shot shot shot

although these stealthy totals hide behind their columns like that missing ring,

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or milk around the mouth, the semen that bears the blame. shot

shot shot shot

All right, then, let’s off-load these stealthy Jews from their trains.

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Line this data up for death: my research. The veining of the marble, I remember

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that, and the lines of gold which edged the scrolling capitals above the

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columns, I remember those (everything official in Germany was Greek),

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and the heaviness of the hang-

hang-

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ings, the gold tassels on the pulls, the glistening hoots, I remember them and

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the slowly drifting schools of people . . not a single historical thing. Wait.

One. shot shot shot hang

That everything official in Germany was Greek. A perfect sum. Yet as rudely

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belched up as something spoken by the belly through the borrowed services of a

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gastriloquist. Still, an honest en effet. The color of the drapes was plum.

I’d gas shot shot shot hang

like to look below my eyes and see not language staring hack at me, not

gas shot shot shot hang

sentences or single words or awkward pen lines, but a surface clear and

gas shot shot shot hang

burnished as a glass. There my figure would appear as perfectly as any Form

gas shot shot shot hang

reflected in Platonic space—as those tail soot-black boots which I remember

gas shot shot shot hang

grew inside the marble. I am so old, so far away, so thin in my fatty

amplitude, gas shot shot shot hang

I must starve the image in order to fit it in me. The boots gleamed; they always gleamed; and that

gas shot shot shot hang

gleam lay back within the image of the boots like fish asleep in shaded

water. gas shot shot shot hang

Oh, god help me what a liar!

Where, after all, is Germany?

Should I begin when I was born as history would have me—a child of time—to come between two ticks into the world with only tocks to follow? Yet I did not begin when I was born, but later; then just once, in love, I was where nothing was before, or after.