Bartleby: Living but everywhere dead

The power to not go on.  Whimper of night where we would actively not.  Animated in his cage, what’s offered is just this.  An entire world enraptured – flickering a message up in lights.

Paid to go away, the second letter is ultimately defuse.  Volunteers await a gardener’s wrath.  This lack of limits becomes the ultimate limit.  Naked he thinks this is the life.  Discharged to keep a close eye.

Applied to the lower tides, transparency as such becomes unreadable, glazed opacity of fluids that follow words.   Reverting to the crawl he sidekicks and rolls back to float to a place on the beach.

It’s an amoeba phones home.  My nomad answers.  Yolk of jellyfish that lurk, yellow hearts pumping in the sea.  Haunted by animation, nature tests its mental being.  Indecipherable, it is the hardened fat – impenetrable not thru but in language.

Remember leisure poets who invert the body’s response?  They yield to an earlier image, back when fruit dots were candies of the gods.  A twilit lozenge in the wake of dawn’s burst.  Dispatched to that suckling place – a pure exposure or announcement before birth.  That’s the ticket, pleased to admit one.  A baby shower that delivers a pillar for the waif.  Advertisements followed by popcorn and sticky feet.  The Magi caught looking can’t get enough.  Dead letters arrive just in time.

Dear B – I heard that you were asleep.  Too personal to enflame the animus that remains.  Aborted message whose ground takes off.  No need to decrypt the hand that signals a sequence of faults.  The policy ruptured is us.  It’s what we can’t see for the not quite trees.  Unchanged matrix a constant roar. Revolt pitched, lost in the severity of manner.

Before machine readable dreams, ribbons precast in a typewriter cove.  Each finger alive crescents, untapping the dream that precedes it.  Where election lights the lights.

Discarded words burn four times a year in the great city square. Bonfire of lettered remains.  Stunned, yes – but falling off the horse, no.  It’s the new form of method acting.  Copying music without knowing the notes.  Sitting for a test, multiplied by the one who wins by walking.  The same theme and same frown for the always changed song.

In these times, who is cut to copy flesh?  Give us a sign when wisdom returns.  I refer to the one who wears shoes, to the one whose mouth is unable to authenticate the hand.  Without proof, unable to follow, he appears at his desk, watching the hand but not the mouth.  Watching the general become singular.  Watching the singular fawn, dip and turn back as if reanimated in commerce.

The hand loses itself, ghosting its name, an outlaw thought. Impossible to coincide, it is the part of those who have no part.  Rolled in the weft, riding a flotilla of lines.  The scare memory plays to avoid refusal.