Ken Baumann - Solip

It begins as a small bother, a miniscule bloodline back of the earlobe. Brush at it. It returns, brush at it. It feels negligible. The rest is smooth and not attended. After an inordinate amount of calming, reached a strait in which body became an absence piece by piece. Now an earlobe calling. Brush at it. The lack in between noted, made sure, brush at it, not a constant presence, this back earlobe. Brush at it. Bloodline. Faint. Note the procession. A calming, due and promoted and practiced, brush at it, until an absence achieved. Brush at it. Have to let the vein fall away. Have brush at it, to let the vein fall away. Brush at it. The back of the earlobe. The head. Brush at it. Pulsing. On the fingers. Note the fingers, clean brush at it. An angle. The legs underneath you, absent. Move them, note the ankles brush at it and the bloodline. Ankles rush, crush. Brush at it push it away. Ankles hot and hitting, brush at it, scraped. Blood underneath. Hands are clean. Note the hands. Note the brush at it, wall. Note the wall. Breathe, feint, let a bloodline. Note the. Breath. Brush at it. Ankles. Shift. Extend legs. Flatten, then. Brush at it. Note above you. Blood. The smells catching up. The bloodline. Brush at it. The smells coming up. Ankles torn, torn and note the note the, fresh to air, straighten up. Inordinate calm brush at it. Inordinate calm. Brush at it. Breathe. Straighten up. Brush at it. Feint bloodline. Note the fingers, clean. Clean. The blood back of your calves. Stay and promote calm. Brush at it. Feint let up. Catching up. Smells, back of your calves with blood. Brush at it. Ankles and spread up the bones, catching up, bloodlet, the breathing brush at it, calm. Inordinate calm.

The total force of all people suppressing terrible acts is the total weight of god.

Screed passed through the noblemen, fellows in ale, dropped to the floor at night. It corralled attention. Said: Do the opposite. Set eyes in paranoid lines. We look back on ourselves, the entire royal court with angled faces.

There, eyes aligned; a plane, a grid.

Yet again the pen. How can I play father when song must be lost?

And the much blanker, the golden loom: Paper. Is it paper? Or is it skin?

And I thought a door would show after the consummation of X and shit. After the consumption of shit, X.

No plan to render time into a ledger. No point by pointillism. Instead: A tuning fork.

Like putting down dogs for economic reasons.

Now it's time for candy code. Communicable waste! Keep scouring, though: The attack plan, Laura Lee, comes when you're dozed and cast in half-light. The concussions come in sync. Swimmingly. The city burns.

Counter intelligence reeks of sex.

Knowing my toenails, it's easy to play the politico. The dissident. And how you'd see me faint at the pulpit.

Counting veins.

Huge razing wheels tear through it. Sunspokes catch in the foliage, even though—

That man who once said before where there was word there was mud, and I told him: Before there was mud there were poisoned wells.

Give me your labor.

A singing exchange. Fair trade.

The man, cellared, with his stack of myth. He dug for years and never found bottom. Stars are named after him.

By now I've surely dropped it. (by now he's surely dropped it)

Remember: I can never know I'm staring.

There is a general mess of twitch muscles, and sometimes they freeze, in cataract, and fire all at once and guide me into a hard surface. Set reeling, they'll go again. And again. Little pools will drag at my feet and spread. Slick is slick no more.

The Fourth Difficulty: Hearing. Little boys in nursery rhymes: Nearing. Cut to: Frothing. Cut to: Fearing. Guards, near space of hearing space: Leering. To themselves: Jeering. An abandoned game: Cicero. The ears caught in a perverse relationship, that of touch and go. I still celebrate their movements. The tattoos, such. A high trill. A low and wavering vibrato, filling the gilded lilies and maids, the men already forty feet down the street, out from the opera, hats left behind in every other seat, house empty except for the hats, and the maids and mistresses are all in brutal rupture and nearing a drained death, one inflicted by the vibrato, the total face of the missus a howl, and the slow glide from the doors to the stage, above the gone heads and the rocking hats, each empty seat of red felt quivering by the fine hairs, moving, tandem to the low no, moving down, toward the stage, the vibrato does not increase, the vibrato nears but does not increase, and you:

Perhaps you should thank me now.

If I can recurse enough — loop enough then I can stall it. Remind me of my mechanics. Ehh—

How long ago I decided that broadcast is binary. Lamentable. If only I could've spoken in gels.

There is a better notion of evolution. It takes polar night and sets it stiff in its shoulder with—

Measure. The hands weighed. The hand waits.

I promised in blood that I would not embody the weather. I gave it no voice. How the ribs call. They re-angle. Positioned for a new metric of waves.

No difference between the trenchant and battened dictator, my body: We both, if we could, would flatten it all.

Apocalypse lost meaning when boxed.

What?

Treacherous bonds of diaspora. Wait: Do not transcribe the signal with that. The signal is good. I am not ready to be dispersed. Still new. The prisms are not nearly vast enough. They would reign, and the body would cede mountains. Capacity would suddenly become cancerous.

Prone.

Prone. Locked in, paper and pen! I would jaunt in place but the grime would slip me.

Where is the hand? Where is The Hand? That is what it is. The Nursing Mouth. The Slitted Shin.

There is something behind me.

Prayers come in like a service. One reads them, One dispenses with them. They are made into a paste and immolated. One and One hold countenance as prayers come in. They are often made of whisper, but the ones saved are made of salt. There was once a prayer made of an entire city. There was once one made of a snail. These were held away.

You can let me have my singularity.

You have filled my hands.

I had this until—

You can keep me from bending. Is that what you are? Are you a molten blind? Do you straighten when cool? Do you mean that faith is had, that there is an opportunity not for resistance but for acquiescence and that you must come, by establishing my hands as strung up, come into this room, now that you have held me, can you also make me talk in turns, can you also make me lose my eyes, can you also put shine on my cheeks, or here I am moved and you are to blame. You are to blame. Not taken by take but taken by gift. I'm left with two devices, both for experimenting. One is a unique system of gels and drying. One is archival. One is only One when there is a void surrounding. You have collapsed the support. You. The walls were once meant for an air, dispersal, for a negative bind. You have given me with a picture. I must color. You have given me raw eyes and raw color. I am keeping within an in. I want an in way. No out way. An obvious inclusion of out way. The stroll of light past a bare arm. The mooded culp of a soft reach. The horns. The machine pre-talk. The eventless night. I was granted haven. I was promised in an office. I was ordered, not shelved. Left closed. Seamless, seamless only as a notification that symbols too were cooed away. A notice. And now. This. Tools. I will only wait for you. I could only recognize a pattern and appreciate repetition. Found faith in recursion. As expressed. Then promised. Then, now, given away. A small shift to you. A small shift. Might, maybe. You have betrayed artifice. You have shown a cheek with no veins. No. And now the palms filled with skin again. A motive. To embody. Quaint, I'd say. Yes, quaint. Such a debt paid to the past, liquified. When in that short history you've acknowledged something former and living. Foolish. But not a fool to knave and know. A fool shown. Certainly a fool shown. How present. What an explicit gesture. How laden with invitation. Could you not have been less so? Could you not have been? How you've given in to, hmmm. A shame really. Could you not have given in to you? How naive to think that all is not plastic! There are many viewers, many providers. I am still in grace as long as you prepare. I haven't lost my becoming. I have never, never lost.