Ken Baumann - Solip

Receiving?

Receiving?

Halfway through I picked a function. Imbedded in a mouth of flame. Never wrought, only through the space between teeth. Like hiding sense. Played out. A mana. Tapped, carbon soaked. The few hours devoted to meal-time and its consequence; all else is open with—

Till death do us placate. Listed as a comparable, fell a bit short. Make me use these things. Make them stop singing.

Black capacity.

Ahh! Perhaps five more sheets and I could craft a cube! A dollhouse; I'll fill it with candy. I'll fill it with finger men and finger women. I'll roll it and give them all a surprise. The house pasted together with spit and a light touch, soft as silk, soft as the mother way. Lunar and behaved. And one of the men inside the dollhouse will become a pamphleteer: Incite like the moonfull, he'll say. INCITE like the BLOODIED HAND UP!

To take the bilateral out of it: Trial, Both, Error.

Munitions supplies, an indexed average, a form that you can plug it all into. Wire hanger production and staph infections. Envelopes: Licked, stationary. Tuna belly. Races. Hunger strikes. Lacerations on the pads of the foot in the workplace. Nightly hours, everywhere. Uzi spray, average hits, all that. You can plug it all in. Then you can form another, much wider index. And that strata, now explained, will reveal itself as—

TRUMPETS, HEAVENLY LIGHT.

The hot iron ball that the saints must swallow.

I—

Limbic portends. Effervescent bouts of aphasia, twinkling necro explosions in the midrange, depth of field. Star sufferer. Compelled to shout. A curling hand, a soft and lurid odor. Not hunched, but bent. Knees in each other, grooved. Soft feet. Set to sea. The pyre lit with a remote watch, set to TIME and left, beside a gazing starfish, unspoken for, left to wash back, next to a stone, hugged undercurrent.

Or the man in bouts of smell. His fingers raw from the upnosing of them. Never far away from his hands near his nose. He did more breathing than anyone.

Balustrade: the gunmen, their knight forefathers, their mongrel widowed children.

All to avoid a hollow throat.

In the portions of one of: Do I humiliate? Should I strip back? Peel? Feel as if I never felt. Heal as if I never knew. Hung as if I never let. Shown as if I never took. Cause as if I never crawl.

Platitudes are costly, too.

Made private: Scented cloth, leather straps, flies, paste, torn (anything), erics, quail eggs, number, veins, lacrisising, melt, ice, heaters, fiber, bread, pleasing, water, animals in heat, day bathing, venom (to the ocean) (I don't remember much)—

General intelligence, cross and well represented, corn fed, only floats in a bubble of steam. Basically miscarried. Or, a theory: There are spans inside us that take years. There are bees that make honey in winter. Hunger is a detriment, money is a seed. Juries deliberate in earnest, always. Slack is left slack because it wants a pull. Pull me. Need me?

Maladapted wingspans, too. What shifts the place of trees, what swings on dry vines. Never dropping from the tree, even under blight sun. Pleasing hands could eventually form, that too from the wingspans rearranged, a hexidecimal away. Pleasing little hands, rined in fur. See them! For it's the fruit that called a motion up, and the temple begat the city…

Milk comes through a wall.

Never: A net. I've installed them repeatedly. They all sink shut and shudder and groan.

I am! I am!

When I feel safe I think about veins.

I run lines, too; up and down the walls, or within, coming in and out, lines that intercede like eyes, lines that take something out. Too sketchy? Let me clap for you:

Now with one hand:

Past the silver bar, just under a hue of gold that ringed and took up whenever spotted. Two, beside each other. Both in spell. Nomance. After half a step of pleasure in a maze, before a full night of empty alley and the windows all silver like film. A no sight. A shouting then benched. But, before: Bar. In between a two. After a tip. Bunkered and lipping the old flame, and admissions of displeased, displaced, then to return. Admonishment. Halos. Very early ferry. Mun water. Played before on a boat, never reached, always an always but never a never. Uptaught. But, again, before: In a night of day labor he divulged his drunkest secrets.

So there's an admission to trip. You have that. On me? Like files. A cubit, shorn aside from a mother drill, looked at, really looked at, treasured. Or stolen. Or sold. Or lost. (never lost) So: Taken. Then put back into a bitmelt and made to shear again. A hesitant meld, between the two layers of impact. Like dancing amongst friends. Heat unlike—

Or the torture of drinking until the water breaks—

Gone fission—

On that lakebed. All the way at the bottom. See it? It's gold for a reason.

There will be no

Foreign bodies, or foreign entities, or foreign presences, cells, replicants, addled to memory. Those who see that all is just motion are not to be allowed, let in walls, or paid for. Let them take themselves into the desert, like births from the desert. Like a storm they can find. And a chasm when they leave, or return. Never a solid state; dank liquid.

If I played with my ears, I bet I could reach further.

Look behind you.

Waiting for a breach: Tan if washed. Been awhile since the black trolleys came through with guards.

And under what circumstances may HE become a part of the train?

Mary?

Mary?

Again: Roaming. A perpetual coastal glaze. Very hard to say.

Very hard to say.

Seems to be a different rhythm, boys. Slide up a scale. NO MUSIC—

Within the fur of the lit hand I will see the five I've pinpointed and am doomed to repeat. The strike numbers. I will see the cosmology. There are morphing stars around us, even sinking stars. A whole sky shorn in a casket and all its metals still show at you; you can see if you look close enough. It's like the grain in a photograph—

Dust?

Is a concern, yes.

The only affirmative. Make note of that; strike the records. Renege.

If you want to see outside this racket: Intimate scenes. Just see them. See them now, because you'll never see my lips on my knees again.

Once made unsure, now: Holy.

Divine growing laterally. As such I am under.

Could he return to the concern of the—

We may have to part amicably; we may have to shelf it; we may have to put it in its case; we may have to take it down, unframe it; we may have to crack it with a pin hammer and shuffle the rubble; we may have to undo the ties of the lines of instruments; we may have to dismiss the dancers; we may have to crack the disc; we may have to unplug; we may have to take off the hat, strip authority; we may have to step outside; we may have to corrupt; we may have to go outside and lose any vivid motion; we may have to take the pleasure out of the prostitution again; we may have to; we may have to refrain from talking above room tone; we may have to express ourselves only in commodity, trading posts, and sunsets avoided because the men and women, all of us, stay inside with the windows blacked.

Screed. An uneasy union between us; yes I know. Why do you think I put flowers in your hands every time we meet? You are so pretty.

Foreign tongues — well, unseen. That's what is left on you, not in smell but — there are scratches that I trace, palms cupped and suctioning out another's sweat — siphoning the past hands out of you. Again: Can't you do this on your own? Can't you do this with just one? Or another?

Again, emotive flux. Like a belly roll. An amusement, but not much outside amusement, like a slow growing tumor in a bell jar. Hesitance. Strike the likes. I can't seem to keep track of him, sir. Parsons. King.