Full Foreground

What it means

47 What it means to read Egyptian sailors voyage to Byblos, the search for cedar wood in light of manned exploration of space, forthcoming places in which to raise the standard, what I want from my enemies, the egg and bone, the fingers burning when you get there. But you fail in the process at a velocity concomitant with the stuff and landscape in front of you, overwhelmed by the lush pattern around the slant horizon, the distrust they claimed with regard to language, the paradigm a spiral or side-long, fretted angle always finite in a seemingly perpetual clangorous tangle of immediate meaning and whereabouts on the tongue by which the acid bitter sweet and savory surround of the lace-sutured writing and the force of the hand, or intrusions like the telephone. This first wall bears no fissure over the entry and habitual sameness of address, not the violence of home help me over the repeated phrases of childhood in slogans of television and radio as per the language of Hollywood and the roman catholic church where time elapsed was a ray beam the head now hovering over thick air and feet oblivious to the act of displacement by which they may be said to exist. Pull my arms then in opposite directions, our lips wet now in the most 48 public of places, the isotonic pulse and water lapped from flesh to flesh, pulled back to sway the thread still joining mouth to skin, then lifted from the fell of it now taut, gasping, inserted likewise, in arms, a slight push to the next figure, legs suspended and half-turned waist, just the slight hairs and slush full tongue over whose agile hands and ass spread, his shaft to navel, tight grin a transparent edge between laughter and coming to the rip of too much light when lips at decisive points along the exhausted places of repose. ...