You strew signs that never met chance--

where they arose I was.

I have survived them, now they come

together before me.

You mark me all too well--but it is for me

to send word of my coming.

How it is favor comes with destruction, is

reserved for few.

Now that I have Apollo & Dionysius

wondering at their properties--the

wilderness secures this laurel wreath.

Amor fati, you left it where you knew I

would come upon it.

It was not an act of faith on your part,

what is thought to you that you should

act?

If I swear, it is to myself--that I can no

longer break what I am in you.

I felt when you knew I knew--it was all

up until then, that went away now.

Amor fati is all there is.

Every single Hemera, I roam in chapter

42, Ishmael's aghast perception of

Moby ****'s whiteness.

Having bartered with Ishmael, I threw

myself overboard--he is no longer afraid.

I, in memory of a white whale's belly--

ever & the same.

Ask for me & they will tell you, more has

me, leave it at more--mystery provides.

I've a hankering for white, they may say:

'What's wrong with that man, what's he

staring at?'

How white orients.

White is, if peace is pleased--which means

nothing can disturb it.

That can be too final for the unsettled.

I suspect there are many more Moby

***** to come, so be it.

I may find myself as Ishmael did,

watching another throw themself

overboard--that I might not be afraid,

so be it.

White is, if peace is pleased--that's what

that belly taught me.

The bellies will grow larger & larger--

in white, out of white.

Nothing but upturned eyes, given over &

glistening--never think a beast unnatural.

That's what allows for proportional

girth, when a Moby **** is spotted.

His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.

Bark wore & tore as rings got plastered--

while Trees were indignant.

Unable to get as much distance as they

pleased, they stood for it.

Root systems grow differently than

crowns--there are also lies under their

roofs.

Shade is not their relief, but their reality.

Winter shade is closer to the matter.

Which's but one of the spiritual tastes

they leave in my mouth, especially when

hunger feeds them all.

Welcome waits on disuasion, to gain

another opening.

Lifts this minor note to prominence--we

only think we're rewriting gospel truths.

--AND YOU (the nus) fell with plangent

perversity, pointed back at lastly!

Put out light out there, as Rembrandt did

in: "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp".

A half-buried face on an ocean floor--

predates the clumsy concealment

of horseshoe *****.

As if a canonized saint rolled out of

bed, the tide's last drop on his undecayed

tongue.

Perfectly pronounced: Tiktaalik, with the

authoritative oddity that begets name.

Not with a sonic catastrophe of bubbles,

but the clear carry of a church.

As a Tiktaalik obediently headed onshore,

his face turned to mirthful sand.

A peach swallows three dimensionality

to the pit, to peach thus.

White heat sensuously cleaved, then

bound tight.

A searching rash that overspreads

yellow-orange/orange-yellow, too slow

for pounding juice.

The indomitable ruler of unseen flesh--

that loves the teeth it never conceived of.

Resting on a lace napkin driven to

accentuation--on a cream wood kitchen

table.

Private worlds expand as we contract--

it begins by thinking of a number &

telling the mind to guess.

A highly ambitious paranoia, a do over

for every correct guess.

Four hands & a gazillion fig leaves later--

here we are, as if denying accusation.

As privacy self-edits for lay readership,

readership is at an all-time low, because

everyone is too busy self-editing.

It seems like heros/heroines barely set

foot on terra firma, before these private

worlds are unceremoniously destroyed.

These gameshow windows lit by private

residences.

I believe this to be telepathy-pains, the

paradoxic response of our collective

doubleness to thwart the internet.

What was once relegated to the realm of

private, is now public--so interiority is in

hyper drive.

Big Brothers & Sisters--toilet bowls must

remain sacrosanct!

Eventually, Idios kosmos will implode

inward--& become symbiotic, fiber optics

is just the safety net of cross-cultural

telepathy.

This doesn't mean I'm going to whip my

**** out & bang a bongo anytime soon.