'I have a terrible fear of being an animal
of white snow, that supported father
and mother, with only its veiny circulation,
and that, this splendid day, solar and archepiscopal,
a day that thus represents the night,
this animal
lineally avoids being happy, breathing,
and transforming itself and having money.

  It would be a great pity
if I were a real man to that degree.
A folly, a most fruitful premise
to whose occasional yoke succumbs
the spiritual hinge of my waist.
A folly... Meanwhile,
it is like this, this side of God’s head,
in the tablet of Locke, of Bacon, in the livid neck
of the beast, in the snout of the soul.

  And, in aromatic logic,
I have this practical fear, this splendid
lunar day, of being that one, this one perhaps,
to whose nose the ground, the living folly
and the dead folly smell of death.

  Oh to roll about, to exist, to cough, to belt,
to belt the doctrine, one's temple, from shoulder to shoulder,
to move away, to cry, to give it for eight
or for seven or for six, for five or to give it
for life with its three powers.'

--3shl*man's Vall*jo



Slant. (via Po*try Scor*card)