nominally Ted Berrigan patched together from words or if words don’t serve the re mains of half a thought. Oligarchs float past and future in the rising wind of Oligarchs who press words to dogmatic shape. I like to think that Berrigan drew a line and drawn to it. basic fewness of of oligarchs serves shaded. their words stand in for an object outside not in. after everything else nothing begins now.
this transcontinental fuckup brought in slugging flunk matching flurry of activity with noisome oblige. he smells of all the bad on cross county rapaciousness and a hell of a thing. we have something smaller now. the smell is very exact, like marginality. well. 166 years ago the confederate army heads away from intent and union becomes like books and enclave, all the way to market. that’s why we chat like this, portion control is for children. have a great rest of your day and let shoddiness never impede.