Friday, February 28, 2014

max and empirical evidence, Reisterdam

max is crazy.  everyone knows it.  knows it, which is so much more advanced than believes it, after all it is based on evidence, tangible evidence, the inarguable kind.  max wears, at any given time, seven or eight lumber kind of jackets, plaid, torn and dirty, someone else's cast-offs.  there are so many holes in them, one layer of reddishness (you can't say red really as red is so worn and dirty it has lost its firm hold on redness) gives way to a greenish layer or layer of bluishness, each showing through the other, all off them cumulatively and with years of wear and affinity between them becoming one blur of a colour which the town's people refer to, not cognitively but rather unawares, hearkening up the word for it in the place in their brains where language is formed through context, max.  if, at any other time, they catch in the periphery of their eyesight a mash of a similar colour they will turn, again not fully thinking this through (not having to), looking for poverty, filth or the kind of craziness which is easily detectable and dismissible, something not following the rules of nature; but usually it is just the world unsettled, like a truck blurring by with a dented fender, a black garbage bag torn and plucked by a breeze, or a swoon of cattails flogged ragged in the wind.  but true, sometimes it is max.

max has a shopping cart from the old Food Basic grocery which went bust a decade ago when Food's Delectable opened.  it is rusted in a bad way and some argue might make max's stash more difficult to handle than if he would just carry it in his arms instead. at least one of the wheels is clearly broken, as in: is no longer round, easy to survey and understand, but apparently not for him.  he drags this thing around as though it is his last salvation.  (considering what all max has to his name it very well might be.)  and he mutters to himself constantly, this the worst of his offenses (well, that and the fact that he doesn't work or have a home - who knows where he sleeps!), scurrilous banter such as, Kingsley was a bloody dreamer (Kingsley not of yesteryear but of now, Reisterdam's incumbent mayor), here's the real world (wrist deep in garbage), and in the guise of who knows what refuse, ah, blessings, blessings, blessings.

one day, the third thursday in november, max is skittish over something left behind matted onto the sidewalk. it is released and becomes available for the picking (only max would be interested) after Mr. Pearson drags in the hardware's Open sign.  i have just closed up my own office, Reister's Insurance, a few moments before and i am trying to scuttle by max undetected, make my way between his cart, he and whatever it is (unrecognizable and unwanted) that he pulls at.   it is dinner time and i am on my way home hungry, Mr. Pearson too i imagine, just closing up his Hardware and turning out the lights.  (Mr. Pearson has just wordlessly waved to me and i have waved back and of course, max intent in his madness, has not noticed.)

max looks up at me all steely eyed, sharp edged, leaving for now the one more of his blessings embodied in a kind of gunk on the sidewalk and i am stopped by his glare, abruptly.  he points up toward the darkened light and shouts, light's not up there, he rages shaking his arm at the bare bulb hanging dully.  'sin here, he says, tapping at his forehead.

well, max, i say respectfully, greatly unaffected by his ignorance but affected too much for my liking by his smell which is pungent enough for a cold november, looks like it is to me, y'old sot. as i retort i point blankly up at the same bare hanging darkened light bulb.

i have never in the course of my lifetime once drawn up any kind of policy for max.  (see, what did i tell you?)

then i push past the crazy old man, feeling fine about the hot meal that is waiting for me, wondering what it might be tonight, pot roast or pork chops, and wondering about little else for i am mapped out effectively in myself into every corner of organized living, making my way carefully and quietly by an intuited touch granted to those of us of a certain stature in any town, an internal navigation system developed through hard work and decency (no barriers erected, no barriers impeding, only smooth cognizant understanding) through november's murky dark oncoming night.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

let's be slaves to the glory,
blades of grass, morning dew,
the heaven bound push of Hallelujah 
heaved from the crow's gizzard,
the sharp stone it can not subdue.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

there is nothing magnificent about the body

put your face into your hands.
with the palm of your hand
experience the scope of the plane of the frontal bone.
trace the superciliary arches
  to the glabella,
    then nasion,
  then downward,
your fingers now together.
your sight resides in these pockets
and every memory tied to it
and we know how much we can trust sight,
   never mind memory.

what is in your hands can be broken,
but more (or less!),
what is in your hands
is only a rigid organ.
(try building a house upon the lush lungs!)
pull the skin from the bones of your skull -
   your life is water through a coral sieve.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

white form, black form, dream and nightmare

last night i had a dream, something rustling along the edge of the horizon, between the lip of the white field and the dark treeline. i felt it before i saw it, as though the branches it nibbled on were air disturbed and the places where the air was disturbed were place holders for words, and so its presence spoke itself to me. it was a deer, a doe, beautiful, tentative, slight.  it felt as though i could perhaps smell the true her if only i could smell hard enough, well past her musk into the essence of her animal body, a soft perfume.  i felt such love for her, such longing, that if i had milk, i would let down.  or if she had milk, i would go to her and drink it.

but without permission a hole in my stomach opened and took a form, climbed up my neural column and hitched itself into my brain.  there was a gun in my hand.  no, no, no, i pleaded with myself.  i was being driven by a human form who was not me, but clearly, as evidenced by my hand, the gun, such obvious material ways of being, also was.

along the side of her fawn coloured coat she quivered, her breath laced in each trembling inhalation with the delight of being and mortal fear.

i would shoot. 

Sunday, February 23, 2014

the off times

we're so hot for our births, our deaths,
the glory of the high arcs
but what of life's off times,
its marches, its novembers?

chelsea with the watered down hips,
mashy bangs, indentured chin, freckles,
no bombshell, no femme fatale,
that's for sure

nonetheless her dough eyed ovaries
squeeze out a first pappy egg
and one day a last
like all the rest

one november she'll suffer ecstasy
prettily into her pillow
but quietly
in a dark room

and one march
she'll finish

but for that someone she'll be the sweat between
sweet august's breasts
and in the end, perhaps even
one hell of a december.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

from creation to destruction in one line

god makes land and puts man on it
god makes sea and puts whale in it
man glinches whale and pulls him out with pulleys
man glubs whale and slices him with shrilleys
man hoists whale and blocks out the sun
man burns whale (becoming god) and makes a new one

Friday, February 21, 2014

a list of unfortunate correlations

my daughter, panic set into her gnarled back fingers, her eyes wild with distrust, revulsion building up from her inside, and then the vomiting of two inches of dappled refuse onto the bathroom floor and james wright who had just been sitting there innocently beside the toilet; now every time the book is opened to "Trying To Pray" - the smell of puke

the foreign dark body like a moon rising up and swallowing my son's mother in a writ of secret ancient language, the house shaking, the son weeping like a willow and the mother cum crying out

spearmint gum and my mother's order, and crow's feet assiduously doing their work

16 year old hands cramming cheesy Doritos into maws before/during/after fitful masturbation; yes, cramming cheesy Doritos, with pleasure

the cat cocked unsuccessfully while the father cocked the trigger quite

ascension and declension, instead of only ascension and descent

past-ripe apples smelling like piss

the blank page and this~ 

Thursday, February 20, 2014

dance the sparrow's bones

when i ask you to touch my collarbone and say a word 
i don't mean for you to speak relatedly

don't speak me, i mean, speak it 
(and by it i don't mean it, of course)

i'm not smart enough to know the word myself
nor distant enough from my body to touch it
however, i'm not fool enough to think that
any word falls very far from the shank's core


my lover touches my collar bone and says circumsiliens
and in a word i step from the ledge 
to my twined brief flight and declension

this fine morning my lover hangs over me 
like a writer over a page, 
like a flower over the soil,
like a bird peering over a ledge, 
reciting Catullus:

Mourn, O you Loves and Cupids

and such of you as love beauty:
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
sparrow, the girl’s delight,
whom she loved more than her eyes.
For he was sweet as honey, and knew her
as well as the girl her own mother,
he never moved from her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
chirped to his mistress alone.
Now he goes down the shadowy road
from which they say no one returns.
Now let evil be yours, evil shadows of Orcus.
that devour everything of beauty:
you've stolen a lovely sparrow from me.
O evil deed! O poor little sparrow!
Now, by your efforts, my girl’s eyes
are swollen and red with weeping.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

something instead of nothing

imagine a vacuum, or nothing.  or imagine everything, present and full.  is there a difference?


premeditated incompletion: rose hips, lilac sprigs, ham hocks, hunks of oak split, this is our bounty to give to one another.  move the chickadee from the limb, pull the splinter from the child's puckered hand, christen the head with water, say a word, reorganize chaos, be.


heft the bag of flour from the floor to the counter.  watch its dust settle in fine tracery, edible still, onto mugs and floors and cutlery. track footprints as you work.  wipe at the residue absently afterwards for weeks, but still it will make its way into your mouth. split the flour and enter the fat of the damned animal. roll it outwards in magnificent transformation.  lift the transformed dust and lay it to a plate to give it form.  plug it with berries. feed your children this sweet something, an emblem of your love.


pay attention to the pulse in your child's neck.  remember when you were young and he did not exist. consider that when he is old you will not.


in the winter dream of summer and picking berries.  in the summer give thanks for the long and hostile negation of fruit.


ambling past the wild rose bush, the planted lilacs, chortling past the happy pig, bumping over the wheat fields buffered by the oak grove, outflown by the rapid chickadee, and there below it the child who says it but does not fear it, who goes about playing merrily, the bee who does its love business, who will accidentally in the course of his short and mostly unrecognized lifetime, pollinate to make fruit.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

flesh, a recipe

two parts the dark noun, brown bracken (broken), troublesome stones in soil, refuge for the skittering raccoon, harbinger hut of worms

one part bloomed moth that the child feverishly fondles, forgetting the atrocious power of his fingers, lured on in fascination by his lust for erasure

Monday, February 17, 2014

Sunday Morning, Between Massey and Webbwood

Driving down Highway 17 in January with my son, pointing to the fields and trees
and the snow which has erased everything in between, time and distance like
blank white clocks floating, clouds in absentia, on a background exactly the same colour.

And then a true rupture in erasure, a farm torn into being.
And then defiantly and pure
   a fine black horse
      stamping its name.

Look! I say, as though Jesus has just pushed aside the boulder and is walking upon the earth again.

The horse snorts into the cold as though it ripples the black surface of the sea.

Look! I say shoving my empty hands at him hoping to show to him the world.

Through my heart chugs a caliginous desire to gift to him
the lustful oil that pulps my own veins,
plain, deep and stygian beneath my alabastrine frame,
that which makes me different,
that which causes me to be lowly,
that which teaches me exaltation
   and grief
      and holiness in snow.

Friday, February 14, 2014

i'm afraid of the world as it is and i am (unfortunately) fascinated with nostalgia, journal, february 14, 2014

i have made a rule.  9 pm all technology goes away.

my son is on the computer too much.  and i know 9 pm is yet a paltry swipe toward ... almost nothing.  but i am grateful that his technology is not so portable.

but my daughter has been carrying her i-pod in her back pocket for the last couple years. when i wake her for school she has been waking beside it.  it translates the world for her in so many ways. she communicates with her friends in this way, creates a persona (god help us, a brand), listens to music, interprets the world.

i am, by the way, somewhat of a hypocrite (as evidenced here by this blog) but refuse, much to the mad maddening of others, a cell phone or portable device.  when i go out into the world i in fact go out and go into the world.

our brain pathways are being altered by how we approach the world.

will we remember that we are human and that there is a world we have yet to inhabit in body and in spirit?

vilem flusser wrote of photography, "photographers do not play with their plaything but against it.  They creep into the camera in order to bring to light the tricks concealed within.  Unlike manual workers surrounded by their tools and industrial workers standing at their machines, photographers are inside their apparatus and bound up with it.  This is a new kind of function in which human beings are neither the constant nor the variable but in which human beings and apparatus merge into a unity.  It is therefore appropriate to call photographers functionaries."  p. 27 Towards a Philosophy of Photography

what is wrong with being a functionary?

well, the question is what have we become the functionaries of?

we can tell ourselves all day long that this new boon of technology is a democratization of information but we are lying.  the information and education are only by-products, or tassels on the full breasts behind them.  we are complicit in elevating this exaggerated state of distraction and consumerism.

in the last month the canadian government has opened most of (?) the remaining inhabited territory (280 000 more households) to highspeed internet.  they forgot to lie as to why they did this.  they forgot to tell us that it was for the opportunity to have access to information, education.  instead, they, in a rare and unguarded moment, revealed that their achievement in opening these new rural areas to highspeed, was because now almost all economy takes place through it.  they actually said it as though it were a right (and not a construct) of human beings, each of us, to participate in this way in the new world economy.

everything is economy, unless we demand it to be otherwise, and we do not.  we fail; in active and complicit ways we fail.

but truthfully, i'm unsure if in this human venture it is possible for anything to exist exclusively beyond the insidious nature of economy.  perhaps economy is as evident to living as body.

but should we not actively save a sacred place where we are not functionaries but are rather naked human babes with hands and fingers, boredom and stars?

at 9 pm my children have done such miraculous things as be fitful, read, write, doodle, touch small and intimate things in their rooms, look at themselves, sleep.

what of every adult carrying a cell phone?  what of me here in this way?

i feel nauseous to think of what we are becoming.

and we will not turn back.  why would we?

where man doesn't know to have hardened knees

i come from the place where man squeezes out of the ice
the slippery living thing
just so that he might kill it, split its wetness with his teeth.
you'd think that would be exciting for a girl like me,
but he forgets that prayer comes before the feast
and he doesn't know that everything on this earthly form
is the moment of refined scarcity bleeding its trail to plenitude.
he doesn't know that his shrill steps out onto thin ice
are slow steps toward the altar
and that his line, that he lowers into the terrible black hole,
climbs upward, through the birth canal, into heaven.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

be (be, harder)


when the body calls to the soul
like the dark tree calls to sunlight
there is hardly an ability to move toward it,
instead we must sprout further downward, into,
be like a verb hardened into winter,
sprout blind white tendrils through the mulish earth,
be  hard,
and then  be  harder.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

the planting

i'm going to take these poor girl hands
and i'm going to primp the seed and plunge it 
and i'm going to spend seasons waiting on it
fertilizing it with my stink and my mind and my nothing
and when it finally sprouts and lets down its pink wings
i'm going to know 
these poor girl hands had nothing to do with it
it's all an accidental act of god
even these dirty fingers
and so we'll have our season - so what?
and then we'll return to the soil    together


Tuesday, February 11, 2014

notes in the form of a question

doesn't it feel as though we enter the auditorium, pick up the program, take our chairs and pay careful attention to the show of a life-time, all the while off-stage something voiceless calls us?  but all of the bodiful bodies acting shout, see us!  and all of the voiciful voices speaking say, listen to our mouths! but our small organ that no surgeon has ever (yet) identified leans closer, keening, begging our humans down into low mounds, just so that it might catch one glimpse of that which moves further off well beyond the curtains.

on the desk the pair of scissors

josephine with her 
sonorous length of chestnut hair
smelling of the secret folds of linen,
draped in the dangerous texture of dream-time.
josephine did not exist this morning
but like a bolt of cloth i have unwound her
so that i can love and be here.
i roll out the bolt of fabric
along the length of desk,
down to and over the bedside
and to the floor, a short skiff of her
fanned out in tangle like a scarf.
there beneath my fingers
i suture her together in her painful separation.

the most frightening gesture is when i cut her free
and she opens her eyes.


he is an ordinary man with ordinary parts,
panted legs and shirted torso,
ganglified fingers, exaggerated toes,
kin, history.
when he swallows his coffee in the morning
his adam's apple slides, 
a child's instrument.
he spends each of his days
avoiding some strange absence.

if only he could pick up the clay.
if only he could breathe life into it.

but life scares the shit out of him
and so instead he picks up his lunch-pail 
and moves along.


no one wants to be the pauper

but how many workers inhabit the world,
how many dreamers?


pitifully i plunge my hands toward the fabric
and pitifully my hands miss josephine

but each day, oh, the almost smell of linen,
each day, despite failure, the dare of the dream.


on the desk the pair of scissors.

Monday, February 10, 2014

a christmas of slow grief (with charles wright)

christmas night extends
outside her west facing window,
midnight or so.

finally there are fewer cars.

for the first year in her life she wonders
not on the faceless people returning home in anxious freedom,
but if they travel instead in an eternal loop, fleeing.

the woman, the window, the cars, the road,
all the strangers and the extension of night,
these vague gestures
comprise this particular christmas.

over the slight arch of the world
a dull illumination moves toward her,

crests and lights

and then darkens again.

there is hope when there are lights.
there's hope inside the darkness too,
these two things holding hands
and feeding one another along the road.

yet the woman at the window shivers
as though inside a bodiless body,
outside the dank but cold night scathing low.
whatever it is it wicks through the fields,
a perfect onyx along the blank face of now black snow
threatening its throatless corruption,
not in its newness,
but in its revelation -
i'm always here,
it maws innocuously,
snaking like time,
an ordinary machinery.

the curtains move around her face like lungs.
her hair moves around her face like lungs.
in her body her lungs shrug a grey and sufficient effort.

another car passes.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

small thoughts from a human

in my shoulders lurks the angel that by hooks longs to take me to freedom
but below my terribly sloven hooves trip me into the density of my being

where is salvation, above or below,
or in the intangible story knit into veils of thread between them?

i am coarse horse hair
i am what coarse horse hair dreams to become

the ecstatic choir of: this

more notes from february 7th, on the way to the island

i would like to stop saying the ten thousand things
like tea cups, spoons and string
and instead walk the thousand miles
sleep, open my eyes and sing

finding it:

more notes from february 7th, on the way to the island:

coaxing from the white flower
that which is hidden by the white flower,
the purer  whiter   flower

Saturday, February 8, 2014

february 7th, on the way to the island

driving the very dangerous curve through the La Cloche Mountains i blindly write in my notebook on my lap:

the mind should cow to the spirit
like a dog
who has done something bad

                                 very  very   bad

Friday, February 7, 2014


it opens like a pocket inside our hips
the arthritic arithmetic, the rudimentary rheuminess

once there was only spark and tendon, a hitching to take off
once there was only hope, distance and tomorrow

but the bract falls away to release the flower from the stamen
to release in turn the place where the bloated flower once was

an eventual moan exists inside us all 
issued from the tissue of the waiting body 

which is the mouth of god speaking

imploring us over the breadth of our lifetime
to capitulate upon the pocked point of our being 

like the good shepherd calling us through the windtime
to come home

Thursday, February 6, 2014

upon the white field
all existed inside one mirror
until it turned to see itself 
revealed inside itself

then the tail end of the lampblack ink 
bloomed through water
like the violet's tail
threatening to break the soil

notes on existence, sartre

aren't we all pitifully small defenseless creatures like kittens? don't we all want to be handled? and what are we if we're not? that's what we fear, that which we might be revealed to be if we are not handled.

in our being handled our peripheries/parameters are drawn, we are proven to exist: mother, father, offspring, lover, intellect, traditions, stature, art, imprint/output/evidence, accouterments.

the wind moves the branches of the cherry tree and my god, thank god, we are the cherry tree!

reading sartre late one night i see myself as i was on a thin mat on a cold taiwan floor.  how my mind begged for my body to catch it and hold it up to the world like a bowl.  how i begged the world for fingers to dip into the bowl and to anoint me into myself.  (and not just any fingers but the fingers, although it would take me decades to decipher what this meant.  i am still deciphering.)

here i would like to post a long exert of sartre's "The Childhood of a Leader" but instead opt to point to Lucien Fleurier's declaration, "i don't exist" which is not quelled by his philosophy professor's bored response, "Goghito...ergo zum.  You exist because you doubt your existence."  but instead only becomes diffused by the parameters his class draws around him, his schoolmates, his education, knowledge itself, certainly ceremony.  "This new dignity of piston filled Lucien with pride, and then his class was not like the others: it had traditions and a ceremonial; it was a force...At those times Lucien felt galvanized." (p. 104, jean-paul sartre's "The Childhood of a Leader", Intimacy)

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

our unanswerable longing (an exploration of distance and desire)

it seems to me the human in us makes a critical demand that can not be fully answered.  this is our unanswerable longing.

i think of it like this, when i lay a book upon a table i want to really lay the book upon the table.  i want each thing to be a hammer, book, table, the act of placing; also the story or poem in the book to the world.  i want each thing to make paramount contact. when i open my mouth to say a word i want to say that word, really say it.  i want the word to be a hammer.  i want the word to make contact with that which it represents.  i want ideas to make contact with that which they have been imagined from. when i eat, when i walk, when i touch my children, my lover, a stranger... again, and more!

but between each of us and the world is a bridge.

our (secret) longing is to destroy the bridge, cause resonance between the thing and the representative thing, to make paramount contact.

an exploration of distance and desire:

Threshing the Fire
by Jack Gilbert


Fire begins seriously at the body
and it sits up. The oldest son beats it down.
It sits up and he clubs it back again.
That's what I want.

This best time begins and the stomach can't have it.
Nor pride. Nor snakebrain's excitements
and darkness. let him hammer me down
into the paradise furnace.

The boy I was remembers the scale. Flames
two hundred feet up into the sky every night.
Three powerful rivers naked everywhere.
Brick and metal. Dirty brick and old raw iron.

He does not understand, but he knew the wanting.
Remembers working in the mill, the titanic shear
cleaving slabs into sections. Halfway
to something. Smell of Pittsburgh after rain.

Smell of winter steel and grease, and the smell
of welding. Believing there were breasts.
So he will hammer me deep into that rendering.
Knowing blindly there is something to get.


Love like chunks of an animal.
Clothes ripped off and clothes drawn aside.
Bodies like cries from the ocean.
Hearts like unkeeled Jerusalem.

Italian breasts under brambles in Perugia.
My youth clandestinely in the palazzo.
Stumbling into love,
bewildered by the storms of me. Soft beauty.

Beyond youth after, and my heart augmenting.
(Stronger, she said to the choir, not louder.)
Love a second time, then eight years with Linda.
Now love probably not again.

The pictures of paradise seem innocent,
and the Devil's temptation things for children.
I would burrow into stone. Into iron.
Into the rain to find someone important

there in the dark. A mystery that magnifies
the earth but does not lie. What is Pure Land
to that? Let him force me to try once more.
Insist, insist until I at least fail.


Cicadas on the olive trees rage in brevity.
When I go out at night, the stars and quiet
smell of jasmine and I long for a life
like fatty boiled beef. Pound me into that.

I was looking down on my Tokyo graveyard
late at night and heard in the complete
silence a violin string snap.
Drive me down there.

Lord Nobunaga (surrounded, the castle
on fire), knowing he would die that day,
put on his kimono and slowly dance the Nō
in the flames. When great Hideyoshi was shōgun

and lying on his deathbed, he wept constantly.
Saying over and over, I don't want to die.
I want to live a thousand years.
Keep me at them both.

The boy walked the mean winter streets of Pittsburgh
knowing of their leafy summer. Let him make sure 
the dreams are loose before the fire gets it all.
And I am hammered into the sun.

(please, if anyone has anything to add, to tell me, that they understand, that they know more about, if they know i am wrong, please email me at   i don't quite understand why i can't bring myself to open comments but i can't.  it doesn't feel right.  and yet i long to know...)

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

a mother's prayer for ignorance


my son cries in a limp lump on the floor.
i stroke his hair and ask him why.
he only shrugs his shoulders.
along the back of his neck his shorn hair lies
gnarled in unkempt twists, not nearly immaculate.
when he was a toddler he was blond,
his downy hair curled, always gleaming.
i bathed him in the clawfoot tub nightly,
my hands passing over his love christened head,
over the iridescent slope of his shoulders,
down his fine fed stout belly.
there was no compunction then about cleaning parts;
there was no cleaning, only communion.
there is nothing to compare a mother's hands upon her child to
except to say, skin, prayer, sunlight.
my son's prepubescent self is crowned now in the indefinite
dirty blond, sometimes muddy brown culmination.
i stroke him releasing his sweat musk aroma
and ask him again, why such sadness?
and unmercifully he shrugs his shaking shoulders
crying harder, with force, into himself upon the floor.

but the truth is i don't want the terrible answer,
i know it.  i know it and fear its articulation.
if he finds the words inside, if he speaks them
they'll connect him like a bridge, not just to me
and my sorrows, but to he and each one of his.
"i don't know why," he blubbers deeply
and i am grateful for his blind mouth,
his of yet ignorant mind;  this is mercy.
hush my sweet sad boy, stay little longer.
keep in mind only my hands as they pass over you
down the skirt of your dirty hair,
along the skin bridge to your beautiful body.
don't find that which doesn't exist at our core.

(*revisions since reading)

Monday, February 3, 2014

i, me, this
i of body
i of dumb hands
i of infernal imagining
i of dishpan dim wit
i of intermittent waistcoat
i of epiphanic grunt and sloth and slow movement
i of nose and rooting
i of initial thought
i of not much further
i of short time
i ignorant
i dumb
i lucky