to love is to remove the face
so that you can walk with me always
in unequaled waves
their spherical paths
my love thou art
whole cities turned to dust
forms of travelling
you count and the counting is
everything breathed
swallows plowing through the sky
before their faces

the gate of the face has been
a ghost, the warning
the need to make up a story
unravelling globe
"Oh love of my life
be full of hands
opening onto the street
and the silence runs forwards
there is light that never lands

(all text taken & rearranged from Cole Swenson's Numen)

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new england is beautiful and colored my weekend with all its reds and yellows. i rode in a red truck through vermont and new hampshire and looked at leaves and people with firewood. i fell in love without having ever fallen out and the scenery was good too.

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i'd like to say the poet now is tightroping between surrealism and romanticism. through the ecstatic expression of a lone voice and the realization that there is no voice, only vocal moments. i'd like to say that but i can't yet.

i read today of a jacket that mr. dali built and covered with shot glasses full of milk. what about all the milkless hungry children, one man protested. he was ejected from the surrealist movement but i find myself wondering this a lot. what about the milkless hungry children, what about the freaking cows?
there's a fine line between celebrating and disolving right then and there into your very own celebrated nothingness. don't get me wrong though: i'm still throwing confetti. but if i see a man wearing a jacket covered with shot glasses full of milk, i'm going to milk him like a cow and spank him till he moos. i'm not kidding either. if he's a stranger i'll use a paddle.