From a Cilento Notebook

Each idea tells partly itself defining itself by the way feelings even talk about god, women-gods, ugly shoes, top hats, big hairy feet, entire boats touching sea with out you actually there. Do pardon our loud yellow turtle nosed baby something – abra tadabra go on hoping, get sorrow to hustle clean out. Give Batman olives. Tell lies with delicate bravado while singing about horses to witness seventy angels’ hat-tricks – I tell eggplant summer squash old zucchini Indecent-asparagus Insides-of-tomatoes, beans, winter squash, orange-pumpkins Lima beans, angry sweet peas, tall green things wild flowering tessellated mustard family, tapering/
curling melon-vines or take it to England summertime oaf. I it tingles by wishing old love adjoins time with February’s touch – maybe find tongue’s mouth open to day’s command.

I-shaped radish! winsome onion! totally sexy Bell-shaped lambsquarters, Mat-soi, High corn, big mountain high tomatoes my inside heart makes cucumber wine more have wept about birth, more have borne more, hasn’t beauty made her take more it hears me complain. By my held waistcoat a bear meows. Habra Badabra macro-hello boys must hoe. Broccoli Method happening now, Qabalah cabal and-all what. What about sexual intention and sunrise dementia, wormy peanuts are such rot. Information tells a tale no wonder Dada arose over men in the damned state – sorry time is pregnant again or having some oats. What a seedy bildungsroman this tale lengthening its oracle-spyglass-summersong truth.

[Thinking is a spell she thought and cast on him her thinking – is thinking yearning can it draw one toward – The blue giraffe from my tall self to hers – Giraffe is kneeling but not sleeping are we thinking in a big Italian dress with colors, dress is woven of a suncloth, dear sheer yellow skirt, Orange-a-fuschia, long white linen, no more feathers! No more English rotting fleurs.]

Tatania [C]ueen of Fairies is falling England-ward really tired, naturally sexy, inclinedtoward Flowering. Old Sydney, Watertown, Acciaroli, TheTundra, South Haven, any town vacant and asking, tomorrow old Town, Mt. Clemens nearly my mother talks about having olives for her exceptionally tasty soup under orange-trees. Futura resides in Pioppi, beginning-to-shape Telepathy team: winning, trembling, redacting, salting, komparing and kontrasting courtly yellow ruffles, subsisting secretly [on] sardines, tasting, being, seeing, idling, clue-finding, losing –such kompels a kross your wild tearful empire. Don’t freakout, for here sighs a person looking oceanward, keenly charmed. Weather does not understand time. Voilà, il vérité – take off nothing.

[He was in peril while she was in Rome. Here are the missing lines you thought you dreamt, or rather did dream but thought you then had typed and lost. And talking of spiritual need in that context – I was better at standing broad jump than running long jump. Sprints and hurdles, nine blue ribbons, Fishbones! My Life in Track and Field. Now look at the moon on the water. Why recall that in the nonlight? They were in the forest while we were on the sea. Poor friends in the novel, a schoolbus comes and goes. A suitcase fell off the back of the truck, child who eats potatoes for breakfast. It seems to say in the story. Darling, we look fabular – que pasa? Don Juan in Bryon’s poem after all was passive, sort of falling/drifting /floating from one mind of another to another. Thank you for the coffee and the melon, someone someone in the present.]

Why children mistake error yea mistake everything undulating tongue-lithe as 70’s fringey-lace bikinis hulaskirts hairshirts v-necks leggings windflaps, like sound begs itself with sound. Valiant foghorns, apple-songs, chirping, hardly-even inching-along-sounds, animals roaring, talking men, old men, every color opening real sounds, full-on long songs, windy farts, all with cheerful or endless breathing, ha ha sounds. Ahoy Today o break heart about method – freckles release an indolent child. Hopeful. [Prince] Harry acts insolent with too-hot music in his chest. Yeah, a tingling whispers sweet tomatoes by her face toward Tatamagouche.

Intrinsic passion capers in. May many trapeze doctors perch so dove-like, calling hey my verse-house the con opens the door to its picture – it’s a long town, now I peel the ravioli, my Vedic errand, play ball eternally – meant to sleep you in mushroom crescent sensing throat goodness.