From Series Block Chapel

whenever I listen to cornelius I think of cecily
then fry then house then read the blacks with
peter pál. but sometimes it gets deep in the hold
and the cell’s hard pleasure curls up in the water.
so I sail the dark river in the mind by rocket ship
(my high water everywhere is outer space, alabama)
and stay alive in the concept with an outbound feeling
of refuge, I’ma run, I’mo run, I’m gon’ run to the city
of refuse, in russell’s anarchy, for angola, by soas,
then bright dennis morris take my baby picture
and I’m risen in the balmed- out underground.
I get preoccupied with the tonal situation. I got
to kiss somebody to end up in the original. It’s like
that outside drama is our knowledge of the world
and nobody claims it but us. we get it twisted
in the diagram. we know the score. we got a plan.
. . .
welcome to what we took from is the state
welcome to kill you, bird. the welcome state
and its hurt world, where you been lost and tied,
bird. it’s some hot water on the second floor
and the altar on the bottom is an ordered pair
of lemon chocolate on the curb. get jumped in.
enjoy the recital and the hospitality. come upon
surround recall the project rubble everywhere.
come up on some common operations. drink the
open of the open evening mix. english breakfast
and some curd and light whipping. get up on the
cooling board of new opposite steps and come
upon remains arranged by hand like an english
garden. cant to refuse the unsung isolation.
that sad impersonal personal shit that play off
every other frank but my little irregular frank,
his body shaped like an accordion, his body shaped
like a pear, in the every day feast day, but come up
on. you the one with so much work to do, merchant.
sing a shattered self is just a shelf, young captain,
sea? you perfectly welcome to what we give away.