I stay at home just like a hermit
I've got the jammy but I don't got the permit
( )


an idea of order at Chapoquoit
or down with the books for air
indistinguishable, that's quieter
palm trees, fluoresecent clouds  

Nothing exists as it seems, especially these flatland blocks.  Ghost words and ghost trees, like movies scanned across the room, under whose stars and whose flight skimming the shore, inches above the water, could have been reading the shore, where I was sitting on Belleair causeway, whose extension is decades across.  Flat prose for unfinished, dull as breathing silently in a room, air conditioning, flat books for whose city. 
As artificial as you can be, sin computadora, what parts of a language do you abandon, as in deciding what language to write in, an irreversible act. As U. said on the phone, a text that was arcane and brief.  The house does have its life and it settles this Florida at equal degrees.  It involves a full mapping of the entire city, from 1982 to 2004, south into Fort Myers and north at the forests of Lutz.  Hike through the woods of Port Charlotte yesterday afternoon, over mangroves, roots fall into brackish canals, the leaves angled askew from the branches darkest green rain.  

Not sure how long the cartographic impulse will sustain.  The city names being emblems, disguised as dull prose which is dull prose, like the verse taken from Los Angeles while walking on Sabana Grande, after having come down the mountain at sunrise on the back of J.'s pick-up truck.  Each city unreal and tedious, deathly on both sides, ghost prose she spoke above.  Plan on going to Tampa Libros early next week.

Yesterday's This is out of our range.

Temple choice.

Biography of a Tampa poet in his eighties, former apprentice of Breton, anonymous in Seminole Heights and Sulphur Springs.  
Un manuscrito que se autodestruye.
Machine morning, dropping heavy clouds along the coastline pulling air inland.

Mantener un odio puro y sereno.

To defend oneself against the social by the creation of a zone of incandescence, on this side of which, inside which flourishes in terrifying security the extraordinary flower of the "I."
(Aimé Césaire)

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