Something strange is creeping across me.

    La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars

    Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from

    Amadigi di Gaula for everything——a mint-condition can

    Of Rumford's Baking Powder， a celluloid earring， Speedy

    Gonzales， the latest from Helen Topping Miller's fertile

    Escritoire， a sheaf of suggestive pix on greige， deckle-edged

    Stock——to come clattering through the rainbow trellis

    Where Pistachio Avenue rams the 2300 block of Highland

    Fling Terrace. He promised he'd get me out of this one，

    That mean old cartoonist， but just look what he's

    Done to me now！ I scarce dare approach me mug's attenuated

    Reflection in yon hubcap， so jaundiced， so déconfit

    Are its lineaments——fun， no doubt， for some quack phrenologist's

    Fern-clogged waiting room， but hardly what you'd call

    Companionable. But everything is getting choked to the point of

    Silence. Just now a magnetic storm hung in the swatch of sky

    Over the Fudds' garage， reducing it——drastically——

    To the aura of a plumbago-blue log cabin on

    A Gadsden Purchase commemorative cover. Suddenly all is

    Loathing. I don't want to go back inside any more. You meet

    Enough vague people on this emerald traffic-island——no，

    Not people， comings and goings， more： mutterings， splatterings，

    The bizarrely but effectively equipped infantries of

    happy-go-nutty

    Vegetal jacqueries， plumed， pointed at the little

    White cardboard castle over the mill run. "Up

    The lazy river， how happy we could be？"

    How will it end？ That geranium glow

    Over Anaheim's had the riot act read to it by the

    Etna-size firecracker that exploded last minute into

    A carte du Tendre in whose lower right-hand corner

    （Hard by the jock-itch sand-trap that skirts

    The asparagus patch of algolagnic nuits blanches） Amadis

    Is cozening the Princesse de Cleves into a midnight

    micturition spree

    On the Tamigi with the Wallets （Walt， Blossom， and little

    Sleezix） on a lamé barge "borrowed" from Ollie

    Of the Movies' dread mistress of the robes. Wait！

    I have an announcement！ This wide， tepidly meandering，

    Civilized Lethe （one can barely make out the maypoles

    And ch？lets de nécessitê on its sedgy shore）

    leads to Tophet， that

    Landfill-haunted， not-so-residential resort from which

    Some travellers return！ This whole moment is the groin

    Of a borborygmic giant who even now

    Is rolling over on us in his sleep. Farewell bocages，

    Tanneries， water-meadows. The allegory comes unsnarled

    Too soon； a shower of pecky acajou harpoons is

    About all there is to be noted between tornadoes. I have

    Only my intermittent life in your thoughts to live

    Which is like thinking in another language. Everything

    Depends on whether somebody reminds you of me.

    That this is a fabulation， and that those "other times"

    Are in fact the silences of the soul， picked out in

    Diamonds on stygian velvet， matters less than it should.

    Prodigies of timing may be arranged to convince them

    We live in one dimension， they in ours. While I

    Abroad through all the coasts of dark destruction seek

    Deliverance for us all， think in that language： its

    Grammar， though tortured， offers pavillions

    At each new parting of the ways. Pastel

    Ambulances scoop up the quick and hie them to hospitals.

    "It's all bits and pieces， spangles， patches， really； nothing

    Stands alone. What happened to creative evolution？"

    Sighed Aglavaine. Then to her Sélysette： "If his

    Achievement is only to end up less boring than the others，

    What's keeping us here？ Why not leave at once？

    I have to stay here while they sit in there，

    Laugh， drink， have fine time. In my day

    One lay under the tough green leaves，

    Pretending not to notice how they bled into

    The sky's aqua， the wafted-away no-color of regions supposed

    Not to concern us. And so we too

    Came where the others came： nights of physical endurance，

    Or if， by day， our behavior was anarchically

    Correct， at least by New Brutalism standards， all then

    Grew taciturn by previous agreement. We were spirited

    Away en bateau， under cover of fudge dark.

    It's not the incomplete importunes， but the spookiness

    Of the finished product. True， to ask less were folly， yet

    If he is the result of himself， how much the better

    For him we ought to be！ And how little， finally，

    We take this into account！ Is the puckered garance satin

    Of a case that once held a brace of dueling pistols our

    Only acknowledging of that color？ I like not this，

    Methinks， yet this disappointing sequel to ourselves

    Has been applauded in London and St. Petersburg. Somewhere

    Ravens pray for us." The storm finished brewing. And thus

    She questioned all who came in at the great gate， but none

    She found who ever heard of Amadis，

    Nor of stern Aureng-Zebe， his first love. Some

    They were to whom this mattered not a jot： since all

    By definition is completeness （so

    In utter darkness they reasoned）， why not

    Accept it as it pleases to reveal itself？ As when

    Low skyscrapers from lower-hanging clouds reveal

    A turret there， an art-deco escarpment here， and last perhaps

    The pattern that may carry the sense， but

    Stays hidden in the mysteries of pagination.

    Not what we see but how we see it matters； all's

    Alike， the same， and we greet him who announces

    The change as we would greet the change itself.

    All life is but a figment； conversely， the tiny

    Tome that slips from your hand is not perhaps the

    Missing link in this invisible picnic whose leverage

    Shrouds our sense of it. Therefore bivouac we

    On this great， blond highway， unimpeded by

    Veiled scruples， worn conundrums. Morning is

    Impermanent. Grab sex things， swing up

    Over the horizon like a boy

    On a fishing expedition. No one really knows

    Or cares whether this is the whole of which parts

    Were vouchsafed——once——but to be ambling on's

    The tradition more than the safekeeping of it. This mulch for

    Play keeps them interested and busy while the big，

    Vaguer stuff can decide what it wants——what maps， what

    Model cities， how much waste space. Life， our

    Life anyway， is between. We don't mind

    Or notice any more that the sky is green， a parrot

    One， but have our earnest where it chances on us，

    Disingenuous， intrigued， inviting more，

    Always invoking the echo， a summer's day.