I: Figure 2

The
poems
on
pages
107
and
109
should
be
printed
on one
side of
a
single
long
narrow
sheet
of
paper
so that
it can
be
twisted
into
a
Mobiu
s strip
so that
it
would
have
neither
a
beginn
ing nor
an end
nor a
place
to start
or
stop.
It
would
also be
radical
ly one­-
sided,
Thus
represe
nting a

fully
integra
ted
and
indisso
luble
unity.

II: Love After the Anschluss

He wanted her and yes
she wanted him.
The summer light that flowed
across the rim of conifers
had melted them from sleep
and so with stale breath
and warm bodies they made love.

Haraka Haraka Haina Baraka
Hurry Hurry Brings No Blessing

Forgetting jobs and corporations
is a kind of cottage industry here
in Ontario
and it makes good sex.

After sex, too much began to fill
her heart for her to lie beside him still.
She stood and dressed and walked
along the stones and through the pines
down to the lake. The sun had
passed the crest of hills, and the
morning like her
was calm and quite awake.

Rowing she could feel
the water push,
her muscle pull.
Fluid water
liquid air
and rhythmic motion
everywhere
became a will.

She stopped to watch the newness of the day
sitting in the bottom of the boat
feeling the water sway.
The lake long dead from its acid bath
was clear (as clear and simple
as she wished her mind could be)
yet still responsive to the wind.
Here she could see

clear from shore to shore
from sky to floor
as though the limitless world
were merely a bubble for her soul.
And there below was that ebb,
that odd afterfeeling of having
taken her husband in.
Slowly she let herself unravel.
Ideas should be like this, she
thought, and hearts--loose,
persistent, wet, and clean.
Things and people matter
only when they travel.
Only when they unravel
do words and images mean.

III: Blood Song

Words are guerrillas that lay images like mines
blasting the sight from light-accustomed eyes
and, eviscerating truth, leave truth
truly bleeding where truth lies.

In the mountain valleys
pressed down by business and the city
swaddled still in life's damp heat,
I look up puzzled, unborn,
to the mountain peak
and wonder at death's cooling shroud of snow.
I can only write what comes.
I can't write what I know.
When I get freedom I shall be a boy
trapped beneath his mother's corpse
whose memory spilled with her blood.
I'll call myself a self-made man
and think the black vast past empty
and good.

I shall be the hero of the sanguine mien
and stare unmoved from photographs
made by a pointillist machine.
I shall be nothing. I shall be free.
I shall be loved. I shall be seen.

I don't write what I want.
I write what comes.
And in the dark, helpless limpness of my bed,
I will have guns.

U+1F665