2/III. (Orphaned?)

III.

1.

Us soul-mad dabbing red dots

everywhere, bring the fire to a point.

Time is easier with a personal fate.

The dot the flattened sphere to bear ahead

until outside again, die into before.

Circle is soul is now, is destiny. You

hold your soul. Even this ragbag, is it. Be careful.

You merge your dot, touch & are touched by

the stuff of Okeanos, that wider ring

all of it, of which you are any.

Be careful– the universe never turns back.

2.

It’s in the hands. Vigorous hands of. Insects
or automobiles, an articulating inquisition. 

The music draws them, a bowl of water

a bed you see in a peasant cottage an old-time

fly trap. Things sing that’s the principle

behind the phonograph. Significance behind

signifier what one might be held to.

Now did you move your hands or did you

just move them? With the music of the

things you’ve seen, I mean really seen

or were you just waving to them?

3.

One item at a time, sometimes more enters

the mouth through Okeanos makes disagreeable

perhaps horrifying but awesome quilt of

slime, gooed together unknowns known now

horrific perhaps but it’s the only respectable

thing to do sure isn’t making art or making it up.

Don’t make anything but a place for it to go.

Don’t draw a circle as small as the uncut.