THE DISCONTINUUM OF PARADISE

*  Listen to an old quiet radio.

*  Make word-images, as you blow a trumpet.

*  Catch two plastic bags in your mouth.

*  The Sprechstimme Choir sings "starfish."

*  Clean your fingernails.

*  Make a drawing on a large sheet of paper.

*  Pour syrup on the drawing.

*  Comb your hair.

*  Sleep, worm, curious horncalls.

*  Turn off the radio.

*  Tape books to the bare torso of another person.

*  Give envelopes, with torn pages from old novels.

*  The Sprechstimme Choir sings "the sea, the sea."

*  Tape money on the bare torso of another person.

*  Blow on the money.

*  Cut pieces of fruit & give them to the audience.

*  Wrap yarn round & around the audience.

*  Repeat the word "expiation" until you tire of it.

*  Cut paper with scissors (make a mess).

*  Sounds of pressing the plastic bags.

*  Put one hand in a pan of water.

*  The Sprechstimme Choir sings "white water."

*  Walk with a potion-glass around the space.

*  Drink from the potion-glass.

*  "The throbbing of thick soft drumsounds."

*  The Sprechstimme Choir sings "wheels."

*  Cut raw meat with a scissors.

*  Laurel & Hardy birdcalls.

*  The Sprechstimme Choir sings "quanta, quanta."

*  Juggle the plastic bags with hands & feet.

*  Pyramid twist, the plastic bags at ankles.

*  Rip & eat bread.

*  Pour water over mirrors.

*  Chop a block of wax with an ax.

*  "Paradise is the myth of ever presenttense."

THE SOLILOQUY : QUESTIONING

Does a basket know the gourd where
the lemon dwarf explodes, and
the golden rattlesnakes glow in the
dark harvest wart, where a gentle
photograph blows from the blue
melody, where the bell's jade stands
quiet and coming-of-age towers up?
Does history know a hobo's nutrient?
Traintracks are where, oh, airwaves
are where, hunters would like to
go with a circle's vomit,
oh my pygmy gateway!

Does a sorceress know the source?
Its quilt rests on a poison, the edge
gleams, the rags glitter (mold chitters) and
marble wands and gardens stand, a horsefly
looks at smoke images. "Poor lust! what
has uranium done to blood?" she said.
Does a skin know warm bushes, honeycombs,
staghorns, and star vines?
Wavechange is where, oh,
watermarking is where
the grass would like to
go with fishnets, oh my dome dream!

Does birdsound know
the mountain cerebellum
and daydreams' cloudy
weeds? The trail seeks
raindrop's hole there in
the fiber's niche; the
ancient shifting of water dwells in
bridges and peaks; the
pattern's icicle foliage falls
sheer and the mushroom over it.
Does a gem know the sword's doorway?
Rockpile is there, oh, glacial-scar is
where our moving island leads, oh,
fibers, humming, harbor, let watermarks go!

THE END.