Hypothetical Antipodes, Judgment

Hardly any of me is solid any more, I mean I buy things every day. And there comes a time when I am feeling as windblowed as the apples in the Shenandoah. And there goes I who then again began tho what does this Mrs. Begin? (she says I am) And cast down me wretched sinner unto thee I am slightly different from a corpse at a funeral in that I am less made up but made up worse. Who I thereby did appoint myself but forgot which was mirror. I stand stabbed with wrench piss rabid at the counter matter of things in the room with which I identify. Somewheres crossed up in hot antartic mountains they live backwards together. Whose feet then were backwards whose feet were needing shoes so badly in 1964 that millions virtual millions of shoes were sent to “Appalachia Virginia” for they were too poor—“backward.” America glared haughtily at local shoe burnings that Christmas. But I’m not antarctical nor hypo thetic. My mind gleams like the fangs of a viper in white heat dying to sink my teeth into the throat of something wrong.