your haggard saints

i'm sitting here after a crazy night of melatonin dreams. (may i be evangelical for a minute? LOVE. always kind of awesome when the linguistic, giggling sapir-whorf manufacturing has visual codes.) and thinking of all our shared experience and language, whatever modernist cut-ups of thought, sex, voice, emotion (adios?) and consciousness that has been going on between us, what we know and what we come to, the relief of laughter is paramount. maybe that dry, sun-blasted smell of sage so prevalent in the galilean foothills. so this—if you have gone public, i have been watching, and that's my strange little attractor. like this, we have two different experiences of butterflies. of poetry. of reading. there is no more a character named "jennie". or "po" or whatever weird and useless name i've given myself in public. can you imagine that? so let me re-introduce myself. you know when mirabel changes irrevocably into something else (first, bat/ephraim. then, peacock) and suddenly, gloriously offers himself to the couple on the other side of the mirror. a living, breathing courtesan rather than a board and alphabet and symbols. to lend his young beauty. and later, "light falling sideways from a half dark mind". the next to last thing is "touch me not". i began in the garden and i will return there. i should re-read but i think the last transformation is michael. and kind of awesome: Merrill makes relentless fun of Yeats.

waking up into a muted, rainy morning and ladies and gentleman, bodies fall. there are falling bodies and fathers, people die. fuck that. saying good bye to you on 14th and then walking down into the subway. i miss you, too.

what are we going to do? i really liked this post yesterday morning?