a beginning that now seems arbitrary, an end that will seem
arbitrary. a bill of hope. a bill of tragedy. a bizarre series of
countries we keep passing through like mirrors. a carnival of
mixed messages. a clearing house for the emotions. a conspiracy
of legs. a course in applied moods. a family of books. a flag
flapping against the prose. a halo of history. a halo of words. a
history of imagination. a history of sewerage. a history of thun-
derclaps. a hotel in the mouth. a magical connection to unhappi-
ness. a mathematical land where the pieces add up. a memory of
ladders. a peach in the road. a prolonged disassociation of the
naming capacity. a revised history of paradise. a theory that
includes itself. a walk through footage. a symphony of pure
minds. a truly lonely book. an alphabet stairway. an
encyclopedia of images. an unadorned and unpropitious work.
an uncomfortably colourful world. another concept of imagina-
tion. another crucifixion in terms. another day in this pretty
world of ours. are we sharing the same century? at the end of
character, what begins? battles across the marne, the toy soldier
game, the uglinesses of his childhood coming back, little blotches
of unsatisfied time, pockets of emptiness, an enormous gap to be
filled, hours to cross like miles, he was searching for a mission,
yes, a cause, and made a kind of cause of himself. bethlehem
attachments. beware of angels. bizzare little prophets. casting
memories. catapults of language. children vomiting in books out
of jealousy because their national hero is not getting published.
climbing out of the valley of the ordinary. competing for the
thoughts of god. competing for the house of the past. copyright
in paradise. courting fallen angels. dancing in the future. dead
or a string quartet. do dreams have assets? does jimmie have
boundaries? does jimmie think late night tv staves off death?
dream images of a hundred white generals pulling an enormous
black leg. dreaming about having sleep as a job. dreams with
huge casts of strange, strange characters. each book only the
beginning of what it is necessary to say. each step closer to the
world, the more it blurs. erase all distinguishing marks. falling
from angels' nests. fast imagination to heaven. fear needs a place
to rest. fighting off death with our helmets. find someone else to
apologize to. for a fast man he died in slow motion. funeral at
the end of the tracks. god and other stories. god asked for
everything and he took it. god is good-natured. god turned into
a pebble. happiness in the last section. having dreams like
babies. he has become a series of scenes in a b-grade movie, he
replays himself night after night, reruns of personality. he has the
body of a bird, but will he fly? he is becoming part of the patch-
work of death. he is not with the mortals. he keeps taking little
pieces of his life and leaving them around with the kind of benign
forgetfulness with which god probably created the universe. he
likes to stay awake all night and never, never sleep - a perfect
moment there, in the hours between twelve and six, when he feels
like he is flying—straight out, a trajectory at the moon. he looks
in the mirror and is talking to another person. he says he thinks
more clearly when he's asleep. he says he will buy new charac-
ters. he says his face looks like it has been painted by a lot of
different artists with a lot of different brush strokes. he says his
notes are talking to him. he says history is catching up with him.
he says the past seems far more appealing than the future. he
wakes up with a personal question mark. he wants a moon for
writing. he wants everything as far as the eye can see. he wants
more than books to store the climax of god. he will never get
what is on that page of his mind. history has given him many
fathers and many mothers, and many children—this is his family.
home is merely a habit. homes built for phrases. how did jimmie
get in? how did we all become so evil so quickly? how will
jimmie leave? hypocrisy is the easiest of sins. if nothing else, he
has seen the dam on the navajo desert. illusions are great if they
work in your favour. in a country created under attack, it is
difficult to make peace. individuals disappearing into individu-
als. inherited things. insert human happiness. insomniac books.
insomniac's nightmares. instalments of disappointment. inter-
views for the freedom of dreams. is ‘is’ a false translation? is it
too easy? is jimmie lying? is jimmie real? is life a religious
calling? is sleep a documented life? is this the function of
dreams? it is hard to remember things, let alone a whole life.
jimmie can't find all the pieces of his memory, he is lost in the
corridors of his memory. jimmie crossed against the light, you
can't expect god to love you if you cross against the light.
jimmie's got two or three weeks bail before summons, how much
fantasy can he squeeze into that time? jimmie's head is a house,
he keeps running from room to room, hearing different stories.
jimmie's a liar. jimmie's dropping out of the reality business.
jimmie's ok, he just never made it to perfection. jimmie's out on
bail, says he's only got three weeks to tell his story. jimmie's
running out of brave faces. jimmie's struggling to keep sleep in
quotation marks. laughing lessons. lies on a merry-go-round.
lies on a tightrope. life is a language. life is too short for so much
pain. lost in style. lovemaking is the exchange of limits. lunacy,
honey? mad as twins. mercy is a quality of hope. meteorologist
of the future. monologue for the crucifixion. murder is passé.
naming characters is not like naming children. napoleon's vision.
no colour. no transcendence. nobody has so many memories.
nostalgia for the safely dead. notebooks like dead cars. notes
toward a safety net. nothing is the truth that can be believed.
novel for violin and orchestra. obscure riderless text. only one
step ahead of the moon. only much later did he understand the
things he had been taught. only much later did they ring in his
ears with a sense of completeness. people die too easily. pieces
of the peace. prophecies completed before they're begun. poetry
more in the realm of the gods than of man. pouring ourselves
into the world. pulled down the soft corridors of revelation.
pulling the strings of the rest of our lives. readings in unnatural
laughter. reality says wake up. reality sings the blues.
reinvesting death with childish fears. renée promised him
everything in sleep. repositories for gleaming white thoughts.
research into human pain. rooms safe for language. saved from
abstraction by distraction. should we have given up our lives,
stopped fighting so hard to be happy? sideways is the true path
of art. silence is not a medium. since god may be one such fool,
shall we call him scarecrow? sleep has too many ceremonies,
uncertainties. small masterpieces. so many glances back along
the mornings and afternoons and evenings of a life. so much dies
with each person. so this is what reality looks like. standing on a
wall of acrobats. stealing our imaginations. stepping in and out
of our minds like beggars at revolving doors. strange deliveries
of words. strange new schools for battlefields. swings more than
thinking. talentlessness rising like the sun. tasting the blood of
entertainment. techniques for being real. teeming with
platitudes and forgetfulnesses. tending to our immortality, with
grace notes and with words. thank you god for the rising moon.
the architecture of the whole house of this poem. the argument.
the baby. the beethoven finisher. the belgium of the crime. the
blows of the reader, knocking at the door of this text, wanting to
be let in, wanting to know what's inside. the boys are hungry for
their masters. the chapters. the children. the circuses of heaven.
the closer to the snow of a terrible idea. the dark sleep of
indecision. the dead strapped to the wheel of the sky. the
diagonal of hope. the diagonal of sex. the diagonal of truth. the
dictatorial flow of truth. the different periods of a poem's life.
the disappointed talking to the disappointed. the diseases of
heaven. the doorman of the imagination. the drowning of man
in his chalice. the entrance to light. the flowers of memory are
blossoming, making him very tall in his dream. the four cities.
the four richards. the great sleep of insignificance. the gospel
according to jimmic. the happy house of corners. the happy
house of language. the heaven of control. the history of light.
the history of the world since the beginning of this poem. the
hospitality of politicians. the house of symbols which is under
investigation. the human balcony. the ice. the independence of
dreams. the immigration of faith to heaven. the individual
laughter of heaven. the interjection of the trees. the ladders of
loneliness. the ledger of growth and pain. the lives of the saints.
the lord brings us meat, but we have no teeth. the mind is a liar.
the mistakes of heaven. the moon and the sun in the same sky,
the eyes on a single face, the dreams of the guilty man who wants
to be innocent, and the innocent man who realises his guilt. the
mysticism of time's own lack of answers. the name is god, james
god. the naming ceremony. the national dream. the natural flow
of hope. the nightclub of american history. the only copy known
to exist is the one sent mistakenly to the wrong address and left
there for years at the bottom of a cupboard. the oracle book. the
paradise of the server. the processional of truth. the promenade
of truth. the proportions of death. the revolt of ambitious texts.
the salute's folly. the science of the innocent. the secrets of
complexity are not secrets at all. the sequence of perfection. the
sleep of a life. the sleeping cure. the soul catcher. the south, the
future. the staves are dirty, what kind of music is this? the sun in
ruins. the sunset reflects, the perpetual sunset. the task of truth
is not to make everything clear. the tides of her thought. the
theories are all disbanded. the third book of human frailty. the
twins had the same eyes when they died. the wonders of modern
science unfortunately do not extend to page a hundred and sixty-
three. the white snake with albino eyes. there are a lot of little
blue cars around here. there are a lot of colourful people around
here, any one is the subject for a story. there are enough reasons
to die, a list is unnecessary. there can be no talk of normality.
there is some material in jimmie's head that's missing. there is no
single title for the human king. these crossroads where a man is
hanging. they're not his business, other people's dreams. they
built the road while we worked, and when the road was finished,
so our work was finished, and as the road was a thoroughfare, so
our work was a first door. things unthought of mean there are
new things left to think of. thinking about firing god. this house
is so wonderful, it's really a rose. this is not a literary crime. this
isn't sleep, this is talking about sleep. this is not what jimmie
expected to find. this novel is evaporating. this poem in a sham-
bles like an old house. thoughts like lines along a highway -
onward and onward—neither beginning or ending. three days
ago he was being given the wrong directions, and where is he
now? titles in the orchestra. too many people believe too many
things. too many titles like moods on a face. torniamo in new
york, like a great ugly bird, with our golden hearts. twenty-seven
angels. twins. two beautiful athletes, life and death, are racing
one another, soon enough, one will cross the line. two identical
girls on either side of the gaol, telling identical dogs to sit down.
two is too many errors. unafraid II, III. unfinishing book.
unkept. unlucky. unspecified. until death, aren't we all just
looking out a window at a landscape we cannot see? waiting for
the middle ages. wake up at the end with all your emotions and
go home happy. was that god or the man in the green suit? we
are all bundles of uncertainty moving across uncertainty, and we
can never really tell which of us is us and which is the outside
world—like two cells, the lines between us dissolving—a frightful
osmosis. we are all copies of each other. we are all metaphors for
each other. we are all walking libraries. we are the walls of each
other's disappointment. we carry our names like jewels. we die
on the pirouettes we were born. we don't need protection. we
have woken up in the middle of a bad plot. we need a home. we
want to see the original of which we are a copy. we have won the
battle to pass this year of our lives. we speak for no one but
ourselves, but sometimes the words trickle through. what is an
ending? what language do babies cry in? what sex is a book?
what would it be like to be mortal? when was democracy popu-
lar? who can touch you in sleep? who gets through to the prom-
ised land? who is guilty if a character is written guilty? who is
the real culprit? who is the steward of these lines? who is using
our god? why do we always need something good to happen, or
at least something to happen, but when it happens, we fell
nothing? will jimmie be quick-witted when he dies? will jimmie
get out of this text alive? with cartoon-like serenity. words don't
need a leader. wrapped in the language of sleep. writing the
geography of dreams. writing this book is more like encircling a
large battlefield than crossing it, ten thousand soldiers moving in
toward the centre, closing the circle, until they can shake the
whites of each others' lies and have conquered the field. you
might refuse to go to bed with no head. your questions would be
a lighthouse. zipcode corrected nightmare.