A little folded-under continuity came about. It was not only
when the blue flowers were (unquestionably) blue.
something about truncated desire. The broken glass.
he bit off the cobra's head. In the morning his stomach,
drove to Nebraska in a Volvo, which was what he was.
thrashed about in the steam of the shower. Then the door,
opened. written by James Osborn on folded white paper.
eating Brazilian cuisine in a San Francisco restaurant.
starts with a dream of his tears. a story he once wrote:
for television. something to do tonight: June 15, (Sunday)
1980: Together & Alone: begins with a dream through his tears.
he who turns within confirms directly his own nature.
flip-flop dreams full of zen-Noir virtue: Elizabeth Bishop:
The Complete Poems; title page torn from the collection
a sheet of paper: need for quick-notes, FS&G, New York:
in the fermentation of the dampness under the earth.
1970, 1971, 1972: she's the eternal pointing to the jukebox.
Jukebox Wars, 4 for a quarter; slow, fast; slow, fast; fast fast
slowly you can't make him want you: he's just something else.
you continue with a story so incredible it can only be true.
in the morning, it's time to sparkle, it's painless, it's easy.
in the morning you get up with a back to midnight shade of memory.
in the morning you are going to get up and go to the house.
going or returning he is ever at home. what remains to be sought?
-- Jeff Wietor
