less than vowels they are veins
and more like very slight parades.
beginning with a black sound each:
three waves.
(moving at the same speed
moving at the same)
I declare my hollow heart a saint.

Not very much natural light in here. But that’s just as it is sometimes. Doesn’t make for much incentive. Not much at all. Turn on a lamp.

I do not like it anymore with this insentient glow. But the light beams labor, makes me want to rise.  But the room is filled with annointments, blankets, pleasantries, nightstands, mirrors, rags, bathrooms, closets, beds, beds, beds

I lie back down. It is the only thing to do.  I am still tired, and there is no where to go. My eyes close.

* * *

Later I run through the straats with towering brick huts one after another lining the streets straddling canals, a city ring dividing the campus and gathering the old town into a half circle tract, split by the oudegracht, the old canal, a tract filled with immense brick huts and iron railings and marketplaces filled by Sunday walkers and down by the canal on the level below the streets wooden doors protect the threshold to underground lairs where the trolls and lepers live in slumberous peace….

* * *

The goddam housekeeper came in, woke me up. Only responding to his own voice. Nothing to be done, I move my legs to stretch.

The wine is splashing between my legs, the sun is splashing through the bay window, and inside my veins there is a bubble and splash of a thousand crazy things that commence to gush out of me now pell-mell (Henry Miller)

I walked out and onto the street slowly. Looked in through the windows. My reflection looked back amidst the passing scene, tree trunks, iron rail, bicycles, lamp posts all in place, one after the other. Could use a haircut. Run my hands through my hair.

Stop in front of the window then to check myself. Was properly attired. Were shoes on straight, was belt polished. Many things to attend. To give one’s attention to.

But fair ’tis, I am as I am, things won’t change overnight, an eye for an eye in this world, a goddam surety ’tis. Insensitive to the light ’tis. Like Yoda ’tis. That’s what it’s like, feckin Yoda ’tis. Goddam irish. Can’t trust a one of em. Take a’self all the way to goddam holland to escape and you only got a dump of pitchfork tongues circling their two wheels around the silent brickway

But I was in the mirror. Jacket, set, collar extended, set, gristled, yes, but only around the mouth. Gaunt, but not unsightly, I walk to and fro thinking to myself It will do, and my hand scratches the side of my head. A window catches my eye. Flyer on it. Did someone tape that there or is it inside. What a strange thing to put up. I read the words and over the canal the sound of an engine sputtering by goes. As long as you have egos you do not belong with us. What a strange thing to write. And on the side of a building by a canal. The engine sputters away.

* * *

After I was home, it became dark, and the angel of god knows what began to spout off at me. One another, it was to be understood, is a code implicit in great bounties of manumission. In the bite the itch was fervent. Then silence. But this sentence meant nothing to me! The words, useless! Even the explanation held no sign of reason. Utterly useless to be given an answer with gobbledygook for argument. Goddam hypocrites. All of them making an argument for, all of them flushing for this or that cause. What is one to do about it. There isn’t a thing to be said about. Nothing to say but. It’s just as it is when. The same’s just always as. Where do you keep your. What can ya do, but go home, have a sit, cross your legs, relax, and dab a bit of butter on warm baked bread to stuff in your feckin face. Goddam hippo.