Symphony for Improvisors

We've all heard of the word
And while the Architect dreams of scarring the earth
Then dressing the wounds in monument--
Cisterns of audio color such as the flag, court his pedestal toward centrifuge--
Drapeau, See him dream the pose you enter
our denouement, see him undoing the corollaries of what for and what force
re-animating the draft to where the air courses through the house, just passing over strings and you notice yourself as the air and the strings, the heir you are, not just passing

And you study that idioplasma in search of the signifying monkey-- How did we come to call these living things word and these mortal things men without learning the difference cannot be uttered or bridged or marched or navigated, just released--you can't even tightrope up to it with feathers and a chronology but you trust that there are strings-- no such thing as signifying only finding them in-the-absence-of-a-center-of-gravity understandings about interdependency, (now you do the cabbage patch with my body) (practice ridding the imagination of habits besides imagining that everytime you even think of time with no contingency, as a series of positions or an open concubine, you
occupy them



The rest is a rumor spreading inside you like why you so truant you believed it, you be the monk-ease, teaching the fire how to speak to jump
When we've all forgotten the word, how funny to feel in a field together hunting its ghost for hints and getting high on assumptions I heard, I heard that's him over there, on the every side of time where I'm euphoric as a new knot, as I knew not, as I new knock the word from the monument from the animator from the man from the wound from the wounded earth our chandelier hung in the pirate's imagination like a choke or jackpot, inextinguishable and nodding off its own plot