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   t o m    h a n k s    i s    a    h o m o s e x u a l

--- 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.

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