551. The Magical Study: ABC
As grows the Gallic cock at sunrise glows we say crows with our crutches and Pomeranian houses, nudge of sunhead, minutes to get up or sodomize in a rut of supernovaen intestines, slippage of more than just words in a tubful of something (and it ain't dry) waiting for us to take a day off or a life (is neither hidden nor revealed). The tallest banana leaf stands up straight almost to the roof, second story, as the soul stands in the body, erect, to look out its eyes, steaming each morning as from the shower, what brushes the leg hair but the sheathes of the recently departed who would return after the vernal equinox. They are confused, how will they stay warm?, etc. No more sleeping beneath a fence at day's end dreaming of earth's vast confusions. What study can you not afford?
Night gnaws at the root, the worm dives downward, seeks depth beyond movement, despair, only a few cars between 2 and 4 in the morning round the curve, carve columns rising and falling, dispersed on the air, there is no settlement here or hereafter.
* * *
572. Magical Study: Neither hidden nor revealed
The tortured vowel that lunges from the throat of the crow, lunges
when pushed, pulled back and pushed forward over and
over from the pine's corner yard into the blue face
of morning, other crows a quarter mile away, most likely,
whose voices, wheeling, weave in and out, hypnagogic (it
is so clear!), harmonious by comparison to his mangled attacks
or demands, he is learning to talk. That we are of its orders.