He knelt down next to me—fallen giant, empty stump. Feeling the blood pulling around my thighs, “I think it’s screaming,” I said. He stood barefoot, one warm leg, nest at the belt, pink wriggling sack, I wanted to run into the sun now, bristling muscular bulging animal sedated by his eyes. My body shook against him on a hot summer day, gushing to life, blood-filled, blood-dizzy. He rolled over onto his side, watching the men. A ruin. A patient. Overgrown so that the flat air had no answer. We floated in which the memory moving our bellies going dark have all taken flight—a cure may be possible—tell me what words mean—pleasure for a coffin: turn and enter your home.
The ghost which leads to burning incense on the altars of magical friends—these gods come upon gods which erects them—confections of the deific—showers down events, the smooth operations of insignificant romances to penetrate into their historian’s hearts and foist upon the reader authenticity of the marvels . . . At last he dies, this exceptional man who loves them, phantom spawn, fraudulent cures, boundless poverty and the images of objects. Just a while ago I gave you attentions pure and simple. I take the oath worthy of your friendship exterminated in me. The lancing pain stuffing me with bucks and thwacks to distill soul’s fuck: slip away, leave the rest to me, initiated into our mysteries . . . .
With the Sixties the Seventies in Berkeley shot forward for replay to put the spaces where he wants—stars in the universe suggest metaphysical poets—lingered in remission studying the cosmic characteristics of T-cells. Triumphant skull in the grin of his malady, whacked as he was in a feedback loop. It’s necessary to interpret men compared to sleepers in a private world. Two men pass through a forest which passed for the real world. From the cardiac ward through the underground corridor to encounter arrhythmia on the cathode screen. His head, his heart, a wave-form. And he spoke his monologue directed outward from the wisdom of a body: hell is round, the little clay pot locked up. The dream-time of heroes trying to throw up names: California, Parsifal, Chuck . . .
Night fell and a moon showed up between peaks. We were given a welcome for centuries. Aroused by smell in their human behavior a growl in heat, with a mixture of affection and respect. A little whipping, a little touching it lightly. One sometimes hears the ice snap with a seam in the center; large numbers breeding in our district at those breathing holes. Members kill themselves, interested only in sugar. Suddenly the door was flung open, a youth tumbled in; the event we’d been preparing for changed our life entirely. To wake up to stop the alarm clock with one hand I lay on my right side facing my other—my Other Side—pressing the human places in a firm grip that woke us up in horizontal posture turned to face each other, covered with a thick blanket, the murmur of description, connected by an invisible rod as resistance fluttered back and forth.
