The Suchness of Things


Everybody hates Nancy.
Her mucous is on the polka-dot.
There was a letter no one else saw
in the benevolent tube.

I get up to write a letter, but my hand
is hairy at knuckles and lashing out
sore. I got up to write a letter
with my sore head and jumbling.

Somewhere there is another world*
with marijuana and tissue.
This world opens up to it
with a "ka-kang. ka-kang."

Hey! Settle down in there ...
incendiary chirrups rustle my poultry!
No, that's not right. Nancy?
Is dallying in shadow.

All eyes upon her
and the huge quatrain
she lifts to her lips (like a babble)
as a version of pronouncing.

Pierre thinks he likes poetry: He hates Nancy.
We hate Nancy too. But we "are" Nancy.
Her mucous is on "our" polka dot.
This is one theory of "quiddity."

_________________________

*Sometimes it's good to fall into emptiness, be it another person, or
oneself or a junkyard.  Blessed are the hours of emptiness.  My life
vacillates between the two -- the emptiness and ... whatever is the
opposite of it ...

Whatever it is, it isn't fullness."