Is it beautiful to break the passing days
Underfoot, like glass bottles?

The furnace of the sun blows on.
Infinite is the name of the far off
Town you drank blood in.

Our days have little weight; they are blown like newspaper
Over the cramps of the earth, the infinite geographies.
We have our pretty faces for the names. The names have pretty faces
For the names. Each thing born is as if written by a casual hand,
who dazed on lazy afternoons had no knowledge of the weight
It threw earthward. It is enough to be exact
When passion fails, to pale the shadings of the wall
The mind's colors, which in the palest season of the mind
Has little chance to mimic fire. It is enough to watch a woman in the street
And know it is a woman in the street, without saying it,
And to feel the bitter pandemonium of some angelic rage
As in a television, tuned to a false channel, to look at a clock
And return a solid value, to make of the groping world a thing not seemed.


There is yet too much sanity in this madness.
A rotten fish propels the river upward, on the shore
A fisherman sits allegorically in the waste of his life
And the two meet, senseless.



After the witless night
Day came in long sentences.
You turned like a mouth
and shut.

I am unworthy, Walt, of your tripping sentences,
your biblical oceans, your beard that tumbles with boys
In the furnace of night, always the supple yes of dignity
that redesires you as you are, as you splendor and shake
Moonlight from your wondrous old form like ancient tongues,



You who lay exposed too long, licking the cruel ironies of wind
From a lone bedpost, groping the infinite sockets of day
For a cheap solace,


A wind is in oblation
With a way we capture wind


The first human must have come into existence with a loss of faith, like a stone dropping. It is a loss of faith that leads to observation, for observation splits, but truth is whole.


(write a book about the first humans!!!!!)

Before there were words there were pure needs. Only when these needs had gone were there words for them; with the word we could to try to recall the need, but they remained separate things, the word always exercising its tyranny over the object as if it wanted to wholly replace it.




Light satire among the sublime is genius...show how human foibles are encased in this enormous natural stir of purposelessness.


You despair because you feel purposeless...and yet the universe is purposeless as well. So you need not feel as if you go against the universe, which would itself be the most depressing thing you could do. Living your life purposelessly, even if you haven't reached that point, is the way of the universe. Following doggedly whim and discipline is the way.