Sobriquet, Pseudonym, Cephalopod

What they don’t know, of course, is that you don’t fuck with the Hammer. The Hammer smiles, you smile, you wave the truck ahead. It’s pretty simple, for poetry does not make assertions; philosophy does. When the Hammer speaks, he speaks of something wild.  You stop your world, the phony one, the constructed one. It

all that arises is

what is absent what seems lost what we are we think all that we are arises with our thoughts troglodyte culture has arisen from the slimy mass like blastocyst has arisen into a full-fledged fetus not to be born is the best for man the desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews dance,

The Hunters in the Snow

The tracks left in the snow: as footprints, as a path, a puzzle—for the dogs do not catch scent of what we see. It’s faint, it’s true, that trail the rabbit left, a rabbit of slight sounds, faint scents—faint, but still of the earth— slight, but you must hear it so clear the heart is

Not This Sun

Late style is what happens when art does not abdicate its rights in favor of reality. —Edward Said There, we did it again. We ate the sun. This time at 5: 23, pm—standard time, but later than yesterday, wintertime. The trick is, of course, to surround it, first, With clouds, and second, pierce its light—drag