Make a sign of the singing telephone the whining plane the oozing telegraph the miserable surrealist stuck in his nonfunctional parlor dreaming of Guadalajara. Was it parody?
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I don’t want to be involved—I’m on the plane with you, I’m in the air, I’m living in the braided strands of synapses and emotions in your body—this is oppression—this is not freedom oh Pandavas
april 16, 2007
Some sound of rain remains. Tremendous rain, hard going. No crickets yet. Peepers faint. Sky sound with plane. Birds are more fascinating than dogs.
If I could find my way to a simpler conception. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock. No table salt. No laughing pepper. No funny farm. No moldy vegetables. Rot in a garden. Where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current. Where do we see that? Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks far away at night and there you are, another person. We forget that all of these poets are also persons, one after the other, exhibiting bodily functions. Yes you are a wizard of language. Yes you may set a bonfire. Yes you can turn and turn and turn. No you are not a clergy person. No none of this should be bandied about. No you are not for sale. No you have no memory of the mountain of marzipan you saw in Italy.
I like to look at things. I really enjoy drives or train rides, even plane rides, because we can look at things, an unrolling scroll of new things passing before our eyes. Also—walking.