Goal of expository nature is to get me in trough with the angels I like to say. Write in rain with certain authors Becks Burroughs — Rimbauds complicity with simplicity, not really Hemmingways. Naked Lunch Break cycles through the Incendiary with Zenus, and then stacks a list of liberatory contentionalisms at bottom to compel the insistance resistance. Its manic but hinged. It has flow thru.

But Sendy Wendy, as I call her, pees with Zelda out back of the boat. No use sending letter if it doesnt say anything darling, she gleams at me. Also, there is a blatant cluelessness to my teleological bravado. Too busy having drinks with Zelda and Zenus in the measuring room at the madhouse. Along with Lucia Joyce. Whom with we do bat eyes at the Beckett.

Base tho of face — rhymers, I never let go of rhymers. They give me time beat and something fundamentally unadulterated — way way diff from cultural and philo thinkers yet not incognizant — who like them I read too — but writing is fastened to airs.

Marm is all poetry in a way. It uses la lang through complete usurpation digestibles. Raids historicities, and kite flying — boards them, manipulating at what nests up against surface, lets the pig conspire with the wire. Its the most beautiful immanence — immanence is what they call it, in philosophy — the door just beyond the opening.

Of all the things in my life write now brings me the most horse, hexchange of archamedic spring things. Dates wells before alchemy.

Havent figured out how do any of that — out in front of myself, as comes so timely to them — thus and so, had to find another way in — directly through la lang. Which was always there, from the first in fact. But multiples exploded with impossible desire and a terror so deeply stuffed down my throat by sanctimonious moms killed me off every time.

Sublime views on religion — can destroy finding things, finding those things that give MEANS to the mind. Childhood was strangely all in black hood, I mean fucking all of it. Hysterical laughter, the dram lamb damned, and time chained to a never ending intensity of its own wretched disquietude, roving languid agog, ear to every death, only to get in and out of the chicken coop of my skin. Touching as an angel does every sin, in the inquietude of my cunt.  

I love gold fish who jump out of bowl to meet the wind. Writing cares deeply about it! Minds its every detail, poets who dig into song, are the most accessible, tho I also love exploratory theorists and narrative madhatters. That changchang with la lang bang. Love how Beckett chops up French, love how Joyce devours and excretes underground foistables — particles carefully minced and sliced, and sewn together at hypnotic intervals. Consider it a beachhead of my writing. Am completely devoted to its freedoms, its hex cesses, hexemptions, hextensions, and to some extent even pedagogy.

Its worth it, gives bees room to buzz — otherwise my sacred gest here gets stuck in the wailing wall. Oh mailboxes, how I need them. Just like Fitzgerald needed them. Trying to make the wall my friend??? But it crushes against skin and efforts get smothered by it, by the vastness and grandness of its burning lies. Walls fill me out with blasphemy of truth as welts up against bitterness of holy skin. Holy skin is bitter from lifes hardness and creates standards beyond the pale. Its that terror and bitter range of heavenly prophecy that lives in the wall and disdains and disdains. I want to take an adze to it, always have — and bash it in.

But no no no FALL IN. Grow prickly flowers instead? Feed the coyote and worm.

Hunger is a very old bribe from gods to awaken one to the solicitudes of death, and the values of rectitude? That everything we eat sacrifices itself to our hexistance is a very old beef indeed. Resurrection comes from the stomach first. As a concept — except then one lets it be highjacked, with spirit as food.  I didnt think of spirit hijacking as cannibalism of the heart, until beauty blazing as a dram for blood poured right out of me, and then dyna, so tricky with knives, sent it flying —

Once, for once in my life caught one back at me. Right in thuh kisser. Blew up my lips. First time ever made love to anybody in that way — as exchange of blood, ichor, fluxion, functional genomics. Changed the way began to think about everything. But unfortunately, all the way up and down the line, otherwise — the madhatters had already pitched tents lively. Eating my thwart and bitter wings for breakfast. Seems like all that was left, was limb and skin, after the madhatters bottled me in, like fire in water.

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