(Inside the anatomony of Musics of Noble Entitlement/Invisible Planets on this Planet)
There is a run of sheer jade at the nape of a yellow wrist bulging like the dingy veins of mothers in taxis: crisp diamonds checkering the dense slur of the rings which herd them home--- arrogant and grotesque yearning as a form of comfort-- a warm day in my nerves --- the curve of their daze could drop a river powder light and dismissive puddles about no more, running out of thirds, His arms keep perfect ridges when you lift your eyes from them they land on a baseball cubic shimmering with field apathy and no gate, imagine the restless privacy of alters and stadiums or of the putrid silhouette of the ready-mades on slides in classrooms or in museums or on the sky looking like taxicab poodles or sugar cotton, incorruptible swaths of brand nodding in the teeth: minor and everywhere, are called trade, resources confiding in themselves door after door how the way out is one more, I promise, it opens onto green dolphin street with the calm promiscuity of buiks from the yard and, it gets to be ours
