Wednesday, September 1, 2010


his hand is one of the unbearable mysteries. don quixote was a spaniard, he did not imagine things. and don't let any smooth old voices ease you out of it. i go to the funeral hall where it wrenches presence absolutely. this time in the bathtub i bit what i thought was his hand; it came off in my mouth. repetition and variation, then, is you here. i can disappear before your eyes, killing you. a charming thing, a disconcerting thing, the first social institution. that's like getting married and thinking you can crack your wife or husband. off into the raptures you you are mad. there is a dragon under the sea guarding a pearl. remakes the anatomy without pity. then i count the lines on the page, and then count the letters in the line and find one of the letters. so then picasso has his splendor, destroyed as never been destroyed.

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