Based on contraband, based on stealing fire, based on the thrill of nothingness I could consider paying taxes –– if reading is all you want and maybe a little tidying up. But as it is each night a new piece of shit falls from the hole in the sky. The vast arms that encircle us with their discontinuities remain unable to reach me aside from the occasional caress.

Fragments of fragments, one must recreate oneself in the image of conscious activity. When I leave this town, I'm stealing your bike-rack and putting my broken one through your windshield. It's like I told the cops, when I'm reading don't fucking talk to me.

I deny utterly the reading, writing, and the comprehension of poetry outside. Poetry has nothing to do with the outside. As soon as you go outside you are in the Western Tradition. The Western Box. Any supposedly fresh take or development of that ground is instantly and obviously tainted by its underlying materialism. (Materialism [or Positivism] is that concrete relationship to the world which supports the sciences, and does not have anything to do with the material world, much as its conclusions may impact it.) Isn't it curious that those who envision a 're-wilding' of men and women also insist on deep draughts of the outdoors. If I am ever outdoors, and I do not say that I am, have been, or will be –– I will be certain to have first assumed the spiritual grandeur of that primordial being who in the Vedas is named Ka, or "Who", and from whom all creation is at various times given birth, to the surprise and resignation of all parties.