, of course,
plans to industrialize embryos.
No need of Black Box for that.

There is an archetype for Crystal not found in mines.


The metaphysical complex
involving Long River as Deep Time,
Deep Storage as the Country of Archetypes,
and Rich Embryo as Being's inceptive fulguration
is dissonant
except as represented
reductively in Red Book.

You cannot manufacture Crystal
even if you can.

You cannot jump-start Embryo
even in a bottle in a lab.

Hammerhead ignores or denies this.


There may be an archetype for Vocabulary,
a lexicon of primitives,
a method for developing
speech from the susurrations
of an African Rattle.

This drives wily codger Hammerhead up a tree--
and not the kind from whose upper branches
one might contemplate Long River.


Infirmity seeks Crystal.

The Old Hotel is built on a rock,
beneath which Deep Storage
grows deeper still
with every moment's vital embryo.


Melee waits beyond
the major centers of enterprise
expecting transport
when Conflagration comes.

It comes to The Bank soon enough.

A line of workers
one hundred thousand long
toting huge boxes of rain gear.


Where such aberrancy abounds,
Crystal removes herself
and seeks a new embryo.

Bugle retires to Deep Storage.

Embryo makes inquiries
requesting protection by Wrench Boy.


Infinity has no need for a general strategy.

N-Dimensional Crystal and metaphysical zero
ransack Deep Storage
for material
by which to reinvigorate
a somewhat somnolent Wrench Boy.


Jaguar thinks about how to dump
Money into Deep Storage.

"But what if Thought is Money," worries Embryo.

"But what if Money is Me," worries Crystal.

Money Has An Enemy 16.3 : Professor Jaguar
and Sensei-san Infinity, 1

"It doesn't much matter
how many suits of rain gear
with tongs in your pockets
you carry as you study
Calabi-Yau geometries,
and wait anxiously for evidence of Higgs' boson,"

said Hammerhead.

"If you think that your body is an avatar of The Old Hotel,
your intellect strikes me as strictly Zero."

That's our rock-head speaking.

Contrariwise, professor Jaguar:

"The embryo of a jaguar
comprises infinitesimal entities
that might as well be hammerheads.
Each body is an Old Hotel
if it is a 'my-body.'
Hammerhead cannot intuit this.
The Old Hotel supplies
many things besides ceremonial rain gear,
though it furnishes also this.
Most cogently
it generates
an enormous quota of amulets
whose efficacious qualities look like zeros."

He paused.

"Now let me introduce
Sensei-san Infinity,"

Jaguar gasho-ed profoundly.

"There is no limit to the topics he bugles.
Therefore I give you--Infinity."

"Good evening, fellow figments.
I first must speak of The Bank.
I am being remunerated for discussion,
by a fist full of violets,
which, so far from seeming to me
an unjust remuneration,
induces me to take its zero
as topic to introduce
my own eponymous subject,
namely, Infinity.

What? No plaudits?
I expected conflagration.

"No matter.
What I must do to say what I must say
may seem a Long River
and inspire a conflagration
of quite another character!
I am happy with the supposition
that every my-body
is The Old Hotel
and propagates existences as merrily--
quite out of embryo--
as my associate, the Trickster, Wrench Boy."

"Excuse me, Sensei-San."

It was Crystal, a little bit vexed,
or perhaps the speaker was
a studious avatar of the same.
She was confused about bellows and tongs
and couldn't contain her earnestness of inquiry.

"I am Crystal.
My spirit is as fleet as a jaguar.
I have studied you repeatedly in Red Book
under the tutelage of Jaguar,
this professor here.
I am myself the spirit
that releases the Trickster in Wrench Boy.
My body is The Old Hotel.
In every moment I mother many embryos.
But Bellows and Tongs appear to intervene everywhere
and occlude our awareness of Infinity's ubiquity.
They render our vocabulary infirm
as if our words were merely plucked by tongs.
I honor your fist full of violets, dear Sensei-san,
but think that that Hammerhead
had better be dumped in Deep Storage--
no offense to the latter--
better that we all be be-sprinkled
with N-dimensional violets
than be blown about by the Great Cosmic Pattern of Bellows.
I'd rather smother my twinkling
in a grim gray suit of blear rain gear."

Before our Sensei found the moment to respond,
a red-haired filly
with an African rattle
filled up The Old Hotel
with her own phonogogical expostulation
and it felt like a grand aberration
was about to rattle apart
the lounge in The Old Hotel
if not the whole of it
and bring the entire confabulation
to terminal infirmity.
Her name, of course, was Melee.
She had popped
in the midst of
the more or less decorous proceedings
right out of Black Box . . .

But there seemed to be a certain
nervous anticipation of Transport
that, even the quiet
ministrations of Jaguar--
his adherence to procedures in Red Book--
could not prevent from heading towards Conflagration.

Jaguar instantly multiplied his avatars
and caused, behind the events,
a pumping of Bellows.

Money Has An Enemy 17.3: Sensei-san, 2 

Nobody noticed his secret manipulation,
but a bugle blasted
and Hammerhead distributed rain gear
and a sense of infirmity
pervaded the lounge--
Aberration was generally acknowledged.

The political climate shifted precipitately
towards obedience to the canons of order
listed in Red Book.
Black Box fell under
a certain interpretation
such that Bellows looked like it covered
sensibly enough
the mysterious operations
internal to Black Box--

They all were willing to don the distributed rain gear.

Infirmity's symptomatology vanished.

Rain gear did that.

Infirmity, transmuted, silenced the bugle;
though some in silence
considered the entire episode


Conditions were ripe
for assumption of sovereignty
by The Bank.

Hammerhead had positioned himself ideally
to take advantage of the latest conflagration,
Infirmity, his bailywick,

though deep below
Old River kept on rolling.

Infirmity would not silence Infinity forever.


Divided in spirit, the avatars of Jaguar
trended towards opposition.

Vocabulary itself fell under
a kind of random scramble.

Some items recurred to Black Box
and no one knew what they were saying.

Others were under the vicious, officious,
hammers and thumbs of The Bank.

Transport was possible
only covered by a desperate secrecy.

Jaguar regretted his concordat with Hammerhead.

Melee retired to the side lines.
Her red hair colored the sundown. 


Sensei-san Infinity resumed.

"Case in point: Infirmity.
The pumping of Bellows, the plucking of Tongs
behind the Visible
manipulates history
quite generally.

The appearance of Infirmity
unmans the willing.

Long River keeps on rolling.

It is a capital mistake
to interpret Black Box.

We must take every fresh moment
as Embryo.

Have patience with Infirmity, not dispute or transmute it."


Crystal stood up in the lounge
and blew a kiss toward Wrench Boy.

He smiled and sat down on a rock.

Life was alive in embryo.

Dissolve Infirmity.


The my-body
is The Old Hotel.

Hammerhead will not intuit this.

You can see Long River directly
and also reflected
in the picture windows
engulfing the lounge.

In every window
a raceme of violets,
their colors in water and window
multiply reflected.
The my-body inflected
with picture windows
opens onto Black Box
and its inner worlds of Deep Storage.

In every cubicle and chamber
an avatar of Wrench Boy.

Being itself uninterpreted
except as Black Box.

Long River keeps on rolling.

Deep in my body
a chorus of African Rattles,

susurration waxing,

interpreted as Melee or received
as N-dimensional Zeros.

Life itself, its own infirmity.

Its course of unfoldment
follows Long River.

Hammerhead will not intuit this.

Money Has An Enemy 18.3: Sensei-san Speaks, 3

An enormous blackboard on which
Vocabulary--the complete lexicon--
from every language, actual and possible,
is given. This
in no way demurs from
a closet full of parti-colored rain gear and,
in an analogous fashion,
a functionally catatonic bugle blower,
namely myself
in the mode of Sensei-san,
also analogically,
moonlighting as an expert on Infinity.

All this under
the solicitous supervision
of red-haired Melee.

I put my intellect in Deep storage
and started to contemplate
large ceramic zeros
arranged in a curious pattern
on the lawn along  Long River.

Among the zeros--a bugle ten feet tall.


Sensei-san Infinity faced the blackboard,
blew the bugle, and continued:

"I have not yet
commenced with my subject.
We introduce requisite vocabulary.
First item:  Melee.

Everything I say
must be cleared by Black Box,
whether it pertain
to rapturous states of transport
or the modification of every item that appears
as in existence
by its intersection with large ceramic zeros in abstracto.

I once was hamstrung by jaguars.
Please don't broadcast that.

My eponymous theory in its outcome must effectuate
an inundation by violets,
so I have essential use of such beasts

for us


in this place,

(Black Box willing).

In the end we will all dance
in parti-colored rain gear
in the midst of inundation and what have you.

I can perhaps speak more transparently of Zero.

Zero resounds with Crystal
at every formal vertex.

No, I shan't be inhibited by the Bank.
That aspect of the matter
is being taken care of.

Much ink has been spilled
over the theory of the continuum,
but not regarding how it pertains to the proposition
absent throughout academe:
"In spite of everything,
Money Has An Enemy."

You'll not find this writ
in Red Book
unless in cipher.

I am not a bugle
whatever my infirmities.

Here's a dilemma for you:

Red Book is:

A. Money
B. Its Enemy
C. Your choice.

Here's another:

What is the difference
A Bugle
and a Red Book?

A Pair of Cosmic Bellows."


Solicitous Melee's hair caught fire.

She said:

"I am already talking, can't you tell?


Consult Black Box.

It is like an embryo.

Sudden explosion in The Mind:

Old Hotel appears
in a moment of transport.

Sensei-san Infinity continues:

"Is The Undifferentiated Continuum
like a Black Box?


Certainly if one is garbed
in the appropriate ceremonial rain gear.

Certainly if one quivers madly and happily
shaking an African Rattle under some tree.

But under a regime
manipulated by great iron tongs

or the tyranny of fully-maturated
industrial embryos?

Put it in Red Book.

In the agile hands and quick-silver intelligence of Wrench Boy,
Infinity runs all the way to absolute crystal.

Look at it this way:
There goes Long River!

Or rather:

Apply to every item of Vocabulary
the Zero Function: take it to Zero.

Every gaudy thralldom
that a verbal item offers
resolves to naught.

Happy bugle blow for that?
Call it liberation?
Chalk it up--somewhere--but
not in Red Book!

Where Hammerhead holds a problem,
every solution
looks like a nail.

Each word: thralldom in embryo.
Problem: transport it to Zero.
Not necessarily by means of a bellows.
Infinity's the function.
It guaranties solution.
No need for the bank.

Conflagration beggars resolution.

Deep Storage might provide some historical perspective,
but if enthralledness is acute
and the circumstances singular
neither this nor Red Book furthers.
Unless, that is, a jaguar
leaps out of Deep Storage.
He might look like some wild aberration
(I myself thought this)
but truly he is news from Infinity.
Similarly, Crystal ever abides
to animate thralldom so spiffily,
you'll never have recourse to rain gear."

Money Has An Enemy 19.3: All Power to The Grand Aberration

They transported me
on the sound of a bugle
to the Country of Vocabulary,
but my journey was aborted by the Bank.

Shake my African Rattle as well I could,
take out a room in The Old Hotel as I might,
the aberration in my crystal proved to be
an aberration in vocabulary
and the Bank had bought vocabulary;
therefore, the Bank held sovereignty over Transport--
no jurisdiction at all for African Rattle.


The situation itself, dammit, was an aberration.
It was, for instance,
actually forbidden to speak about Infinity, poor fellow.
That's why that queer old Sensei
seemed like some cracked salesman of laundry tongs.
What they call "Deep Storage" was a big bin
in the form of a black box
in which they tossed your belongings
after making you think it aberration
to possess any vocabulary at all!
And a doctor,
whose actual name was Tongs
(talk about aberration)
referred to Long River
as if Long River
was where they sent you,
belly up and sprouting violets,
once they'd stripped you bare
and you'd nothing left in the Bank.


Once I knew an embryo
who blew a bugle
with tunes so bracing and eremitical,
if life to her were but a Black Box,
you'd never know it;
if an  aberration,
she'd never show it.
But it truly was
Life Degree Zero:
the Bellows was full
and everything springing up violets.

In the mind of the jaundiced
it was an aberration.

The constabulary, one day,
came clopping in
on their fat mules
wielding tongs
and plopped her in the bin
as if she were raving and waving
African Rattles.


I stood upon a rock
proclaiming Vocabulary
just like she was a bugle.
Along came Wrench Boy at last.
He'd just invented Red Book
in which every aberration found its page,
Bellows a fresh vocabulary,
and Jaguar could leap from Deep Storage
to his savage heart's content.
He himself had a certain air about him
as if his very being were Black Box
and his bank were full of jaguars.


Suddenly Hammerhead
popped up solemnly
comporting himself as Keeper of The Bellows,
out of whose nozzle
emerged a flag with the slogan:

"You can bank on The Bank"

and then a steep hillside appeared
at the bottom of which
a rushing torrent
and a hand
came out of a bush
and started zapping violets
and plucking them moribund
one by one
with fiery tongs.


Sweet red-haired Melee now
came skipping along
on her short stubby legs
with a flag that said:

"All Power to Aberration."

She wore rain gear
the color of rain gear
that she'd fetched from Deep Storage,
and now she was working as Gadget Girl
extracting fresh vocabulary
each time she encountered Infirmity.


The brick bank
was proof
against Conflagration.

Long River
was brown
and grim.

Dr. Tongs
took a dim view
of all aberration
but his own.

His surgery
was a black
hat box
set up along Long River next to the Bank.

He had one primary object in his practice:
to make the whole world safe from jaguars.

Money Has An Enemy 20.3: Analysis of Transport

Violet to begin with
is in denial about Vocabulary.

To speak at all (for her)
is a species of Transport.

When she addresses Jaguar
he grins and concurs.

They both take Conflagration in stride.
What infirmity follows, what Melee--
let them that squeeze the tongs
trouble themselves about it.

Does Melee herself
share this attitude toward Transport?

When she speaks to Jaguar,
he grins sympathetically and growls.

"Transport," apparently,
requires a more perspicuous analysis.

Perhaps Jaguar and Violet
should peremptorily be taken
out of the investigation.

Await  Conflagration.


Bugling is a limited, if an articulate
species of discourse,
of little interest to Jaguar.

Hammerhead's philological comprehension
turns in another direction than Jaguar's,
and, as we are perfectly cognizant,
has no sympathy at all
with Violet's  "thimble-headed heresies."

Bugle himself admires his own limitations;
has chosen, from the beginning,
relevance and power,
even a kind of brilliance,
over comprehensiveness of reference
or any degree of subtlety.

Except at eventide, when,
as he poetically has it,
"God is Nigh."


Crystal brings all of being to her epiphanies,
even her moment-by-moment
unremarked-upon sparklings,
her events within vocabulary.

Her proximity in structure to,
and remoteness in spirit from
will one day come to a head
in some assembly room in The Old Hotel.


Rock does not speak (though Stone does)
while African Rattle is at ease
with whatever expressive capacities.


Aberration broke in and addressed me:

"I close my eyes and feel Long River heal me."


"Infinity laves me through her ancient waters.
I  am a rock that enhances her, dividing her.
The Old Hotel welcomes me
and fosters my feral form of Transport.
I am Infinity."


"Even I can speak,"
said Dr. Tongs.
"And not only about rain gear.
I move
long rivers.
I confound jaguars by hypnosis.
Jaguars and African Rattles,
but particularly jaguars."


Every analysis
divides by Zero.

How and why?

To amplify vocabularies.

This is a method of Transport
unknown to The Bank.

Vocabulary covers analysis
as it is stimulated by it
and obviates the reduction to Long River
of Transport's trivial availabilities.

No need for Black Box. 


Try this:

Violet's vocabulary
is a bellows to Jaguar.

If Aberration is a Rock,
Melee divides by Zero.

On some pages of Red Book,
that's an aberration.

On some it's Vocabulary.

Wrench Boy knows that.


In Deep Storage,
even Melee's an Embryo.

Money Has An Enemy 21.3: The Days of The Dead

This is The Day of The Dead.

History breaks in on The Rock of Time--that transport:

Violets are strewn on the path between existences.

Death's Black Box springs open.

Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl,  Basileus and Basilinna,
Prince of the Living and Queen of The Under-Chasm.

Infinity infects the settled course of existence
in celebratory, cacophonic ecstasy.

African Rattle springs loose out of Ancient Lybia.

All human being
sprung out of ancient Lybia.

Hammerhead, enthroned in the night,
invisible,  hidden,
shakes the biggest African Rattle yet,
intense though in a whisper.

An eerie incandescence about strewn violets.

Each soul possesses and is its own Black Box,
with one face sprung open in
an explosion of violets.

Black Box is the Zone of The Dead--
The Rock of Time exposed
in an eerie incandescence.

Wrench Boy faces off against



They celebrate solemnities
in a nocturnal exchange of vocabularies,
both garbed in the Rain Gear of Night,
crystal walls and shadows tinctured with violet.


The de Medici Bank Vault is transfigured.

Money itself: the ghost of material substance,
all actual exchanges between humans, ghosted,
flame of conflagration
flickering about
a transport of Violet,
herself enthroned on a Car.

Everywhere ever-louder,
the whistle of African Rattle.


Jaguar regales himself
in the rain gear of the underworld.

With a flex of his ornamental saber
he banishes each infirmity
embraces each aberration;
with a flex of his Rattle out of Africa
with a toss of incandescent violets--

Ceremonial Rain Gear
inscribed with the language of the rattles
out of Africa in ruins--

Dr. Tongs
talking in tongs.


Melee, her red hair on fire
laughs on top of a red box.

African Rattle
conjures the ghosts
that inhabit his loud sussuration.

Aberration,  personified,
flowing into
and flowing from
her black abbey in Deep Storage.


At every ceramic outpost on the lawn,
a shining clay bugle.

For every bugle, a crystal.

The interior of Black Box, exposed.

And what is revealed there?

Black Box. 

of incandescent violets.


Jaguar prowls about a Red Box.

A Black Box for every embryo.


The Old Hotel:
a ghost in every chamber
equipped with an African Rattle
with which to conjure The Living
in full crescendo.


The Bank, its vast doors flung open,
the house of the bankrupt now;
all the money
blown on the wind
in crystal fragments.


Rattles planted
in ceremonial lawn work
long out of Africa in ruins--

Uninhabited rain gear
dance in the lawn light.


For every two entities
an exchange of vocabulary, a bantering,
then a bartering of rain gear.

Transport the rule of the season.

Bellows a-pumping
to keep the spirits flowing.

All this allotted its pages in Red Book,
kept under the foot
of an invisible, invidious
avatar of Hammerhead.


Infinity proclaims itself and is
the possibility
of incandescent violets.

Long River sings
the Song of Infinity.

With Zero
the Infinite
knows a category of Transport
whose Art is as crystal.

Only on The Day Of The Dead
can Hammerhead,  invisible,
yet crowned in the open abyss,
be the one to impart this.  

Money Has An Enemy 22.3: The Nexus

"These people pay me no respect
for my handsome cover cloth,
my careful spine and  painfully crafted binding;
the costly tooth, rag content, ample poundage
of the paper for my pages . . .

And what nonsense
and puerile anxieties
they commit to these pages!

I am  Red Book,
as metaphysically consequential as Violet, certainly,
as stable as Rock,
as unattached and reliable a witness
as mind reset to zero;
as well-stocked with potential as any embryo.
I manage the Bank,  chronical conflagration.
I can very well be my own rain gear,
proof against conflagration.
And let me tell you about Rock . . ."

"Enough of this self-promotion,"

interrupted Zero.

"The Rock is the project of Zero.
This ruddy tome is no embryo."


Hammerhead laughed,:

"Metaphysically as consequential as Violet?
A dumpster full of violets, consequential indeed!
I am Hammerhead!
I own The Bank!"


Red Book withdrew in chagrin to practically zero.
In his heart he was Hammerhead.
Conflagration flamed all around us.
All longed to be delivered by Transport.
All but The Bank,
which gathered its portfolios of embryos
and wrapped them in asbestos rain gear.

Infinity put in:

"I myself have little use for such narratives.
Melee, Conflagration, deep storage . . .
It's all Deep Storage to me.
Whatever the finite measure,
I am my own embryo."

"It's high time I realized my system,"

thought Zero.

"It must be based on a rock
and able to proliferate violets,
minimize the function of Tongs,
give plenty of play to Jaguar,
and at last restrain The Bank.
Just give me time
to work out the code."


Transport was not particularly
concerned to have his say.

Like Violet,
he had no impulse to bugle.


Hammerhead grew impatient with this catalogue.

He said:

"Lets all have recourse to Black Box."

A questionable imprecation, coming from him.
The next thing we know
he'll be singing about violets.
However, to satisfy him
we'll bring forth  Deep Storage.
No doubt he'll hammer out
a pretty spring greeting card
framed with conventional violets.


The highest contemplation resonates Crystal
and emanates a tincture of violets.

Melee resolves to the random play of particulates
reassembled in a luminous array.

Conflagration rages.


The Rattle out of African in ruins
ruminates at the center of his music
different thoughts for different rhythmic textures,
                                                                different pulses.

"What I whisper washes the world,"

he willed with his breath.


Dr. Tongs cannot keep his own counsel
but interferes in other beings' businesses
by rearranging their elements. Even
Deep Storage
is not exempt from his arts.


Conflagration's wildest thoughts--
a form of self-conflagration
followed by the Bugel Sentinel's attempt
to put such thoughts to rest.

The fire between the worlds,
followed by a new world in embryo.


Zero thought:

"I'll work my practice in secret;
to penetrate Bellows with my null intent;

Zeros will subtly improve
the vacuous formulations of Red Book
bringing its every entity
to its own modality of Transport.
But what about Hammerhead?

We'll integrate a thousand aberrations,
know pretty well
how to put Violet to use,
as well as the laughter of Melee.
But Hammerhead?

Perhaps it will be like this:
A necessary modicum of harsh discipline!

Throughout,  I'll interfuse null thoughts
quietly with Violet.

But regarding all of this,
avoid that bloody Bugle!"


A shadow passed over The Nexus.

Zero continued:

"I'll subtlize possibilities of vocabulary,
eliminating the plucking function of tongs.

Infinity? Ground and consequence; fruits, methodology, result.

I'll have, of course, to work
on the zero that is myself.
Hammerhead will have nothing of that.

But in the end I'll transmute all Deep Storage
and strangely,
put a terminus
to the egregious tyranny of Embryo."


I cleared the Nexus.

Everything everyone thinks
passes along Long River.

Everything everyone rages
composes Conflagration.

For armor and defense,
there will always be Rain Gear.

For ambition, anxiety for safety,
and the means by which to colonize the future--
that's why we have The Bank.

Even Zero's plots and plans,
except in the exactions
of their actual execution,
are subject to cooptation
by many functions
including Rain Gear.

Infirmities proliferate at the ends of the epochs
just prior to Conflagration.

The Mighty Jaguar of the Furnaces
masters the iron tongs.

His conflagration inhabits a thousand bugles.


"Profoundly serviceable will be Wrench Boy,"

continues Zero.

"He and his doublet always know
when to blow the bugle
and when to make the world
sweat sweet with violets."

Money Has An Enemy 23.3

No more stories.

What comes out of Deep Storage
never ends.

Throws rocks at all protagonists.

Pour scouring acids
on all but the blank
pages of Red Book.

In every element
discover an aberration.

Bellows shall nevertheless
keep on pumping
when jaguars return to the hills.

Nevertheless, Wrench Boy

He has his own Red Book.

It is a pocket note thing
with a plastic cover
and a spiral binder.

I does not exist
yet I am Wrench Boy,
because I live
in a Red Book.

Wrench Boy thinks about N-dimensional structures.

"N" means "no"--No Dimension.

Red Book writes Itself.

Wrench Boy is astonished
and manipulates his attitude.

"This Red Book
is no recording device,"
Wrench Boy ponders.

Deep storage
hovers in an alcove.

Look out the windows on a stormy night
and imagine the Ancient Bellows
structuring history.


A bugle in rain gear
is as tuneless as a rock.

Vocabulary is irrelevant to Bank.

Today at least.

Tomorrow who knows but
some elemental aberration
might detonate a bugle.


I hope, O my students,
you'll not think Conflagration
when Hammerhead
                   sinks into Black Box
and The Old Hotel is abandoned
and our theorists think only
the Theory of Aberration. 


If Crystal were here
there'd be no treason in Vocabulary.

Aberrration is only on a word
in some Red Book.

Try if you like
to shake the African Rattle.

See if it summons that Jaguar.

If only Crystal would appear
above the Rock Inalienable
to transfigure Vocabulary
and ward off Impersonal Melee.

If only Zero would wash across this Rock
and release the quivering, over-bearing
presence of my own vocabulary . . .


Then what?

Certainly not Transport.
Not tonight.

Hammerhead is behind
all this somber, indifferent,
attitudinal distress.

The Bank
is watching
with a set of black tongs,
poised to judge Aberration
and take action
through exaction
of exaggerated vocabulary.

The Bank is sitting on Red Book
and is no Black Box. 

Infinity sits behind
every configuration
and has no need to counter-mind
the delusions of Hammerhead.

For Melee it is not Black Box but Aberration.

Aberrations flow away
like leaves down Long River.

Wrench Boy finds an African Rattle
and opens a fresh box of rain gear.

The Bank goes on permanent holiday.

Nothing is built on a rock.

Nothing is writ in Red Book.

Nothing is part of this story.

Conflagration consumes itself.

Old Hotel, you Dog-Bug!

Wrench Boy spends all day
in a factory of wrenches.

A thousand African Rattles
spill their seeds. 

Whose infirmity?

Violet herself--
a phrase
without a verb.

Dog-Bug, you live
under a rock.

Hammerhead on holiday
has no interest in "stories."

Where there are none.

Only a cache
of random vocabularies.


Embryo? Its own embryo.

Money Has An Enemy
wields its own Aberration.

only a cache
of blue rocks.

Money Has An Enemy: 24.3

My Body is an Old Hotel.

May it be made new
by methods culled
through Red Book's informations
or else consigned to Deep Storage
a veritable melee of biology.

O set it free to cruise
forever down Long River,
for life is a great Black Box,
existence forever in embryo.

The magic might be just
to scramble the head of Vocabulary,
each word, a fresh embryo,
to draw a new future
out of Deep Storage.

Mulch Melee.

Let Deep Storage be inverted,
Melee a harvest of energies,
make new my my-body,
this Old Hotel,
live long along Long River
whose waves flow both ways.


But somebody seemed to be telling me:

"Let Old Hotel burn down in the moonlight.

Stop counting embryos.

Shoot every aberration in the ectoplasm with blue zeros.

Ride a blue jaguar
across the raging plain.

Stop trying to induce conflagration."


"Hello, Wrench Boy.

What curious rain gear you're sporting!

Have you recently deployed it
to conduct a tour of transport
across the compartments of Deep Storage?

The people are so friendly at The Bank.

When you come in from the storm they say,

"Would you like to stash your rain gear
in our own Vocabulary?" 

If you're deaf,
they blow a bugle--no harm in that!

Wrench Boy tried
to make himself useful.

"I found that Red Book
was a catalogue of African Rattles.
You can get them cheap
some distance up Long River."

"Wrench Boy, Wrench Boy!
Don't you Red Book me!
The only Red Book I know
opens on Infinity."

"Wrench Boy was taken aback.

"Excuse me," he began quietly,
"My Red Book has pages of crystal.
The glue of its binding
has an aroma of violets;
and the rain gear its catalogue proffers
protects us all from feral jaguars
and every imaginable context of conflagration,
if protection is what you require.
As for infinity,
as you well know,
that is no infirmity,
but precisely the quality that
in the end
will find you your eternal
cruise along Long River."

"Good enough,"
I almost apologized,
"so long as I don't have to wield
hot iron tongs.
I am myself
searching for my own embryo
and have been at it so long
I sometimes am tempted
to make inquiry of Hammerhead;
and, by the way, may I ask,
how can I find red-haired Melee?"

"Stand on this rock,
and Melee will be here."

And he pulled from the space
in back of his wrench
a small Red Book
on the very first of whose pages
was an image of a small black rock;
and, as if the image itself
was the victim of some infirmity,
he made passes with the end of his wrench,
and the thing came off the page
and enlarged itself erratically
and dropped to the ground;
and when the operation was accomplished,
I stepped onto that black slab,
and there in front of me
was red-haired Melee.

"I've been here all along,"
she said,
"but I thought you didn't require
any more stories."

Money Has An Enemy 25.3

The lights went on in the Red Lounge.

Infirmity sank into the white divan.

She was thinking about Deep Storage
and whether The Old Hotel
was old enough.

African Rattle stood up in its canister.

Crystal commanded the whole decor.

Each piece
reduced to near zero.

Bellows lay at the brass fender
next to the fireplace.

The pleasant, domestic,
evening tranquility scene--
What transport!

When the fire seems to be failing,
apply the bellows.

The Old Hotel required no proprietor.

African Rattle was happy about that
in his quiet, proximate absence.

We all were quiet
and each was able to feel
how much in body and spirit
we were The Old Hotel.

Even African Rattle felt that.

Even Infirmity.

Even Crystal.


Infinity had one thought only,
and that included everything in Deep Storage.

The bugle, hung on its nail,
suppressed an impulse
to call attention to itself.

Dawn light spread through the lounge,
all beings in The Old Hotel, quietly luminescing.

Aberrations in decor--
the tarnish on the brass fender,
the crack in one of the pods
of the African Rattle--
made the red lounge seem to glow all the more.


The grand rock outside the picture window
was a picture of impassivity.

The bugle, resisting no longer,
uttered a long, low,
subtly modulated, bugle tone, pianissississimo
as if to indicate
by its proximity to silence,
the existence of Black Box.


The rattle, while still settled in its canister
felt the silence as
the settled state of the seeds inside its pods--
an emptiness replete with vocabulary.


"That's my department,"
thought Red Book,
breaking the general mental tranquility,
and Violet let her petals tremble
to a tremor passing on the mind-breeze.
The calmness itself had released a current of mentality
available to everyone,
for the waters on which it rippled were a pool
whose bottom reached the ever-living liquids of Deep Storage.


No light and hence no shadow
passed along Deep Storage corridors.

No work for tongs.

Weakness in that place, one with Black Box,
were no Infirmity.

Black Box--interior to its own secret.

No trace or hint of the labor of tongs.

An invisible lattice placed infinitesimal crystals
across an improbable surface,
but there was no light to ignite them.


In a rack
in a kitchen
where no kettle boils,
a pair of wooden salad tongs
dreams of its cousins, iron ones and diminutive,
the shadow archetype of them all,
hidden in Black Box.


Infirmity sat released in its own sadness,
in a Black Box of her own,
and on an incandescent panel there,
suddenly there hung
a set of blue tongs.


How to settle Conflagration:

1. Put a Black Box about it.

2. Fit out the whole world in asbestos rain gear.

3. Turn a bellows inside out.

4. Let the whole world revert
to The Old Hotel.


Be quiet, Hammerhead.

Your systems resolve to violets after all.

You will not believe this, of course,
until rattles out of Africa in ruins
cause your heart to drift to The Old Hotel
conducted by Wrench Boy
through corridors of zeros
at the end of which you acquire
a fresh embryo
out of Deep Storage
and develop into a marvelous species of crystal
unknown till now.


One embryo
in an infinite multiverse.

One bellows
beyond the worlds.

Wrench Boy stands still as a statue.

No business for The Bank.


Melee The Mother of The Multiverse,
bows to Jaguar, its progenitor,
zips up her satchel and allows
Deep Storage to stay still in its darkness.

Indigo attitudes defer to violet,
violet to the apparent absence
of visible photons. 


Long River runs without a sound.

Black Box abides in secret.

Red Book--Blank Book.

Transport between null depots.

Jaguar gets it.

He lets the bellows blow.

Aberrations break the symmetrical attitudes of Mysterium
as Bugle reports the dawn.

But the exhalations of the bellows
never disallows
the tincture of violet.

Money Has An Enemy 26.3

Sensei-san Infinity
resumed the podium
in the Red Assembly Hall
that manifested at breakfast time
in The Old Hotel.

He had a fetching infirmity
due to his personal presence
at a previous conflagration in his city
during which the entire population
saw thousands of blue and silver tongs
falling from the apex of the skydome
whose pure blue spherical geometry
exhibited a momentary aberration:
a crack through which a supra-cosmic rushing of Long River--
the flux was both water and fire--
seemed to surround the world.

The city was permeated for that moment
by an odor of violets;
and the rich susurration
of the running of Long River
seemed to carry
all other sounds.

Subsequently, an infirmity developed among the more sensitive--
a recurrent ineradicable memory of the conflagration
together with an overwhelming sense
of the infinite character of  that conflagration
and an equally ineradicable intuition
that this world is composed
of an indenumerably infinite
set of tiny tongs.


in his previous discussions
had not alluded to Long River in this manner.
It was as if his obsession
had repaired to Deep Storage.
But today he himself was resolved
to speak of conflagration,
confronting directly, if need be,
any expostulations
from an objecting Hammerhead.


"Welcome guests and tenants
of this Old Hotel.
The Gleat Berrows has blought us together again.
Today I will tly to speak
dilectly of Brack Box
and the mystelious confraglation
that one day overwhelmed my city.
We all returned in spilit
to mental emblyo
and expelienced a state
of tellifying transport."


The Red Lounge was packed.
Among those present was Violet,
a squadron of geometers
interested in Zeros;
and several officers of The Bank.
Arriving late was a boy with a ceremonial bugle
the bell of which was decked out with dark flags--
all to hear Sensei-san
speak of his conflagration
and see this famous survivor
whose being was like a rock.


Violet noticed that Sense-san
was hiding a little red book
in the palm of his left hand
and that he was able
by a sort of legerdemain
to bring it into view
for furtive glances.

she surmised,
and she stole a furtive glance
out the picture window
hoping to find Long River.


Sensei-san resumed amiably:

"I see we have our tlickster Wlench Boy-san
together with his syzygetical doublet.
I hope he won't make a tlick on me.
Particulaly because I am alleady
vely tlicky myself--ha ha ha.

This led book I keep hidden in my palm,
is reery a magic rlock. It controls
Memory itself and has its own agenda."

The officers squirmed noticeably.

"Fol instance.
It knows the vely thoughts of This Old Hotel
and commutes them to me."


"Infirmity!" shouted African Rattle
in the form of four short rattle blasts.

Nobody in the audience took note,
though the bank people crained their necks,
but Sensei said:

"Please do not think my words
show some debirity on my part.
This object comes from the Rong Liver
that sullounds the world
and was thlown there
in the middle of a meree
at the vely moment of
my city's consternation.'


Violet was amazed as he spoke
and exuded her scent quite markedly.

Sensei-san continued:

"Evlything is made
out of vely vely vely tiny tongs--
even infinitesimal clystals
are formed flom them.
These tongs are pluckers and choosers.
They make our smallest thoughts.
What they pruck and choose
results in Meree, Confragalation, or happy Tlansport.
And yet their activities evlywhere
seem like zelo."


Unseen by anyone,
far beyond the Red Lounge picture windows,
Long River glowed.

The officers of the bank had had enough
and made an obstreperous exit.


sang out Sensei-san.
"The tluth about Rong Liver!
My magic rlock is like that too!
Your sleepy Jaguar knows this.
Confraglation is its costume and its habitat.
hides in its pocket!
The Bank exists at all
only by supplessing it.
And what it reery is
is an indenumelable correction
of impossibry miniscule
blue and silver tongs."


Sensei-san gashoed and bowed deeply,
and the ceremonial rain gear on his shoulders
became the exact shade of red
with which the walls and furniture
of the assembly hall
happened to be decorated.


Long River was very happy
but just kept on rolling.

Violet manifested suddenly
in everybody's button hole.