distressed, perplexed, in despair, persecuted, forsaken, destroyed and

saved by this thought: that I, like all things, will turn to waste

                         and now a preface where I intended a tractate. 

for years in my bed I lay awake convinced I would soon be dead. That he and she, my parents, they, not they but their hired gun, would do me in. That I would go--gently, resigned (of my civilized departure) I was certain. That I believed, at age five, that this---immanent death---was my lot. That I believed--

I. No longer a broken consciousness, but one bid to live
   by the most pious disturbances. it's a, it's a wonderful, life is beautiful, the beautiful mrs., mr. smith  
   goes to, or, all over again. Never again
   would anyone (not ever would
   anyone) mistake these
   For a few dollars more. 


II. For the love of. Terrifying that we mistake, collectively, desire for death, even when & where
    perfectly illuminated.
    We, royal we of this impervious colony, we expect:   cinema instead of newspapers. innovation by
    machine living. feeling robots. eugenics, still, to solve the problem of too menny. 


Would that my hand could learn to betray (you can take the girl out of. you can teach a dog. but you can't lead a horse to), could find itself, could feel compelled to say to write to you must say words as long as their are any about her, my mother. But she is dead, and my bereavement, if and where it transcends the immediate loss, the loss of her is (me: metallurgist not metal worker) deformed, a filament through which my body is able to receive the blow of additional loss.                
For my
                         part I confess that I never valued life as she did. I never thought myself fit to live beyond    
                         December. A moment of recognition, metallic taste, a preface to my mouth, my nose, my


                         lungs filled with the dirty water of the Detroit River, the detritus of industry.  No
                         black tongue, neither rocks nor blades. The absence of a sharp edge. And still---


the trouble with parasites is


What is a preface but a manifesto? And if, when, even after we realize it is all only a question of parsing


conduplicatio. each thing a repetition of the self-same. saved: we will turn to waste. i will fill your lungs. you will bite your tongue.