Over eight billion doings factor into this

doing, Disconnection Awareness Month's

moment.

I am saint: Roughly.

A non-excercise, like following your

pointer finger to the tip of your nose--

cross-eyed by its invasive warmth.

My ruling planet Venus supervenes, I

suggest she find a ruling planet.

Right now I **** an angel with kindness,

as she flashes her radiant ***--we both

see an opening.

Who brought what out in whom?

At any point I am fixed, at no point is she

fixed--yet.

She comes by proxy to intercept me.

Her symmetry's between worlds, even

though I run my hand between her

*******.

She rides her distance on my closeness,

we end up where we end up.

When water nicks its flow, I untie a

storm & head into town.

A historical overview of aimlessness

grinds against me, as two gaurd dogs

makeout.

Good on the gleam that fact-checks

feet, never saw a pair of shoes that

didn't want off.

Or a tacky perfume that smells of

wrinkly freckles, hard-to-come-by-air

unable to figure out how to insert its

chagrin.

Sometimes it helps to read aloud what

the body writes, disjointed humming

works too (a runover accordian).

A fast-approaching mass whose

disintegrative reentries start to float

peaceably.

Trying to guess the shoe size of space,

gets harder between the legs.

A market pitch of spring with no target

audience, I suppose.

A fontanelle, a division bracket connected

to other division brackets--castle

battlements.

A stimulating doodle that fills a Mead

Marble Notebook, whose cover keeps the

signal lost.

A banana in a trumpet, lensless

sunglasses in a darkroom.

Dot lightness, dot being--behind the ears.

Lo & lo beheld heads in the way of a

movie now playing in theaters

everywhere.

Where the irksomely awkward exit from

theaters, is witness to an audience's

who's who believing they're characters

from the movie.

Everyone avoiding eye contact, like some

postcoital comedown--secreting greater

star quality.

Imagine if they entered the theater that

way--our comings & goings have such

pole reversals, role reversals.

Hitchcock's bellybutton has a staring

problem, the guardian of this gate doesn't

approve of such rumination.

The invisible makes the final appearance

of what's irrevocable.

As Amen is undone by invocation--that

Amen cannot be invoked again.

How nothing moves on from nothing.

From the invisible there are untold

visibilities.

We indeed die to, to be--which's the

emptying out of Kenosis.

Just as the sky empties out, to be--Amen.

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.