The people of vanishing: what's their shit? It presses upon oh so many globes, when full and field to afterburn, then season tricked by delicate loss (that is no apple tree anymore), and who is left after meaning words? Tho the terrible has a regimen, you might want to quake, fierce undertow of enterprise, or ornate googling of somewhat verifiable facts, all in the coast of language, looking forward to the Ron Silliman of dialogue thru exact nature, then Charles Bernstein seasoned with mist, then as well this Lyn Hejinian as stalwart (just try), and (principled) the list goes on, sidelines of saying so, puffy clouds with words as legion BUT what's a legion? You walk across a street in Lowell just to be hurt, this is language and when, fooling no one is a full time job, those who wrote stay florid or nature, the crow seems so darkened but sensual matter exists in small pieces too, while looming hawk becomes a decorated feature on the top of Lowell's city hall, all of which denotes a peace of vibration, the colours of spring or the chance for vital warfare (you will always love the nature of circles), the vanishing hurts like pain or training, someone considers the dark end of the street, which is away from the sun, which is balled up in its gases and whatnot: who wants explaining when language could be more? Lowell is a passing fancy including Kerouac t-shirts, stumble thru the rubble of one more time to resist the plodding national urge, one more trick with vanishing, the language doesn't need me anymore, it just love me, thus Silliman is in a rage, or Hejinian as an example, or that Charles Bernstein as haymaker, until what? Exploder for the virtue of literary excuses? That we are purple when we seep thru the dusk? That the national pastime includes walking over /there/? Hey, we're friends in the word, we leap and try, then desperate edges arrive in time, almost cut time, almost say time, then parts as vanishing, which, after all, is our friendship's perfect measure...
