I’m not writing. I don’t know how to write. The words create themselves & this is the word. I am the word, and I can remember my very ownness. This is the word, these are the words, together I am making phrases. My words are signs, they signal a thought, my words are not words, this is            separation. Nothing stays together forever, I am words, these phrases may be construed as a poem but I consider them all one word, all the words are one word, one worded, one wording, and this is my birth.

I want to show you, Tiramisu and all of you, that thought and passion go hand in hand. There is love beneath all this, that will be of sure, For there must be love here.

Umberto Eco! Where are you now? In this, my time of need. In my time. (there was a time before all the horsies were born. They are dead now but sometimes I wake up and feel their hooves on face.)
I have some questions, some questions right here, let me open up my pocket. I ask you of enemies? Have you enemies? Are there to you, poor proletariat, enemies of economies?

Umberto Eco! Of whom I have not read one word, though I like your name...

Umberto Eco! Who was Karl Marx? And what the fuck did he and those other bread eaters do to my world?

My cosm is augmentally contractual, let's file a petition to the planets, that we'll wave our flag and sing oh great creation, great that this life may be, oh great corossive creation.

No, I will be a word. I will be the word. I am the word, breathing the word. And the word eats he who does not heed. The word eats he, the word death. The word is the undefined word, the word is what these variables together make The word. Make the word the world.

And they say that the prosaic is less than poetic, and autotelic certainly not heterotelic. Take these broken oars and make them row faster.

Disturb your unthinking
Your automatic acquiescence
“The word will make down-trodden humans shockingly aware of their own despair, the work of art announces a freedom which makes them fume.” Horkheimer.

The word is love. Because love is the loss of self, the blurring of the thing you call “me.” Love is a new definition of what it is to be me. Love is my heart, love is in the word. The word is love, but the word is not love. The word is not defined. This is the word. This is love.

And you can tell that to your mothers. You can tell it to your fathers. You can tell them in any order that you please. (but I’ll whisper it soft & low)

The word is back
It’s just on the down low.

You can put down your photocopies of Stein’s As A Wife Has A Cow A Love Story. But not for long, you’ve got to bring it out, you’ve got to play it out, you’ve got to have your love story, your love story is your life.

When you live the word, the world is love, because that is all that there can be. And like Ezra Pound said, you “make it new.” Make it new, and it is new. It is new if you make it new. And love can be new too, it must be new, it must always be new, lifetime can be a river of newness.

Tiramisu, for time’s sake, safety is found, held, & coddled
Your collage explodes around you, injures my eyes,
heals them, too, Tiramisu. Heals them too.
Tiramisu, this is what is paved, placed in brick & cobblestone
Some steps require safety, some steps are already completed
For you, too, Tiramisu. For you too.
Tiramisu, though the word is misused, I miss you & migrate
Towards you, my wings flapping (waxy forms of light),
I’ll glide to Tiramisu. I’d guide you too.

Tiramisu, Tiramisu, through these moments, I see the world in you
It reflects from your eyes, blue in celebration
And I celebrate you, Tiramisu. I celebrate your existence,
In the cold of the gunshot night.

Tiramisu, I have a thousand things to tell you, & not withhold
Ponderings on the meaning of the world, and yet I do not know,
Though I can’t know, Tiramisu. Can’t know it all.
Tiramisu, I wish I could know everything, a thousand faces...
A thousand names to those faces, and I want to know them
But not before you, Tiramisu. Not before you.

Tiramisu, Tiramisu, there is nothing more intoxicating
Then a sip of the breath from lips measured,
Metered, in beauty, Tiramisu. You are in beauty by breath
In the depths of your every breath
In the dessert under your dress, where it all started
Echoing in economic unamity.

can you dig it?

Are you with the word or are you without the word? I am the word and this is my birth.
Umberto Eco! You saw it all you were there. And Tiramisu, and Horkheimer, and to all of the submass, The word beckons you.
But, eh, I'm not writing. I'm too tired, and lessoned by my prisons.

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