Rich old man, knowing much
of nothing others value,
by virtue
of early alienation, wound
early
sense, first sense, early mind to matter process,
each thought forms from ache to know
some
source charged, as it were, wound up, set to spring
forth
in time thought lost
in Proust, and rightly so, if
now you read this that I wrote, without doubting
Proust could not imagine the access to knowns I own,
the access, I own, not the knowns, the stores of stories,
whole lives lived in accordance with visions
recorded in annals and journals and liturgical redoables,
walk this way,
rock was rolling, say again
scream what? Walk this way, with a wiggle? Nah, this way,
aim at ever after now,
think next is better until the other shoe drops,
and this
is real, as real as any message to you, from a dead prophet.