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The idiot goes round and around With his brother in a bumping car At the fair. The famous idiot Smile hangs over the car’s edge, Illuminating nothing. This is mankind Being taken for a ride by a rich Relation. The responses are fixed: Bump, smile; bump, smile. And the current Is generated by the smooth flow Of the shillings. This is an orchestra Of steel with the constant percussion Of laughter. But where he should be laughing Too, his features are split open, and look! Out of the cracks come warm, human tears.

The fair rolled into town surprisingly intact, like a plate unbreakable because it has been dropped and glued so many times that it is all glue and no plate. The fair was no fair. But, oh, it was a thrill! The fair slid into town just as a clown slides into pants. The fit was loose but right. The sheriff  had a job directing traffic. The barber was the sheriff  for a night, and people paid to see a human ape. They frowned to find her happy and alive. The fair spilled into town like a box of tacks. Later that month, in with the rest at church, were people no one knew, though none could tell exactly who was who.

Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over: Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial, One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how, deep! —O, deep, Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before, Videlicet, a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks: Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat, Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat, Select the prince from a row of identical masks, Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote, Or learn the phone directory by rote. Always it’s impossible what someone asks— You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe That you have something impossible up your sleeve, The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak, An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke, The will to do whatever must be done: Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son.

Somebody who would never refuse money told me this— about the syncretic effect when each person plugs their attention into a field to read ad copy, let’s just say they become opened up and other beings can see into their minds. This was considered a science fiction idea to many people, but not to me. In my negative space construction is always occurring. The liftoff from awful to tolerable to positive and then finally to bright new beautiful has been my most difficult task to swing. But swing I will; there’s nothing else to do. I live here and being here and hearing myself or my mind’s divide through others convinces me that I must do everything I can to save us from the pit. That is, until the pit splits and the fruit tree finally grows. You may have a tree of your own—you may have a home in your own tree. Congratulations. If you write an instructive pamphlet you can bet I will read it. I do not want to go out in darkness. I am doing everything I know to prevent this, and thank you, by the way, if you’ve written a pamphlet. The shared information system and each being at the end of its screen emits an LED (light emitting diode) on an often green screen—you say I should give my father up to the authorities. You blame your circumstances on my choice—but it’s the authorities who did this to him. How do you think a person loses his mind? He let someone take it. He is sort of my mind and you are too, God help me. The green screen is an ingenious discovery. You can record events in a studio before the screen and then key in whatever environment you like. It’s a special color: Chroma Green, but it can be blue too. The experience of things is determined by our feelings about them. Information is colored by us. You may see remotely, in a photograph for instance, the image of an ambush victim. Maybe it is a war and/or she is caught naked. If she is unhappy—indicated by face and body arrangement—you may feel that. Some people will hate the state of things that made her so alone and vulnerable but few will do anything about it. How do you find her? What guns surround her country? And after all, maybe she would hate it. To have to feel grateful to someone moved by her humiliation. She may only be thinking about humiliation. That is a tough feeling to shake. Then, and I need not go too far into this, then there are those who see the pain of someone and they just love it. This may have something to do with a revenge sentiment over their own unclosed wound. The wound, they think, is everyone else’s fault and they cannot forgive. This is only information, in the form of speculation. Some feelings you get when you consider “What if this happened to me?” and you will want to remedy the situation to secure yourself from the (negative) condition of it. Together, humans create one body—the planet earth and its projections. The things in the stomach affect what goes on in the head. On the web many people make money with miracle potions. Some curb the human appetite. Some say you can lose while consuming whatever you want. I heard the other girl refer to me as a skull. She was very angry and did not look or say hello. There is a prevalent competitive notion that each only has one place. That her face is only hers and that I don’t have a face or to her it is death. This she reads as me—the death of her. Obviously I am not. I write and read and then roll on. I wear an ordinary human face, some could compare me to a bird of prey because my nose is hooked and my fingers are long and I like to ride my bicycle with the wind at my back. I am not here to attack. You are also a mutant. Do you think you can keep the heavy metals outside of you? Do you think you can go to sleep here and wake up the same? The screen is framed by plastic, beneath that you use words to issue commandments or call-outs. Most people use the web to send messages to people who are already their friends. They make arrangements for later and detail what happened in the past. This information may be not true. The web cannot know intention. It records and is open to influence. People make money through advertisements, or so they think—well, selling ads, that’s quantifiable— if ads make money, that is more difficult to know unless there are special offers. The web is full of special offers and 30-day trials. If you fall for those, or I should say, if you respond to the offer what often happens is that your information is shared with other companies who will fill your inbox with offers (that which is known as spam). Because you are someone who wants to look great and there are other companies with products compatible with your stated desire. Ways for you to achieve the prevailing notion of beauty. It is my job to tell you the models are selected because they are physically improbable. They are elevated to be made desirable. Their desirability is physical because they are models. If it were easy to be like that, they would not be sought-after by manufacturers. Generally, working people need to be sturdy. Advertisers want to make money. They go with psychology and so create a sort of self-rejection by advocating forms not reflected in most people. They know that people will pay in to be of an elevated form no matter what station they are from. Everyone wants to be beautiful. Everyone wants to be the agreed-upon beautiful thing. Probably everyone is beautiful somewhere inside if not outside. You can create an excellent argument for your being and improve upon ability. That is my opinion. If you live alone, you may know how great the web can be. On it there is information and pornography. Information includes the prospects. Pornography is the biggest industry in America. It is designed to bring about a certain state of arousal, generally, couched in anger that will allow the person to fuck exactly how they want to without worrying about the one fucked. Pornography is addictive for many. Of course, sometimes people want to touch, to hear a voice to imagine a partner and what they can do together. The web has many dating services. My ex-psychiatrist advised me against trying them. She had transferred the daughter role onto me. I do appreciate the dangers of strangers. I am prepared with the information that pictures are not people in both obvious and non-obvious ways. I know at least three people who have been in love with people they met online. Each one is intelligent and down-to-earth. I’ve gleaned from their descriptions of online courting that the early questions are essential. That and no expectation and somehow you have to withhold your own personal information. That is, until you meet up in a non-threatening place. You will have to have someone know where you are, a point person. And you will need a defense; mace, for instance or a rape whistle or a dog leashed nearby or in the car. It will be important for him or her to know you have a dog. They should meet each other as soon as possible. This is the magic of the machine. The meeting and love trial and, if it works, the love made. Well, that really is amazing. Objectively amazing. And good for the machine. Good for the machine. The electric web courses heavily through me. This may be how we make history: we can put up our movies, our words, or costume dramas. We say we are so and so and people follow the saga. Do you ever get the problem which is opposite to the problem of the watcher? Have you ever only seen yourself through other people? Or thought that’s what it was but it was really your thought processes transferred through them? I should look up the word rubric again. That and lacuna and devi. In the thrift store nobody looked at me. But the woman said, “Devi (hee, hee) Devi.” A celestial being: what we all are. True she might have meant devil. I am not a devil. I love my friends most of the time. I love animals—I don’t think devils do that. My friend sends me pictures of jackrabbits and frogs. Yesterday, he said he saw buttercups, a type of flower. You go over the tracks first, on the other side of the river and there they are.

Leaves drift from the cemetery oaks onto late grass, Sun-singed, smelling like straw, the insides of old barns. The stone angel's prayer is uninterrupted by the sleeping Vagrant at her feet, the lone squirrel, furtive amid the litter. Someone once said my great-grandmother, on the day she died, rose from her bed where she had lain, paralyzed and mute For two years following a stroke, and dressed herself—the good Sunday dress of black crepe, cotton stockings, sensible, lace-up shoes. I imagine her coiling her long white braid in the silent house, Lying back down on top of the quilt and folding her hands, Satisfied.   I imagine her born-again daughters, brought up In that tent-revival religion, called in from kitchens and fields To stand dismayed by her bed like the sisters of Lazarus, Waiting for her to breathe, to rise again and tell them what to do. Here, no cross escapes the erosion of age, no voice breaks The silence; the only certainty in the crow's flight Or the sun's measured descent is the coming of winter. Even the angel's outstretched arms offer only a formulated Grace, her blind blessings as indiscriminate as acorns, Falling on each of us, the departed and the leaving.

Better trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust, and that deceiving; Than doubt one heart, that, if believed, Had blessed one’s life with true believing. Oh, in this mocking world, too fast The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth! Better be cheated to the last, Than lose the blessèd hope of truth.

What are we bound for? What’s the yield Of all this energy and waste? Why do we spend ourselves and build With such an empty haste? Wherefore the bravery we boast? How can we spend one laughing breath When at the end all things are lost In ignorance and death? . . . The stars have found a blazing course In a vast curve that cuts through space; Enough for us to feel that force Swinging us through the days. Enough that we have strength to sing And fight and somehow scorn the grave; That Life’s too bold and bright a thing To question or to save.

It was midday before we noticed it was morning. The boy cousins brought us a tray—soup and cheese, warm soda, and a soft cloth and candy for her fever. They wouldn’t come in, the tray weighing between them. They stood like woodwork inside the door frame. By afternoon the old procession—silence at the lip of a dozen night travelers tired and grieving, one by one, or pairs floating to the bed and back with a touching of hands like humming, and the one we gathered for slipping farther for all the good we could do. She lay in her shadow. She looked to no one. Her daylilies bobbed wide open out in the wild, blue sun and the same bee kept nosing her window to reach them. Dusk: even the boys were back watching it try.

For Ira With the seal of science emblazoned on your forehead, like the old Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, I believe what you tell me about cells and molecules, though I can't see them. And though the language you speak is full of numbers and symbols I'll never understand; though your tie is askew and your hair unruly, still I believe what you say about the size of the universe, which is either expanding or contracting, I've forgotten which already. So if tomorrow you tell me you made a small miscalculation, that God indeed created the world in 6 short days, then rested on the 7th, that it was Eve who landed us in all this trouble, I would believe you. I would believe you as I've always done before.