I’m for Nero’s spinning 
party room and against 
unmanned drones 
though I like the idea 
of a manned drone‚ 
which sounds like every 
allegory for society I’ve 
ever paid money to 
view‚ yet the rundown 
parallel jism tracers are 
One in the thick of 
authentic greenery no 
longer natural. I cancelled 
all sense of class for an 
afternoon just to impress 
your penchant for casual
proto-symbolic gestures
of deep irresponsibility
that secretly (not so)
afflict routine with 
love’s wilier feints.
Forgive me. It was time 
to make a break for it 
and honor a decade’s 
worth of complicated 
walks. Cosmic intercon-
nection of all beings? 
Check. Futility of pain 
management as source
of humor in outlook? 
Check. Controllable 
vices for purposes
of a secondary level 
of interior life‚ an echo 
of conscience trailing 
out? Check. A sense of 
time as discontinuous 
in its spread while simul-
taneously expanding 
on a surface line that
is only a reflection
of a sense of a line? 
Check. Total distrust 
of command but for the 
contradictory moments 
of necessity? Half-check. 
Digging the ecstasy 
of swinging? Yes. Laughing 
at the tree? Is the tree
funny? Yes. So what if 
the rain is friendlier 
than your ever-slithering 
definition of work‚ or 
the chip in your pocket 
is merely a lifeline for 
complaint superseding 
the hardy constant tributes 
life makes to acceleration
of everything but generosity 
freed from the promise 
of entering history as 
readable image? There 
are little cards offering 
digestible portions of 
the path with dressings 
vouched for by agencies 
of seamless repute. Yet 
truth is in the uglier 
cracks in one’s own 
façade‚ shrink wrapped 
into neglecting decision 
on a most unflattering 
scale. What is most 
ordinary every day is 
defeating the desire to 
harden into respectable 
indifference. And what’s 
nice about not drinking 
is what makes that piano 
feel‚ I mean thinking 
less about dying‚ less 
concretely at any rate
of interior exchange‚ 
staring out at the grey 
childhood haven of 
New York in October 
and what’s not so nice 
about not drinking is the 
desire to have a drink and 
think a lot about dying 
until my inhibitions are 
defeated and I can react 
quietly from a zone that 
is enough of the cosmos 
to let the lights be more 
than time’s progressive 
memory‚ and it’s necessary
to finally renounce violence 
everywhere in one’s life 
but in one’s self-accusations
isn’t it. I bring anger 
to the evenness necessary 
to be reborn without 
strangling the doc. An 
unexpected benefit 
from the genetic process. 
Attention dissolves:
Brooklyn into two-
dimensional space.
Oakland into pig think 
frequency. Demolition 
into elevator love triangle.
Symbolism into punk-post 
appliance. Foraging into 
withdrawal from public 
action. Voracious coddling 
into confidants’ anonymous. 
Story fate into shrubbery 
lashings. Backlash into 
dispassionate textolatry. 
Rummaging into structure.
Bistro into Cheetah
Feeling giddy and 
positively apostatic
at the clinic‚ the perfect 
little heart-shaped heart
beneath ’82 in this old 
used copy of Between 
the Acts gives affect to 
my argument for connection
within. Child seats man
in rear. Dana‚ I’m going 
to address this end to 
you—I’ve just read 
your piece on Geoff 
and you‚ music and 
that blurry opulence 
the love of a particular 
love’s company induces 
from future memories. 
I’m in awe of those
elaborate movie watching 
games you and Sarah 
play‚ envious of yr couch 
and its ears. I like to 
think I hate the movies‚ 
but I felt kindly 
manipulated by Apollo 
13 late last night after 
inhaling a little deep 
ash in order to faze 
the process of clipping 
sentences from my latest 
variation on retuning
the old consciousness. 
I identify with the 
missing sections in 
Typing “Wild Speech”.
I thought to go public 
with the whole thing 
in this period of weird 
interior folly compelling
me to print without 
sanction the works 
forcing me to lock 
fate in the bathroom 
and rap its sour puss on 
the head when it tries 
to flee without asking. 
I’m nothing if not 
polite‚ even in absentia. 
Love‚ Anselm.