“THIS GARDEN BEING: THE HANGING OF BOOKS

I live between. I stalk space of these authors shunt
phrasing to a definition drops about trees.
But it is not their leaves. It is narrow
this shuttle amidst bows. Not much room in lots of pencil.
The knowledge is a temperature to be finished. And
the flare held to is a floor. Simple spellings amounting
stumps. Liars of Dynamism that smell out their slots in rates.
I guess it’s known that Bob Watson scored the millionth run
in baseball history. Baudelaire opened his chocolate in
lavender pretense, as I revealed my garnets on a velvet floor.
The world chugs alarming ‘tween thicks and thins, a
Rimbaud to stop it. The thighs of a wet mattress,
a million volts. At arm’s length Chirico’s farms, the boiling
sodium moles of a magnetic censorship. Tanguy in his liner
that would squeak dream peripherals. Vision is a monkey,
fiddling with a strap. And the ounces taken from gelatin
will starmap the block. I am caught, how will the walls slide,
to take up with pluck domain in this Magnetic Cheat.
Poe would deliver in a massing hover the crawls from the stares,
in a drift slipping the word from its droit. The mot juste
is not a puncture-sealer. Laughter is acidity of goal.
The rusty turns of a bird are the absent pipings of my nose,
a breaking back snide of sod brilliance. I examine faces
and I say to myself, Face off! The Imbrication of Chosens
in all this leash of bushes, yes, the rain will solve your tiles.
Here the broken snores of whole radiator zero. As you might
say to me, or a man decked out to the nines in Alexandrines
(Valery), it will take a geologically absent mind for him
to be finally fallen. The snore in the snow is a zero.
Let’s listen at the zinc door to the white chat. Rebaggage
the sore of the roseate tons, revelation here is no more than
a long black veil. I have picked at the hill of crusts
to reveal no less than a fine crystal drainage for the system of
a city. And that letter hasted from pipe to tube is a soap.
Stop farming. Be a pillar to this nation’s shade. all this
and in strains of magic i pace between. No more pressive alive
than the spines of trees. That here will be born
the preparative leaner.”
--Clark Coolidge, from Solution Passage (1986)--quoted in Messerli op cit