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Eight stars make A soft solfege Above this motel Where there are never Stars. I let a skinny man Put his long thick dick in me for you So we could break our hearts The way you want me to. Somewhere a white Wall stretches up behind the backs of a tribe Whose obscurity protects its secret from the common World and the connivances it ordains. What time is it. What season is it. I don’t know. The moon blows green Gas into my skull I want to hide what I dream In a big boot, and wear the boot And starve as I lean upon the boot of my destitution And drag The truth as a gimp would drag the weight of her body. That would give me a feeling of honesty.

Freedom is a rocket, isn’t it, bursting orgasmically over parkloads of hot dog devouring human beings or into the cities of our enemies without whom we would surely kill ourselves though they are ourselves and America I see now is the soldier who said I saw something burning on my chest and tried to brush it off with my right hand but my arm wasn’t there— America is no other than this moment, the burning ribcage, the hand gone that might have put it out, the skies afire with our history.

Stripes and stars, Antique cars, Pretty girls, Baton twirls, Spangled gowns, Friendly clowns, Smiling folks, Papered spokes, Marching feet, Endless heat, Clapping hands, High school bands, Town traditions, Politicians, Perspiration, Celebration!

The pull of guns I understand, my father taught me hand on hand how death is. Life asserts. (Best take it like a man.) I shot a dove, the common sort and mourned not life but life so short that gazed from death as if unhurt. And I had nothing to report.

A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, “I will have a camel for lunch today.”  And all morning he went about looking for camels.  But at noon he saw his shadow again—and he said, “A mouse will do.”

note: Most of this journal, written on shipboard, seems to have been destroyed, probably by fire. What remains suggests that Mrs. Chandler journeyed to New Orleans without her husband's permission, thus becoming indirectly the cause of her baby's death. August, 1849                      EN ROUTE FROM NEW YORK TO NEW ORLEANS ABOARD THE 'GENERAL WAYNE' Two weeks aboard the 'General Wayne' is little more than a floating hospital vomiting spells. I attribute them to is truly ill. For two days he has in his bunk. Belle seems to recover. At least fretful which indicates improvement. struck by a nervous disorder. I sleep very little and take no solid food. (page torn) (Second page) Yesterday evening poor little Cookie died. She was seized suddenly with spasms, poor thing, and died in an hour. You will accuse me of but it was truly frightful. I have not slept for weeping. only a dog! (page torn) (Third page) arrived safely in New Orleans but embark. We are all in quarantine might be better, but Belle is all day by her bedside. Doctor plague and gives me no hope pray for survival. (page torn) (Fourth page) have not been able to put pen to all over. Our dear little girl among the blessed, my beautiful authorities let no one near. darkies. I am full of one who was without fault and so, lies shrouded in my sister's blame God and myself, dear why you have left me without support? (page torn)

If my own voice falters, tell them hubris was my way of adoring you. The hollow of the hulk of you, so feverish in life, cut open, Reveals ten thousand rags of music in your thoracic cavity. The hands are received bagged and examination reveals no injury. Winter then, the body is cold to the touch, unplunderable, Kept in its drawer of old-world harrowing. Teeth in fair repair. Will you be buried where; nowhere. Your mouth a globe of gauze and glossolalia. And opening, most delft of blue, Your heart was a mess— A mob of hoofprints where the skittish colts first learned to stand, Catching on to their agility, a shock of freedom, wild-maned. The eyes have hazel irides and the conjunctivae are pale, With hemorrhaging. One lung, smaller, congested with rose smoke. The other, filled with a swarm of massive sentimentia. I adore you more. I know The wingspan of your voice, whole gorgeous flock of harriers, Cannot be taken down. You would like it now, this snow, this hour. Your visitation here tonight not altogether unexpected. The night-laborers, immigrants all, assemble here, aching for to speaking, Longing for to work.

Would you rather hear the louche pun drawn from glory hole, lip wrap or fingering or hear a tiny hammer striking wire? Would you rather see the molten birthing glass? Seat Eros next to Kronos, for the banter.I heardshe’s yet unplowed — I heard your quiver dangled down — I heard you dwell in borrowed forms — love’s nothingbut glimmer-to-wither, dawn’s fireflies expired. In this place we sift & bounce the words like dice thrice dip a pipe into the magma,o my stars. Lear & Gloucester walk into a bar debating again the color of bluffs or moors or cormorants:like craquelure     like damp tea leafdriftwood    no, peat steam    no, brined sand-apple ink Were all your letters in fact suns? Forgotten, after all that trouble — Are those bellows blowing some? A field of broken bottles, fragments blue. A tune invented to divert a girl.

One of Halberg’s more whimsical decisions: just when the action is coming to a head, attempt to pull off something formally innovative. “Underwritten? Lithe!” could have been a note to his detractors in this metaphorical on-screen corrections list. Each one of its 23 scenes was followed by a “what really happened” reveal, until the audience ran out even of false hope. “It was a bold decision, and by bold I mean stupid,” says Ingram. “I tried to reason with him: if you go to pull the rug out from under somebody’s feet 23 times they’re just go- and step off the he had that kind trick in mind the table cloth cutlery, crockery, undisturbed. over and over until the very smashes hell.” The whole an unrealized them share a captors and K, and Cain are together as the ing to get bored rug. But I think of conjuring where you pull out and leave the and glassware Only you do it again 22 times last tablecloth everything to episode was sneeze. We see joke with their Adah, Father allowed to stay sun rises. But Erratum: For blubber, read brother. Compassion; shoeshine. Authoritative; whiten. Hard; daft. Veldt; thought. Inertia; in- herit. Mothered; afterthought. Work; ho ho ho. Schoolteacher; orthodontist. Enlightened; muddy. Horny; hyphen- ated. Underwritten; lithe. Theft; fuddle. Honorable; anaesthetist. Handbag; ow. Thud; ahhhhh. Huh?; entertainment. Sainthood; elf. Revolution; neology. Dad; backbencher. Bosom; overstay. Watchmen; wretches. Hydrate; shoot. no, we jump-cut to their separation and Father K weeps hoarsely as their hands are tied behind their backs. After an inappropriate remark about Adah, Cain kicks an AK-47 from the weaker-looking patrolman’s skinny arms and scatters the rest in a hail of bullets. But no, we jump-cut to Cain being repeatedly pistol- whipped by the same patrolman. It seems unnecessary to list the others. This is now a world where honor is an anaesthetic and the saint is as fictional as the elf. They beg for water. Cain takes a bullet to the knee.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ The show remains, unshot. Adah rants. Cain bares his teeth. Starvation: a state without border. World without means. Haha. Who’d have thought. Total inter- regnum. Theogony. Thrombotic idea. (Debt flogs verb.) A retro daydream: I hid under the hollyhock. The prohibition-era nut cuffed me.Shoddy fate, old horse. To genuflect? Ohhhhhhhhh no ... Vulture count: Then. Then. Then. Then. Noon throbbed resplendently. Baby ... I ... tried ... to ... make ... the ... word ... I reached for her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++