this, in spring, in october

I.  The persistence of an image. The image of a noose dropping from the sky, the ceiling, from inside my  

    umbrella, from the marquee downtown, from the marquee that spells: MIDNIGHT IN PAIS. That 

    rogue r, refusing illumination. 

    I wish it would drop. 

II. In Paris. In Paris we decided--we decided, we or he, oh who can tell! who can tell sadness from love? 

    -- we decided that Paris was overrated. The polish, the pretense, the pork! Proof positive of sustained 

    anti- semitism! But they didn't know you were coming, I offer. They always know. It's like this 

    everywhere, sweetheart.  Just another country. Pais.  "He stuck his head in my mouth, scratched away   

     at my larynx – perhaps a small seed of death was stuck there."

III. Those objectionable flourescent lights, they make this stream possible, make this car-go. I crane my 

      neck upward. I see inside the squares and am sure I'm getting cancer. 

IV. Will it be this way, always? 

      What, precisely? 

      

      It, that irreverent referent. 

      What, in the century that will follow my death and all the time before. What has been constant? 

      Name me, crushed larynx. The other parts influence only timbre. To prevent the localisation of the  

      inflammation it has been the habit to apply leeches. Where does writing originate for you: From the 

      larynx, from the imagination.