My I Ching

Falling asleep with Finnegans Wake. Gave me hallucinations still cherish. Think about this book a lot. Like a fish, the tide and blotting paper. Aquatic with words, to see what undercurrent pings and plots like a sinking rock. I love this book. Where poetry upends with limerick, descends into every threshold of language at its poetic markers, among many.

Even mine such as it is shrouded in magical horror. Astonished at the elevation! What a relief and shock it was to first wander around in, like Alice for a chalice, for shimmering destinies that plait through his language. Mindfulness concocting particulate simmering connections, as his carpet beater silts and looms, through poetic slough’n trough (with highly hilly integrity).

And without having to let go at all of its density!

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