VILE AGAINST THE NEW WORLD
Sentence against the pathological consistency of a predetermined civilization
If on Friday her pounce has been misidentified, reparations will be made, but until then we shall sit and wait and ponder the indemnity of such deeds soberly and without retrenchment, so sympathetic and in such tender rain my closet dalliance with the Austrian, who waltzed by herself—and the cheetah—in the room above made known to the world at large, died by herself, her death compounded by an intractable will, condemned to whisper her last words to me while three moments passed, as her lips reached my ear, two recognized, one found in my Dictionary of Coincidences, but none the girl Chinese and uninvolved, who spit tea as she drove by Stockholm Central Station, her cabin window reflecting the roof lights and the snow outlined by dusk as it ascended the carriage track, penultimate and foreboding, three latin words reconfigured by the foreigner standing in the doorway of the architect Joseph who, unknown to me, smiled a knowing smile and waved to his children fare thee well (bye bye), all the while resisting the partition, the letter s, the letter f, the subterranean flicker alone between two cheeks and distended jaw bone, a thin whisper (when he whispered) of the jackass on the hill, the present-leg elephant beak fractured for posebee and the formal restitution of the dark gender, its cushion whip drafting blood to practice aryan intuition, two boodles slit and a fiddle of skinbow laid down softly by iron from the town that intervenes trainstops where fenwich and brood and i can’t remember sink fishbrawn for kicks and naked ruddernips, two graves down from a murderous intention but not today nor tomorrow (shall they) jump ship the sail or flay Portuguese castanets for the funeral procession of the great man who, when asked the simple question how are you? replied never again.
