The Whole Earth
is wholly property,
you see, for him & him,
but not for me. Don't you
see, don't you see?
Power doesn't answer,
nor ask questions easy.
Don't you see? Don't you see?
The whole earth, the whole
infirmary. A cold collected
purpose for this purpose,
incomplete scenery. Writing
about the proverbial sand-storms
or the sand castles, like a chaste
woman (for the first time) in
a fraternity.
Please, if you'll bless me,
don't make me again recount this
goddam rosary, the "first time" thing,
virginity.
I've suffered enough for never
having made a woman suffer
through my indigence,
my superiority.
Over-ripe fruit, that! what a waste,
what an egg-shell too many. Here's
Dom Maize, crowing about his
virtue when he ain't got any.
(Slippery boulders somewhere
related two-and-two, becoming
four like her concern was for
free.) You really like me, you really
get me. You really don't understand
how important it is to notice the
scenery. (Sure kids, just keep writing
on and on, like there's a recursive voice
here, something made and collected
and broken again into pieces that
jade up the whole works, that
make a man more brave than he probably was
already, that make a man really want to
roast something, whether it's his best
friend,
or a whole new tribe of actual people.
Am I talking about nuts? Yes, let's fetch
and eat them as soon as, believably,
one could, though not greedily.)
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