Ken Baumann - Solip

And if I was foxhunting—

Could not gain access, so had to cut a path. PLEASE ADVISE. Urgent channels, they swell, you know. Every path has a brain.

Bled throughput. Needing. Teeth come front. Garish. Umpire. Welded cuts and their bubble blend. It's all a ruse: By now if you haven't seen—

Accusations! Hah! Perhaps we should form you a rap sheet, and start to call the items out? This is the danger in me.

I am sick and bored and want it back, the door. The hand, dark or not. I couldn't care. But the lack of everything, candidly, is forming quite a blank. And the testament I give can't hold such a rupture: The unholy blank, a middle, around it another pillow blank. These things, in accordance, are not conducive to electrical strain (me to you) — so let's play:

I'm outpacing you ten to one.

Time for the lover's tale?

Breathing.

The Fifth Difficulty: I prescribed six. You sent me into terror loops. Held a pull of uranium to my right lung.

All in accordance with the law, the law a natural extension of the hand, the hand the natural extension and body of god.

What is holiest: Speed of delivery.

There. I am sank.

There's a space in wrapping this up. But in the bubble that the end creates, there is great urgency. Urgency like a stoked fire, or like that glint of precious metals that drives us (you god) into the earth in many ways. The ore, a stoke. A desire that even in quenching is by definition unquenched. We are born into it. Some are, some are born into a hollow chamber, much nearer to just one. I, due to spent borders, was not. Lines unknowingly employed by bipedal things, unknowingly stripped of their fundamental ambiguity. Their always. So, again: The urgency in waiting to start — FINISH — again means a great cry, a chasm with the top forced down by massive sheets of air and sound, to become a cannon, building by ricochet until burst. The canyons pop. The ears require. Birds come down to visit and salvage. The world shortens. Topped out.

I once had a longer one in me.

We could go back to the room?

Can we?

We could go back to the mocking things: Pen in my right hand, paper in my left.

We could go back to the miserly and weather, the king in exile, the mother room.

We could go back to silence.

Tempting. A sugar that never peaks and never valleys.

We could strip infinitives and talk in tone of body. Like: The wrinkles and slow beating. The crude lungs. The knees, almost broken now.

We could talk about the sense of the room.

The room.

The walls. The door. The windows. The bed. The visiting. The water. The static. The click, routinely.

Abandon: NONE OF THAT THERE—

We could leave.

It's all conversation, now, anyway. You see? Yourself at dinner, nearing the veal. Bringing in leafy greens. Smiling — said smiling. This is one possibility of I'd like to think two possibilities. The other is a non-event. The other is an alway-on button. So, to prevent the dinner:

AH—

There. I don't think—

I don't think I let that through. Maybe—

Bounce. I'll tell you: I'm bleeding and cut all over. Threw myself against the walls again. But. That's no fair. Not fun. I like gyres.

Straight slope of the nose, soft and large eyes, closed, lips that are well defined and finely cut, but lacking pout. Or glean. Cheekbones, soft, smooth, in proportion. A face in ecstasy, but a face out of sex. The safest face, swirling around the statue until it reveals itself as whatever lies under the stone. Inside the stone already, like a crystalline egg. Smooth and carved to defeat facet. What a purpose. I can see the sculptor's hands in a furry. Trace paper, the sketch, the look into the block. Look, the sketch, then stare into the block. A nimble—

Expel.

Spat it on the floor. No would be convenient, visitor. I need the light. Please. I want it for color.

I'm done.

Surface. Pain unlike a brick, but hot — a stove. All the spaces I'm leaving you, if that is what I'm leaving you, could be full of it. Full of pain. I stay plastic, but even I cannot remain neural-neutral. Call me unfashionable.

Breathing.

When the lip's gashed — dry first, then gashed — and the immediate sharp beacon becomes a lighthouse atoll, then you can run it over with your teeth, and the report back is a sigh into discomfort and an invitation into the keenest pleasure. The sharpest play. And this becomes a repeat: Teeth to lip, teeth to lip, teeth to lip. No: Not unlike the flower.

I only collect the contagious god.

I can be so much…

Oh. Oh.

I'm laughing!

Oh. This suggestion: Hunt for them. Abandon the cigarette and step back into the rain to trace the lead. Like that. That's what this suggests. So.

So.

Before I step: I am safe. Realize. What is keeping me away? No feeding — no tubes no water no brine no bristol no breathing no splurge no tack no wire no back. No hurting — no threat no invade no hit no break no slice no cut no puncture no slash no beat no arrest no burn no gag no lash no whip no shout. No fade — no take no let no bend no break no fix no let no slept no met no meet no re. No end. So in: Here. I. Am. Safe. No company.

Like promised.

Will I ever—

Mucus. Like a slug trail. That's what's leaving. I can pick up its scent and track it, down that alley. Crawling up the brick and slipping in a flush-to-wall window. The bottom of the black shoes, the khaki coat. There was a wraparound mask. Notate. Send it to the recorder, and set up the wall. Damn the rain: Make it slick. Damn the thunder: Want to hear the inside of the car, report back to recorder what clangings. Or what, if fire. So take a note. Climb up. Damned slick. Rain coming down. Remember the comic books in the brown paper sacks and their future protectors. Or not. Remember nothing. Keep blank as the brick facade leans up below you. The window is a small reach, and you almost want to stop and turn back up and reach the bottom, set out of the alleyway and go back to your car, remove the cigarette lighter, set it down on the seat beside you and go up. Let the sirens and small hats know what they missed. But you don't. You keep climbing to the window. Set so smoothly into its facade. A perfectly clean window into whatever rummaging. What the wraparound mask is getting to up there, whether it be some document or burning by now — you have to catch it, unmask that face. Notate to recorder. Hands are reaching the edge and I can always pull myself up in a flash — that is never a problem. If the rain just—

That's an action. Were you embossed?

Is it coy if I show you what my hands are doing?

Why I spend so much time in this filthy corner, I don't know — I assure you. I know the things missed couldn't have slipped below this small dig of detritus.

The basic grace is right before you, above you.

No slash.

Moving. Next corner. This a white and almost jellied. Understand where it all should've been — not in a certain color or mood but in a pulse. Like pulling up instead of pulling down, esophageal. The mirror of stomach and uterus. That's a pop psych. Now that's a fiction!

Nothing here. My hands are gloves.

So many steps before the next corner. A clever map that I haven't drawn yet — oh well. Here now. Messing. This air is so nope! Nothing.

Trek. Should I even begin to describe the fourth? Or is it better to leave it a line, and let you zoom in on a point and point on as I go—

I'm left with all this land before me! The mountainous planes! The hilled valleys! Roaming on the grass and snow feels so good, and the better breathing. This is the healthiest thing I've ever done.

The confession to the mother about the selfsame event of last year. Not an adventure.

So, in failing, I'm left with all the rest. The all but corners. The sap bottom of a deep well. The place just below the grifted machines in their upwards sucking; the sound around a consonant. Pourous blood, or shale. Quaked salt. (me!) If I set off now, the safari will not be far behind. A jungle in creeping. Vines a—