from Block Chapel

whenever I listen to cornelius I think of cecilyand fry and house and read the blacks withpeter pál. but sometimes it gets deep in the holdand 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 feelingof refuge, in russell's anarchy, for angola, by soas.then I feel risen in the balmed-out underground;I get preoccupied with the tonal situation; I haveto kiss somebody and end up in the original: becausethat outside drama is our knowledge of the worldand nobody claims it but us. we keep it hidden inthe diagram. we know the score. we have a plan.

            welcome to what we took from is the state.            there's hot water in a carafe on the second floor            and the other bottom altar is an ordered pair            with lemon chocolate on the curb. enjoy the            recital and 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. refuse the individual best and the sad            impersonal personal shit that plays off every            other frank but my little irregular frank, his            body shaped like an accordion, his body shaped            like a pair, in the every day feast day, but comeupon. you're perfectly welcome to what we give            away.

            played hymns for cinema and moth            and hot house epinonikon in a rocky            church with a club bound feeling of            elbow between the crack and pin/she            was my best friend except for the key            and the alternate noise/we put the key            in the folded message so the groundcan            talk and spin around but never hurtyou.            the world waits every day for freedom            fighters and they come every day with            music in the delicate lofts with catslike            delicat and mantee and fragam playing            organ flatted graven rided for therocket            in a chapel, the cats who can tell astory.

I made a book from the sky songs of bukka white.it can't be read, but you can smile, but it ain't mine.if you walk all over me I'm gon' say how do you do.the history of art from below is a violent greetingon the surface of kansas city, a readymade social danceupstairs in the gallery. baby, tell 'em a rushing did it!to burn for creative orchestra in köln, a block fromthe konfrontationen in a ditch, on all this moleculargastronomy for ceramics, the choir is a confectioncircle. the kiln is an open form of worship on vine fordarkness. for the effervescent school of the desert issonny jones's brilliant needle, scratched on a wallof cool leaning in his cryptograph for submarinebrush and hermitage, where they cut another linefor skywriting on a mirror on the ground, not to seepast you but to say good morning, not to belong tomy own parks but to not belong. I'm a musician withmetaphysical abilities. tell 'em I had a wonderful life.

        her gold tooth with the elemental slide reveals that soul power is an ornament        of new birds coming out on the open flood. can you appreciate that? or hear        the speech secrecy of the atlantic underbridge? it's still wandering; the potential                anarchy is still on tour, surrepetitious vamp just keep on coming to the rescue.        say you wanna blow? just let me blow. blow my thayang baby blow my thang wa        ditty say you wanna saysay you wanna say say you wanna say say watch me say I        vocoded baby, I blew holes in fading, I grew cultures in a subterfuge. the effect        was enfolding twelve streams of base...