Wednesday, June 29, 2011


Toppings: Eshu Vom Marmingus

In the theatre, or play version of the rolling metaphor, Saint Anthony
comes out like Jack Benny draped in hissing beasts like a diva in squirming rags
and distractedly he swats at the ney parasitical encumbrances, but the camera,
which shouldn't be there, obviously, pulls back, and then up, violently, and
accelerates, leaving through a hole in the center of the champagne-colored
sky-light to traverse vast domains of sublime meteorology detached from
any specific locale, exquisite, dense, school cubes of flying snakes, cubes
of liquid hair whose nucleus might be a brain of india ink actively suppressing
any obsidianate reflection to remain matte and still as the centre of the universal storm, and only
once does a long thin crystal needle emerge like the name for a state which existed
only once and will never exist again.


To taste the rind of the Anchoy:
Jack Benny in black-face
does Othello
felling leaches.
What exactly is instructive in the knowledge
that green is the color of Mohammed?
There are deep solemn caverns on every continent.

And even sand comes into will.
Carolyn Exner