Like roll up, like make a short, Ed Steinberg, The Colors, like a pre-life, Pre-Life Crisis, Crisis of Feeling feeling. Out the door, free-wheelin', a young type on the hype, on a shoulder. Nights these days gettin' colder. Light fadin' like an old soldier. I used to be sentimental, back when I was a little bit older. To career into a career. A career is a building. Building a verb. To span two blocks, weight dividing span. Huge hearted man takes his award, and the speech beats all previous time limits and norms of decorum. Celebrate a long life, welterweight contributions to the firm... and in the last minute, an exasperating defense of his successes. The light's fading, but through cracks like that you can see it: the autistic God behind the counter deals a memorized deck. Flanked by the extemporizing wreck of an Angel of Death and of Disorder. (That's two good jobs for every honest cherubim.) Silent and soft, wings of a seraphim, cantilevered at a Gramercy Park loft. Cantilevered at a Gramercy Park loft. - but mother! - o blessed child, may I touch you? - but mother! - o blessed child, may I touch you? - but mother! - o blessed child, may I touch you? - but mother! Keeping us in the state of half-knowing, of mystery-within-familiarity, had been the core technique. Keeping us in the state of half-knowing, of mystery-within-familiarity, had been the core technique. It's a poetry of the drowned leviathan, of the comatose giant's tiny kin, of the boy, Amahl, the one who saw the star fall, though his mother couldn't believe him. Good luck is an irksome fantasy. But three kings at your door, that's another thing. A mother gives gifts to her child, among other things, yet a king's largess is preserved for other kings. But what if the child is a king of another sort, impatiently awaiting a court of debased princes, great men he will greet with an infant's impatience? Nearly there, Their Majesties stop off at their last true colony, a final saucer of unquestioning obeisance, yet all fall star struck at the face of Amahl -- Amahl, his youth youthful energies! Radiant child! With only Upper West Side Queens for enemies. With only Upper West Side Queens for enemies. Mystery-within-familiarity, had been the core technique. Obscure, recognizably, dutiful. But thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Mystery-within-familiarity, had been the core technique. Obscure, recognizable, dutiful. But thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. Thank God all our Art Stars are beautiful. - I shall miss you very much - feed my bird - watch the cat - yes I promise - I shall miss you very much

Chalcedony Thomas: quartz green, jade skin in one block; one block, and one thought. One thought. (riiight) Followed my psychopomp through a honkytonk serving the tourist trade. Chicken Shit Bingo and Jade. Jade, Jade, Jade… and Amber (Chalcedony Amber with the saw dust timber: was she limber? She was a slammer.) Split the check before I got wrecked, but opened another before I even paid it. Thirty-nine years, too educated (for this). Seventy-eight how long my grandmother made it. Amateur in all I do. Like it red, but pee in the bed? That must be a kid. (I got two: self-facing mirrors I fall through.) Keep crawling over LEGO, jacks, too. There must be a million. What I want is some of those thin rectangles shaped like a buildin’. One thing they’ll never say about me Is that I’ve come full circle. Lord knows I’ve been adrift. Crystallized in my chrysalis: blue; green; grey; and a part you can see through. … Not even a brain of human dimensions anymore… … but had spread to nodal congeries throughout his body… … you know, the bald guy, he always pitches the same old script about the AB and Gotti … Catch me in Aus., pictured left. That’s me and my thirty-five foot Brett Whitely, leaning where you might expect the TV, as though it’s got something new to see nightly. My money well-invested, interested, divested, (I might rotate with my later Howard Arkleys. Means another trip over to Barclay’s.) Or you’ll catch me at Yale speedreading Plato on yayo, Schmittians and Straussians, more pan-American than a Ronda Rousey win. Later, I take out a hit on my College Street tailor, J-Press got me good, sell me holes in my pocket. Nothing left to cover the spread. Sold my stock. Even grandmama’s precious gold locket. All-a mama’s son’s most precious gifts were sold. And I thought my story was fully told, when that spec script I sent to Mark G. (David Milch’s personal assistant) got bit. Getting rich based off the products of my brain is all I ever wanted to do. It don’t matter if it’s my best work or my least. I’m after a piece. (“A big piece”) True. (Like a bower bird, I treasure any sort of trash as long as it’s green-blue.) … Not even a brain of human dimensions anymore… … but had spread to nodal congeries throughout his body… … you know, the bald guy, he always pitches the same old script about the AB and Gotti …

Hey doc, where’s the blacklisted hacktivist, thought he was the protagonist of this story? (“he’s poorly”). Well, you can hit me with a script for a new agonist, surely? A vinegar enema of the prefrontal cortex, a precaution, purely, for if I feel (poorly). A man in want of a cure may seek solace prematurely. A doctor in want of patients, waits (poorly). When I’m cured, I’ll hold my health demurely, and only ever hint at its previous absence obscurely. My friends and I online exchanging recipes. “How many do I get back in exchange for ten of these?” “Does your product support the quelling of any of my specified tendencies?” An epiphany brought about by too many Red Zees: announcing my masculine pregnancy (“masculine pregnancy??”) in a voice weighty with destiny. Comes out almost breathlessly, lacking my usual wit and brevity. “I feel heavenly. My soul blossoms like an anemone.” My inner seahorse shod with horseshoes of four-leaf. I convey my joy, thus (poorly).

Already rhyming like Góngora at the House of the Deaf. Already giving up on the path to the left. Already the count’s wrong, warp’s weft. I awaken, learn to speak without affect, my tongue as clean as linen. With a zen master’s grace, I offer her a cleft persimmon. Nothing for my poor, exhausted amanuensis, with his hands of veined glass, and his little bottle of high-gloss ox blood ink, spotting artfully an arterial red on the Chartreuse, unlined paper. It’s handmade from rags picked over long, aimless sojourns. The cloth left long hours to stain, to take their color, are later crushed with a hetman’s heft. They record theft after theft after theft. Hardness and strength, death’s companions: Lost little orphan boy finds love, gets abandoned: A matchstick girl with a cute little curl right here. Cowards will give, to get rid of you. Nothing to be gained here. I count coup on the arteries of the literati, jeweled crones, and crude Bushwick prospectors. Every spell, all his medicine, goes into the collection. The stake is in perpetuity. The collectors become the collected, recursively invested and prodigious in their variable rate and fixed annuities. Poetry is briefly back in vogue, one morning, ten years later. Again, red ink on green paper. Long loops of angled nothings, the fifteenth letter, ought, cipher. Sometimes alterations become apparent, meaning pours upon the canvas with suspicious clarity. And in the ponds broken off from the blue sky my feeling sinks, sinks, sinks, as if standing on fishes. An artist’s idea of charity. Hardness and strength, death’s companions: Lost little orphan boy finds love, gets abandoned: A matchstick girl with a cute little curl right here. I rearrange my desk, a gesture that I think embodies the spirit of the new year. Sit, stare straight ahead at a blinded screen. But all this for a single, unpublishable catalogue raisonnee of an artist no one collects anymore? I quote a hidden note scrawled in white pen on white canvas: “I been working on the same six strings as everyone else, but I think I got something new to share with you.” The artist with his mind on the canvas. I’ve got my mind on the sudden sound of a seventh string, clearly present, in my brief ecstatic vision, which discordantly twanged in grief. I like sounds like these: sharp metal reports, quotes from Tetsuo: Body Hammer-styles shorts, starring Michael Biehn or James Remar. My position on catastrophe bonds is shorted, and I’m hedging a small fortune in rebar against the corrosive effects of the ocean, and certain dark spirits within recently awoken. I’m starting to short everything. Time ain’t on my side. The tides spring, but I paid for an extended neap. I have a list of complaints to weigh me down, and my neck’s wrecked from this goddamn rebar crown. Hardness and strength, death’s companions: Lost little orphan boy finds love, gets abandoned: A matchstick girl with a cute little curl right here. Such details are preserved that we might someday learn to understand them.

- if we both walked onto a plane, Steamboat, I would be the pilot and you would be the passenger A typical Rockbridge County road with no shoulder. Ride out to Natural Bridge, off to Boulder, past Wise to Pound, Big Stone Gap. Up to Wolf Trap, through Pikeville and Grundy Spiraling around an absence, caught in its gravity, and running out of money. Curling back to where dignity meets depravity. I’m at The Palms talking to Emmett Mann, again, a strange dream. Transience. Fragility. A Radiant Child. A Fable for Tomorrow. Fleeting vision. Tapping the bar at Shenandoah Dance, gathering a whole generation to First Position. Exclave of progressives, under permanent siege by Colonel John Birch of the Paleo-Stonewall tradition. Truth as loose as fiction. Twombly’s studio, white trash mixing with the aristocracy. Down the hill, Emmet’s mother reinvents photography. Town square, flaggists swarming, a protest, yes, a protest against American democracy. A shadow clock on the side of House Mountain: “when exactly is America meant to be?” Is that going to happen? It’s been a long, long winter. The plan’s got changed somewhere after Traveller got skinned and stuffed, stitched back up with catgut by a gilded splinter. Like I said, it’s been a long, long winter. Among us, there are gods – if we both walked onto a plane, Steamboat, I would be the pilot, you would be the passenger – you never turn your back on a snake The man staring at me like he’s waiting for the answer to a question, but he didn’t ask one. I got service industry written all over me. Forced pleasantries. Who ain’t I tryna please? Oh yeah, those who linger, those closest to me. Those with eyes like tractor beams or plasma screens. I direct the queue of fellow customers: “Keep moving to the left, your intent clear and incurious. Let’s none of us provoke another, with cries faint or injurious.” Recall that day at the mall. Recall: it’s a concealed carry state, never turn your back on a snake the self-righteous can be furious, and our premiums are legendary, and notorious. Highly susceptible. Absolutely no immunity. I couldn’t even afford the blue plate special, care of Carillion Rockbridge Community. My straining for runic gravity versus the strip I tear from modern art’s monumentality. My unusual repertoire of signs; the first level analysis, can’t help but give for free. The reference, you see, is to a double-wide, where an Original Twombly hung for years, acquiring a hoarder’s patina, home grown, when sold in its hundred thousands, was transmuted into a cultist’s tithe. Well. Even a line has a mind of its own. A hoarder’s patina, home grown… but even a line has a mind of its own… Among us, there are gods – you never turn your back on a snake

She with her gorgon’s eye, me with my leprous touch. Not much, but it’s just enough. I enter America as America enters me. I pull away, splitting myself into three: the part that remains pure and unpolluted; the borderlands, where identity is disputed; those far flung places, long since looted. My reaction is strangely muted. I’ve seen atomic fusions, have no illusions I’d limp unscathed to the grave. My only confusion is how the trap snapped shut. Picture a five-corpse-high katana test cut, or divers synchronizing a quintuple tuck, falling from the space station into the sea. Pancake, coral, scorched metal wire: great balls-of-fire. (Soundtrack: The Killer Himself signing Me & Bobby McGee.) This is a song for immortal souls like ours, housed in bodies that come from and return to dirt. In your Champion grey sweat pants and holey shirt. I’m in Atlantic City: a Baltic Avenue flop. Sat writing: “A waxen man stumbles to the ocean”. STOP. “A man like a grilled cheese sandwich hops onto the beach. His skin color is peach. His body shape: leech.” Checking the mail. Studio notes make me bleed. “Love it. But make the lead more of a lead.” I’m thinking of changing the title: My America Contains Only Canada scrapped. It won’t possibly sell. “How about: Seasons in Hell?” Too phlematic. Needs hope, some cheer. Try: My Next Heart Growing in a Pig Somewhere. (“Already fucking taken.”) Up all night thinking of names like new parent. ENTER suicidal ideation. Chef’s knife: reverse grip; the sleepwalker slices bacon. This is a song for immortal souls like ours, housed in bodies that come from and return to dirt. In your Champion grey sweat pants and holey shirt. Reading a book on lucid dreaming, a note falls out, written in a preceding century. “When he hugged me, I called it a thunderstorm.” (The note, which burned in the author’s hand, is still warm.) “When he hugged and kissed me, I called it a tornado.” (The note lightly scented in playdoh.) “When he wanted me to sit in his lap, I called it a hurricane.” I’m lying in bed, fully clothed, boots on the counterpane. I won’t open my eyes in dreams, I think. I’d rather sink into this bed with my mind leaden and empty. Waking life carries enough to tempt me to sleep undisturbed. “A paper bag princess, a dog been skinned. Look me up, son, I seen some things.” “I seen some things, son, but I haven’t seen it all. Like I never did look America in her gaze.” That’s how I ended my last two plays. This is a song for immortal souls like ours, housed in bodies that come from and return to dirt. In your Champion grey sweat pants and holey shirt. - I will now do a reading from the TV show Luck, by the great David Milch: - I will say, Naomi, thinking of a particular hand, a person I like a lot, she pairs kings on the flop instead of slow-playing. She scares the table away. - I remember this girl. Pushes all in and everybody folds. - If you’re gambling and you got the edge, wouldn’t you want to keep the gamble going? Unless maybe you don’t like gambling, raising the question, why you’re at the table.

Dabbed with a stick dipped in a pot of pitch. The line is possessed, but more specifically it is obsessed, scratching an itch it crawls across the board with a sleepwalker’s precise insistence. Meeting no resistance, but leaving generations of experts perplexed. The jawbone of an ass hooking a universal index in its empty maw. Father Freud (hey pa), Uncle Bertie. And masses of men with names that start with M: Machiavelli, Marshall, Mao, Madi Son. Indices have a way of reducing difference to the all-important metric of atten-shun. Do you have a problem with executive function? Let your mind wander to the junction of those legendary freeways that split the sky. There you will meet the King of Distraction. He crowns himself with a mindless, repetitive action of pointing at a chariot, way up high. Each rider is marked by a color-appropriate outfit made by a Saville Row costumier. Charcoal, the Damager. Navy, the Manager. Grey, the Starving Child. In Pinstriped Navy is the Man of the Wild, Nature’s Son. He is all things. Destroyer, purveyor. Thin as a stick, he smiles with the sad grace of a dying sun. Same Old star setting. Surfing a sky of gold, custard, dun. The prestige of not getting bombed over. Can’t connect, can’t move an inch closer. Whole scene’s mobbed, Double copyright, but you still get robbed. Not me. I lived on manna in the Gobi for seven long years. Emerged fully formed like Nathanial Hawthorn, but writing, like Madison Cawthorn, in an embarrassing hand. Pity me, I’ve absorbed my persona. I’ve become the person I was pretending to be. My anatomy begins at the knee. Roughly sketched in, canvas sack of organs, mere cartoon skin. The containing line gestures to the boundless space within. Bound, less. Hounded by death. Kid, stop giving it away. But if your friends can’t have it, why live? The bomb style looks like what it’s about, and what it’s about is packaging, wrap. Like, wrapped in gauze, Karloff rises, aflame with a Sheik or a White Sheik’s need, the audience rarely reminded of the excerebration so essential to the creation of the lead. So the art star paints a canopic jar directly on the screen, and in hieroglyph, writes “a seed”. The prestige of not getting bombed over. Can’t connect, can’t move an inch closer. Whole scene’s mobbed, Double copyright, but you still get robbed. A seed planted, Jack-ed up enchanted, slanted, canted, rancid, too big for its own good, take that for granted. “Cursed from Birth”, turning corners, red-eye, meetings at Warners. Leave the meet weavin’, naïve and dry-heavin’. Makin’ mourners. Glassy-eyed, but scry the crystal ball right, and up all night again, catching sight of low nine figures. It figures, never collected offhanded, always much demanded: Modena, after the heaven of Dokumenta 7, the artist in hell. Dollar and dime, Yusaka got a space age sell. Well, well, well. Dear dark Moon, severely over-engineered, a whole side unused, Speared, bruised, abused, austere: silent as a gondolier. Blondie shelling two yards, Cadillac Moon. Deng Jinghao at it ag’in with a felt tip… pen. Too soon? Too soon, too soon. Bumping DOOM all night with Mr. Fantastik. Pivoting with a drastic new vigor: A monument to the auto industry, “get there quicker”. Where? Slick on the trigger, never been my M.O. Takes time for an oak to grow, Live or Post. A monument to nicotine, on eggshells, most medicine-ated: sees a spirit sprint across a flooded parking lot, puddles of light. Night. Connecticut. A washed out Gothic painting that still sells. Yale bells, down the block, ears still ringin’ from Lighting Bolt. I see a scene ripe for a cult. Buy my new line on ZOZO. We sit around huffing ozone, no long-term exposure risks. Cream charger rips. Lists of trips you carve on your headstone. By order of the House of Rome and Reem. Best bros back on the scene, beards bleached with wolf cream. Terror screams, this time the princelings’ gone way too far: crashed the caddy, wrote off Daddy’s brand new car. Kicked out the palace. Left standing with their manhood in a jar. The prestige of not getting bombed over. Can’t connect, can’t move an inch closer. Whole scene’s mobbed - Double copyright, but you still get robbed. Double copyright, but you still get robbed.

Of course this a figure of speech but my mind is obsessed by the idea of going inside a rope… I’ve razed whole business districts of the mind seeking a new phase of energy for my angels investor’s laundered capital but finding none in all this time (I say ironically, nodding toward the clock On the square’s mock Spanish mission). I take comfort in the old prophecies, Don’t matter their present condition. Sunset Market Plaza: Meditations on Strip Malls in Los Angeles: comforting, rambling. Puddles of gasoline and antifreeze. My city’s just a winding parking lot, a balled thread of tire treads; tall palms; wide, shedding pines; and places to buy hearts of palm in brine, heat-treated amethysts, and hand blown bongs with Charlie Parker vibes and certain mysterious Snoopy-wrapped packages Over the years, we’ve talked an awful lot about tontines. I’m on the phone, outside an optometrist’s, negotiating with my insurer to defray the costs of the leopard print on the lenses of my new bifocals, when the thought finally occurs: I’ve achieved that comfortable middle position of life, which Robinson Crusoe’s father so admired. My man Friday ain’t gonna like getting fired, A pink slip is surely a gift with its own special flavor. I can even promise a certain scent of freedom: the freedom from the dream of manumission; freedom from an unshackled condition; freedom from a microscopic snorkel, miniaturized flippers and wet suit, which the lord placed temptingly beside the antifreeze puddle (mentioned previously). “You are free, my tiny, tiny child, to swim to the next island, or else stay forever (until I tire of thee) at my side.” Call it a father’s pride. Over the years, we’ve talked an awful lot about tontines. I lie beside my child on a bed in a darkened room, studying the line of broken light framed by the imperfectly closed door, and the bright room beyond. A line of light, yellow, orange, red, and think of Barnett Newman, his own unbroken line of blue. A zip. What the hell was he thinking. What his collectors think. The racket. The nonsense of someone else’s art. Of any art you don’t admire. When Hayden White told me that the secret of his success was his name, I peeled the last of my disposable lenses from my eyes. And saw all things clearly, history a line we each draw as we like, or as our fathers taught us. Thus I lie beside a child, waiting for him to sleep, my glasses camouflaging my restless eyes. We bind children to our cause, send them in a wild horde to Jerusalem, and stay behind. Surely I can’t leave this place - that broken line made by the door is in want of an dispassionate admirer. The albums I’ll record and miniaturize as moisturizing lenses for my eyes. Stacked to an alarming refractive index. Saluting with my gilt squeegee, a mercury shower of Windex. Over the years, we’ve talked an awful lot about tontines.

Oh I don’t really want to but… But a trade is a trade is a trade. My split strike conversion just a long stock collar, but with a hidden dollar, always short. My architects built me a … tomb. To enter, a thief must crawl on his knees. I will give any such penitent all that he needs. But as centuries pass, the raiders’ parade carves deep this hidden path to the gods. The tourists start to flock. The arts die, briefly, revived through the Expediency of Culture, and half-alive, wrapped in light, they rise too rise from their knees to greet me. Winter’s passage. It’s midnight in Rome. The countess alone. Her husband has returned to the desert. Energized capital is an end in its own right. Structure: the original maker of light. Takes flight, the khan’s own Dreamliner made of alabaster and horse hair wire. The artist’s uncle lies in its fuselage, suspended from a swing, carving contours on a thin slab of marble, when a single strand of the wire mesh snaps, and he falls. Oh, I want to go like that. Entombed in a rubied ice, His shattered corpse returned to the grieving horde. His hyphemic, 8-ball eyes say it all. They say, that’s a man who had a ways to fall. Winter’s passage. It’s midnight in Rome. The countess alone. Her husband has returned to the desert. My phone translates the hieroglyphs, and a pharaoh’s petty mysteries are now mine to forget. I beget my own competing mark: Ding Jinhao was here, carved in stone with a scrap of paper. What a dandy of a caper that was. Shamed my whole fam for generations, true; but I left my mark on the tomb of the world’s first king. And what I wrote, at least, was true, well, it was when it was written. I outgrew that name around the time of Dokumeneta 7. Winter’s passage. It’s midnight in Rome. The countess alone. Her husband has returned to the desert.

Start in Porto-Novo with paperbacks, and some time in Cotonou, mind slack with too many masks, too many pages, and hadn’t received wages in months. Sell a story, get headed to Lomé the once. Left the books, flew North. Bummed through some islands. Tossed off a train traveling the Highlands (I detest that kind of violence; gimme kindness, outfit by Rylance). I make my way south, southwest. Run into a confrere whose talent put the fear of death back into me. On the chippy bag, on the High Street, scrawl, white sauce, toothpick: I can’t die until I question Mark. A note I’ll finish later. Got into it with a waiter. Tossed off the coach, banned from the whole fleet. Got my note app full so all in all a good week. o Grey Shade of the East, my ghost needs those dreary windblow yellow meads of New Delhi, or what you once call a maggot slapping your belly. So sick of these white chrysanthemums in bic, drawn by my celly. Maybe it’s true that beneath my checked collar I’m a just eccentric second rate scholar of the sort Thecla used to laugh at, but I am the self-ruled. (Most at best half that.) And the jewels of my crown are those greater souls I consumed and keep within me, in varied loci. Sadakichi Hartmann, as he was at Lodi. DOOM in Blackburn, Bathgate, made to roam cause he ain’t had a visa to quit it. Brathwaite in Ghana. (We all lack a home, I’m just the first to admit it.) Then Brathwaite in the long salt years. His kidnappers acquitted. Then Brathwaite: Sycorax, Born to Slow Horses. Me at my own end game, in tears, livid, ripping tracks, held back by the same old limits. But still… Like, still in it (‘cause of course he is). o Grey Shade of the East, my ghost needs those dreary windblow yellow meads of New Delhi, or what you once call a maggot slapping your belly. So sick of these white chrysanthemums in bic, drawn by my celly.

Every night at eleven PM I get lost finding my way home. I’m already of course in bed, feeling fine, but my mind’s maze wends around a startling pine, upon which my eyes inevitably linger, for in its white bark, it looks a debrided finger. Always startled, and always backing gingerly away, lost again, heading where the finger isn’t pointing. I take counsel from the direction that signs aren’t giving, which is why I expect to never stop living. I cracked the code. (“finally, he confesses”) This midnight, I’m floating over one of those sunken stone cathedrals outside Addis. Waves of energy are pouring out of me. Rays of black light zigging out of me. And these five thieves are whispering. They can’t see me, but can feel my energy. I’m invisible, of course, ‘cause I’m always completely clear. They each claim one of the cases, and are arguing over the remaining three. In a braille I raise on the skin of their faces I let them know that “these seven black boxes all belong to me” (but that there’s one at the edge I don’t need). Man, what the fuck are you talking about? “Being ignorant doesn’t endear you this this court.” The great writer turns out to be a bad sport. “I was born with perfect control, it’s exquisite. But the thing I control it’s like… um… well, you’ll be like, ‘what the fuck is it’?” Maybe he lost his touch. For a rapper, he don’t brag much. I’m emailing him lines around the clock. Try, “Coming at you with the lost lyrics of Bach”. (Nej tak.) Takes just as much work to be second seat. (“Just a lot less talent.”) Ghostwriting epitaphs since at least they’re carved to last. Got reach, got notes I took on John Monad’s cookout speech. Got a Joshua tree I pleach. And a short story published online (“Litro”, last week) about a dog-bodied god that brought a man back tah life, and in a final twist the man, now feeling fine, somehow taught his god to walk kind of like a human. That’s a third act you can’t top, Mark G. (I mean, I’m not good at any of this, but I don’t let that stop me.) With great power comes increased possibilities of immortality. (Man, what the fuck are you talking about? I was born with the smokey eye effect. All about looking my best, the best me. Learning to be more a talk-the-talker, more a walk-the-walker. Like on a long hike I’ll meet a slightly smaller version of me, and come at him with some real heat: “What’s your name son. Let’s be good. I wouldn’t want to bury another stranger in these woods.” No time, no time… You think I got time? I turned 40 making this album, still can’t rhyme. Looking over my correspondence, hoping I’ll find a clue: “I’m writing you from my strange Brazilian suit, to say things I thought the suit itself will say. But when I held your hands in Guara 2 I didn’t need new clothes, I just needed you.” What I didn’t add was, “and a new me”. Other, more obscure, Peircian forms of immortalitarity: the premise of perfect clarity (I reject); the genuine commitment to charity (I respect); but none can compare with the pleasures that we share when we corner the market on organic repair; this old heart’s wearing out, I fear, but my next heart’s growing in a pig somewhere. Man, what the fuck are you talking about?