63The black ants that roosted in my tree all winter long have just emerged to meet an army of enemy ants (same breed) & a big war is now taking place, I just looked with my brakemans lamp (by sunlight) (brake the day sun) warriors are biting each other’s sensitive rear humps & killing each other with more intelligence about murder than my boot knows—I squashed one wounded warrior whose poor right front armorer was missing & he just croualtad coupled there, I hated to see him suffer & he was open (ow) for attack too, bit safe a mo on a flat rock used for lady’s flagstones in the pink tea world which ignores ant Wars & doesnt know that when the first space ship lands on the planet Amtasagrak (really Katapatafaya in other galuxies) the ship will immediately be swarmed over by black ants, even the window obscured, they’ll have to turn their X-Roentgen Gun Ray on it to see & what they’ll see’ll make em wish Von Braun had stayed in brown germany: one sextillion sextillion idiot insect fiends a foot deep eating one another endlessly the top ones scuffling, the next layer dead & being nibbled, the next layer belly to belly cant move from the weight, & the bottom layer suffocated at last—& the lady ants have wings & fly to little tiny planets that hang six feet above the moiling black shiny ant sea, where they hatch, push the grownup kids off (into the Mess) & die Sighing for Paradise O ye singers of War & Glory

After seeing a thing like this who wd dare not ask for enlightenment everywhere? Who will deny ant war with me?

Meanwhile in my yard the triumphant winning warrior ant stands over his defeated dying brother & you see his little antled helmet waving in the glorious breeze like How Ta Ra the trumpets of Harfleur & (you know what I was going to say there—hm—) no compassion in these little febrile finicular skeleton—O Ant Soup!

64O Escapade escape me never I lied I lied I lied I’ll never escape ex cape—of Spaign—God’ll ever me allow to leave this hurt of ant scene until I lissen to his words & wave & point by saucer moon & antlered antennae &

weird roofwash & weirder cross windows, the black clock by the white clock in the city’s creamy tenement while one silk stocking waves to gossip the lady’s lost leg & there’s a slip by a pair of paints waving in the moon breeze as well as a sheet which however has no blaind stain of blood, only the one silk stocking—& there’s panties, littleboy pants, handkerchiefs, towels & many cursed faint bigscrew’d oratan furykula yaink antavyazers, with black hooks, sword spaces, windows the bottoms falling out & the moon a crink in its upper neck which is really its back (Ah)

65That grassy yocker pocking up yonder