writing poetry or relearning an agony -
an old agony but somehow
anew with an askance tying up:
and balloon fiddling
           unlike fiddling with a "scratching"
of stretching leather -

i have to forget the paragraph -
               but somehow have to remember
the beginning luck of an ******* -
like it might be: the thought-riddle-luck
of a physicist and a play of juxtaposing
interludes / punctuation
i.e. via: bang (the) big hole, black...
          
        somewhere in the distance
a pillar akin to charles olson -
            and like this: there's nothing to give
but always something to borrow -
some ref. point because:
my own new or old raw -
   or a fear like a shadow that is itching
beside a body -
   or a relentless architecture
of skeleton: esp. when piled into a heap
with that fine fine rubric of:
all is love togetherness: tough knotting -
some unbelievable chasm
that's 20th century historicity...
                       that's never what is
a journalism of metaphors and...
                     the essential stay for
children in the gorgon eyes of
                                            pedagogy...

some 15 years too late to have
an accomplished sentence to a trade
that is a believability of 100 thousand
nails but only one hammer -
          perhaps a ship to boast about...
i.e. a very tiny projection
of quantity: contradicting itself through
original intent: retaining a quality
of 100 brave souls - longing for a depth
of an unsinking...

           perhaps everyone in an utopia
is myopic -
              i wouldn't dare spell: b.l.i.n.d.
although now i'll think about the acronym
like it's (somehow) necessary -
it's not a heart-transplant;
         me-ode-you: a body of borrowed
limbs and limping emotions -
   basking (in the) limelight
(of an) indignant nuance (of) dread -
              i.e. there's no OF in that
otherwise famous acronym of a heavenly
descent of english...
unlike old-saxon cocktail...
                      far far away...

some two nights ago i lay in bed
anticipating sleep
thinking the impossible thought:
althought a quiet -
            no... a quite possible suicide:
of walking into the north sea
off the shore abiding by aberdeen
and swimming across
like a hardly between pretend of
whale toward the coast
of norway...

                 somehow not missing
the phobia of swimming in the sea
because of the archaic darkness
making forced lingo from
the depth below...

             or just listening to kenneth koch
reciting...
          perhaps i too could
recite... but because of my silence...
i'll take to nibble at braille...
or contest that...
           if morse could be written as braille -
who has such tender finger-tips
to read braille like a blind octopus
couldn't possibly play a finger-tip
numbing sacrifice to the guitar -

thus this notable comparison...
      see and hear

        ⠎ ⠑ ⠑      ⠁⠝ ⠙       ⠓ ⠑ ⠁⠗
   · · ·  · ·         · −  − ·  − · ·       · · · ·  · −  ·   · − · 

     from this the northern barbaric
(extended)... some greek...
                             θέα
                                          κουφός

such is the forever impossible...
the greeks still speak greek...
                 the hebrews still speak a 'brew...
the romans are the already
available letters -
   as i find... there's an italian
that's a negation of latin...
                          it's like for the remains
to ingest the crucifix...
there had to be a negation
         of latin: beside the cravate / apart
of strain...
    
                       it's that somehow...
beside the chiseled rocks and remains...
italian is a reinvention
of latin...
                    but the greeks speak
with a sort of insinuation you could
ascribe to the softness of the iberians...
i conflate the two...
                  so much for so little of
this.