Ignote Minamus

On Apuleius' physiognomics

There is no community in writers
I saw the moccasin
Chase the frown bird
Where the dusk and the cliff
Modulate upon a complex
Mirror shelf
Unity
Has cartoon gloves
With provenance

germany
1931
donald duck
no

The whole planet is phipoost
And bereft of tolerance
For its own sad attempts
To be something other
Than itself
Or the opposite
Most of us just see
Glory and mud pies
Fogging
And horning
Like a pipe organ
In Oregon
My organs were made to shine
Synaesthesia
Without aesthetics
All organs
All involved
With some
Version of
Organization
I was intimate
With small-scale
Industrial interferometry
In an applied science
Setting,
But how ironic
That golden ass.

e[p[i[l]o]g]

My life as a writer is over,

And so it begins, I did things like:

Bring a friend the English translation

Of J.K. Huysmans' _Là-Bas_

While he was living in Tangier,

But instead of writing much

I'd just smoke hash

And make collages.

Museums and Books

are liked prisons

for words and pictures,

all of it sculpture.

Torquato Tasso would do things like:

Have imaginary conversations with cupid.