All night I flew the dark recess of God's mind. It was arranged like Iowa fields-- not a damn thing missing. You ask how I survived. I lived on a message, broad light at the end of the world. Words, they have so much in common with departure, the clouds elliptical & nervous. Why translate? It's just a
The Problem of Hands
And how to fill them is the problem of cigarettes and paint. First time I felt my undoing was in front of a painting—Sam Francis, I believe. Oh, his bloomed out, Xanax-ed California. I liked the word guard, but you know we made each other nervous, standing too close for everyone concerned. All art being a form of violence as a peony is violence. Here you come with your open hands.