koszaɫki opaɫki. facecje ɫgarskie. ɫajno marcepanowe. to jakby szyszkę poɫkn±ć. aż trójpot będzie szedɫ. z sylab± na sɫońce. kiedy kawki ¶pi±. naparɫa się i¶ć na odpust. gęsi kaczorami być nie mog±. do wolej się z ni± namówiɫa. ospaɫa od cudzego spania, jak nie pierdnie za co nagrody wygrywa, pierdelowe powrósɫa. za mɫodu wronami karmiona. musi pić kto pragnie wszystko zrobi i do gómna zwiezie
What a beautiful Yinguo owl which nests on Ginkgo Biloba trees perched briskly in my mailbox! Who could lacerate it? Not even a fierce editor like me! After all, the editors are human species who show themselves to be human, as Higginson once wrote in Atlantic Monthly. It is well enough to remember this fact, when you approach Me. I am not a gloomy despot, no Nemesis or Rhadamanthus (...) draw near me, therefore, with soft approaches & mild persuasions. Meanwhile, on a more personal note, I'm terribly jealous because I know that the fact that I haven't heard from you in months means that you have no need of my odd impossible companionship because you have two or three new boys. Either that or you fought a duel with Kasia and you lost. Sorry if that's the case. Please let me know where to send flowers. P.S. 1. I had a sexy dream about you today. In this dream you were not even afraid of me. The details are my own. P.S. 2. I don’t know what else to say! Perhaps I would gain more respect I've long deserved and your timely response, if I were to have a short essay come out in Playboy. Yes, Playboy. Snort at my dreams if you like, but I if I did get published there, I may receive an invitation to the Playboy mansion. I would be sitting with the bunnies while you shiver in the New England snow. P.S. 3. Plus, the Playboy credentials would make me very expensive as a campus visitor now. It would make me quite chic. How do you like that?
I was away having a bongo bliss on the snowy slopes; watching the white albatrosses fall from the sky; contemplating the nature of snow dunes and the waltz of water flowers. I had a dream of Chinese Circus, Ricotta Pie, and Columbus Manatee Mermaid. I was exploring the land of Genghis Khan; the most ruthlessly violent, mercilessly cunning monsters united by drinking the blood from their horses' necks. I was contemplating the "burning bushes," "doves," "manna," and other signs of divine madness. I was following the dreams of Tanzanite owls. I walked on the frozen lake and spilled all syllables; now their vowels and consonants paddle inside the white grains of hourglasses. Now the purgatory souls of poems inhabit me and ask for word-relations. I miss them. I carry the gingko trees inside me;the neurons of affection. They look like secret oars; you can paddle with them through New York City. They truly scrape the sky. They give me the memory of Permian Period Oceans. Back home, I am watching the rare white squids bouncing on the trampolines of branches. All winter the trees wear white mittens and drip with cotton candy. Yesterday I wore black chador and churned up grains of tides and whispers. Forgive me this self-inflicted exile and unknown presence rapping on your door with draughts of light.
Are you living underground? Have you split a peyote button and are practicing Tango Milonga on your cross-country skis with some newly found hot ski-bums? Are you off to Colorado to betray me with some children and Peter Pans? Have you jumped off a ski-lift? Are you angry with your past? Does your skin break out in boils? Do strangers make odd faces at you – expressive of infinite remorse? Do phantom string quartets play mute rhapsodies in your left ear? Is your right ear occupied with the voice of a little man saying over and over "joy to our students"? Is your morning cereal soggier than you recall in the past? Do you think your car is holding a grudge for some unexplained grievance in the past? Is your heater on constantly and yet the room remains cold? Has God appeared to you saying, "It was only a joke"? If one or all of these symptoms is present, I can well understand the eerie silence coming from the northern lands where you now reside. Here, all is the sunlight of the twilight days of the new warmer globe. Soon vast jungles of rubber and teak trees will take over the potato fields and snakes and jaguars will frolic on our front lawn. Since you are closed in the ZOO, you would sigh and say, "I'm home."
You wrote: that explains a lot. This morning I woke up clapping! Luigi thought it was for him but after about half an hour of non-stop clapping even he thought it was a little weird. I thought that it meant I'd come down with Turret's syndrome or some other mental illness that results in uncontrollable behavior. Thank goodness it was merely the Holy Spirit descending on me in great waves of applause on Whitsuntide. Miss you, C. PS I've done some preliminary drawings of our villa in rural Poland. The garden is in the shape of a Chopin Nocturne, if you can imagine that. I'm thinking we won't actually need a house. We'll be like Lear and Tom the fool (I can be the fool, it's okay) walking around on the heath saying, "Blow wind and crack your cheeks." Doesn't that sound nice? I hope that being a deranged patriarch will work for you. Actually for some reason the left hand stopped clapping suddenly last night around 10:30, which is pretty damned awkward. The right hand continues but because the left hand isn't meeting it I think I've destroyed my right elbow. At any rate, the whole forearm and hand now dangles sort of uselessly from my damaged elbow and flaps back and forth still desperately trying to clap. I mean, this is some determined (and painful!) Holy Spirit. I wish it would back off for a day or so because this can't be good for my tennis game. You said: I take you so much to heart that your soul is causing large growths on my body where your abundance of spirit exceeds my capacity. It's as if I need to imagine that I'm in love with you in order to maintain a certain energy or feeling to keep me moving forward toward something that has nothing to do with you. You're more like a midwife than a mistress. I say: I am a landscape that you just managed to incarnate. Or a landscape where all orphaned chances take on unabated meaning. So it is perhaps more than just making me or you less lonely. I wade from kairos to kairos. We crave for seasons, for red-letter days. We wish they took off like cranes, beating electric letters in the air. We would like only for once to get where we are already. If we go down into ourselves we find that we possess exactly what we desire. It is not your face I desire. It is not your body I desire. Something inside. Some thing where I cannot get.
Lokator, wieczor 24 czerwca, 09.