--- A N D R E W   L E V Y

Why don't you answer your phone, you jerk.
I love you. Call me to build your business,
press idols for mayhem. Have drinks in
the barcar. Don't be such an idiot, I love you.
Take care of your foot. What restaurant?
The man who has no mind keeps changing it.
He lies upon the idle grassy bank, like
Jacques, letting the world flow past him.
It's spotless. The philosophic finger must not
be allowed to show; yet where else, if not here,
may it reveal itself in the search for form.
The result is the individual, one which almost
everyone feels. True enough, the following
voices would be hard to confuse. Ejaculation
gets rid of that tension, but it doesn't necessarily
follow or generate more clouds in my mind.
In fact, quote the kind of people who never
think twice and you'll have a pretty accurate
idea about what's going to disappear now.
"Poetry isn't beauty, its qualities filtered into
the best nonfiction of the age, it's Medusa's
head." My conception of Postmodernity
is more in the nature of a figurative participation
in the training of elephants deemed imageless
in a deeper dimension of the word "truth"
as hermeneutical medium round and whole,
not abstract and linear, and concerns a 'mood'.
"I've got blisters on my fingers!" The 'full
phenomenon', in the other hand, should probably
dial such a subtle aesthetic to match
with reply separators surrounding personality.
While on the other foot, the apparent play
between "foregrounding" and "backgrounding"
can be seen operating a past that no longer has
anything to say to us, one must create a
metasecular narrator, reassuring his readers
of how evil these elephants are, with platitudes
galore. Nonsense. Its motivation is literary;
it's all in the Woolly Bugger. Hanks, or Heston,
mainly as oracle, then as dazzling paradox.
How could one stand that if there were no
friend? No peasant body? For the hermit is
the cork that prevents the conversation
from sinking into the depths. Life is dearer
to him than all his money will ever be.
Natural impulse? It's PG-13. The pumpkin
picks up the spoon and dips it gently
into the pumpkin. The dinner ends with a toast
between Vico and Heidegger . . . Serindipity
should be expected. He extracts his mirth
and his moralities to find a slice of pie
in the most unpromising texts. We plan to
gorge the elephant with children slowly
grilled over an open barbecue pit in southern
Indiana. The chef is none other than
the dinner to be served in the Sistine Chapel
at 8 p.m. on Ash Wednesday. The hero
militates against the pleasures well worth
emphasizing. I'll never glow the way
you glow. I have no idea what I have just
written. Give me your money. I'll spent it
unwisely. I'll invest it in this body. You
can leave it all behind, long after its author
and occasion have departed. Not only
for itself but for its propaeduetic value,
currently a relative rarity.