instrumentation of the arbitrary
Skip Fox

     

he enters a world in which everything is put on different,
the eyes of the girl on back of the man, no surface with
edge narrow enough not to take us in, warm mouth of the
moment, chewed and swallowed to an emptiness not un-
familiar by far, like being without me in it, its darkness
articulate, its caverns rushing with thought, or currents
that so resemble thought they curl back upon, entangle
themselves, tie themselves in knots, then rush forward
from r to w, fall l into p, rhythm bounding back off
walls, vastness of inner space, a world sometimes there,
. . . sometimes not, without measure, who can tell?, what
would it mean, then, to be certain of just one thing, one
mark set sure in life's flesh, the letter of a single fact?

//   Advance   //