Sizing up from four—sizing up to more. Sizing up to five and seven and eight and beyond. Sizing up to nine, to ten—beyond. I always was the one to show you how—you make this all go away. There is nothing in the hole. Nothing here but deregulators, anti-matter anti-self anti-everything: gadgets on every shelf the size of a wand—size of a magical magical wand. We met in school—now I work in the well, calculating daily the size of the rocks we'll take away. It's nothing complicated, just simple—simple cutting in pre-measured castes—can't escape your birth—can't escape your likeness—can't escape. Your birth. DNA-connected strings. Genealogy-inspired ribbons of birth. Death. Morbidity wound. Parthenons of death. Coilant-borne ribbons, angles of death, built from angles of life—same thing, same thing. Turn over stone: I am there. Look under river: I am there. I did method drugs yesterday (some number of days in the past—I do not know) and they scrambled yesterday's page turned it into two days modified its rhythm and I have nothing to show for it—a mangled desperado of death, death, death. I now have no conceptual cover of light switch, no conceptual cover of lizard breath in a bottle really more like a cage/hound bent to perfection in Jersey, never flown to here for the quickness of a $10 sale. That's all they come down here for—the $10 sale. Ten-dollar sale—that's all they come here for, to a town with a school (deleted) that has one fewer schools than before, one fewer teaching huts for the teaching huts, teachers gathered for the huts, children standing far against the fence at the other other end of the parking lot talking with their teachers in a special mode: Where are you going for dinner tonight? The restaurant with the stinking rose (that's where we're going)—to the restaurant called The Stinking Rose (that's where we're going). Something I can never have And what are you listening to on your stereos tonight (that's what we ask—and they say)—NIN or something, that's what we're listening to, now and always, now and always to the rim of the rim of the rim thank you much. Very. The syntax—I own it. I am courtyard over the syntax, presiding supreme—and always to the little man I am (because of this) indebted. This and other reasons are (to) why I remain indebted. After that (tomorrow) we will go to the sea. Redacted the drive-a-few-blocks-north sea of drinking JD and smoking weed we will go much much nearer south and with Faith and Jennifer to the nearer sea point, jump right into the restaurant, spend a few dimes, get Patron shots at the bar, get in Ashton's car, smooth down over the seaside streets, use the bathroom in the Denny's, get back in, and drive and drive and drive.
And as we drive, the walls come in.
And as we drive, these walls come in.
We are squished into a tunnel. The tunnel makes a block. The block makes us squish. We squish into a tunnel—fine—and fine the tunnel squints us into a brain, which squints us into a hole, which squints us into a fork, which we take the left side of, which leads us to a drop, which drops us into a falling, falling hole.
And we go into that hole, which leads us to a pond, which takes us thus into a spiral, taking us then into a stream, which streams us into a tight, tight diameter of pressing (of stream) of nascence, which ties us into a core, which cores us into a meek, which meeks us into the core of watching, watching, washing, washing, bore.
And that bore squeaks us into a wish.
Which wishes us upon a star.
Which wishes us into a melting pot of urine of urine or dandelion which pees us into a backwards-melting pot of score that takes us up through the gallant melting-pot of war which takes us up the gallant melting-pot of this and that and this and that—surgical melting score of valiant self-wittingness, self-battingness—surgical score of melting self-nascence, battly, frog, temporary-ness.
Temporary-ness. Klingon-ness.
Self-awareness of a dog.
Dog-aware this self-category-ness.
And my baby is with my self. With myself. This baby is in my dog-hound womb-what?-within-ness—self-assured. He is copied within me—copied within my womb. He is a copy of me and you—a copy of ourselves made so it cannot be unmade. A perfect copy of ourselves. Within me, without you—within me, without you. Within my womb—my womb without thee.
And I sit—and I'm crying in the hole—and I'm off without a hole—within me, without you—tonight.
And I sit on the bed, on the edge of my covers.
And on the edge, I stroke your hair—undone—in my lap dear one. And on the edge, I sit. And I sit on the side of my bed—just one play—and my door is locked and the room is locked and I have never left for years and everything I have seen and heard is from my memory—my future-locks—to be here in this hemisphere of room—my fetus room—to be here forever, locked in from inside—locked in restaurant-style from the ending right back up to the beginning.
I am spinning.
I am lately. Lately come for thee, lately come through the screen window, with a wish and a wear and a prayer—that's how I come! Free-form, anti-continent, to you I come in my mind's eye—the very mushroom of anti-continental. The anti-continentality of backwash of retro-substantivity in your mind's eye—you are my target and that which I knew so so well.