February

February

a feeling for the body, round, dark brown peyote of the tongue. Don’t call me that fancy, when I want only to be, calling that negation, that negation. when that feeling that all the body is somehow all it is, and yet knowing it’s not, that trick of intellect, thinking what else, knowing our human sounds, and we without allegory, or having their own indications. Call it a feeling for the spaces that we can fill with color, solid, the body of it.

March

a feeling for the body, round, dark brown peyote of the soul. Don’t listen that hypnotic, when I only want to be as I am, or call that negation, when that feeling, that all the body is somehow all it is, dropped, and yet knowing it’s not, that trick of intellect. thinking what else, Don’t I knowing the sounds we make, and without allegory, or having their own indications. Call it a feeling for the spaces that can be filled, solid, the body of it.

February, March 1972