“But Bottom, a text composed to a striking extent of cited and re-cited fragments of other’s writing, provides a clear example of how the cited text simultaneously signifies within its new context and refers back to its previous appearances.” --Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge, p. 90, The University of Alabama Press, 1998

Naomi thinks there is so much between even one thing, the relationship between the self and a self. Naomi combs her hair in front of her mirror. Staring at herself, but knowing there’s another person there between Naomi and her mirror.

“We were on our way here and we know from views of the thing from that is modern art, if you are thinking something nasty,” Naomi’s thoughts say to themselves.

“For one thing true love should take all night!” is another.


Fragments from his echo (his dreams):

He can analyze it, that Eric, not only the cabin he brushed, gathering, lifted his great gut so he could hook his thumbs into his woolly mount that skidded to a stop. He frowned down on him from behind an impressive imitation.

Ignorance meant fear. So they had unloaded it in the market of listening to one more story about the magnetic field of the deep exam. Eric had dug a small flute out of his pack and played and stumbled away to the heads where he could be alone with his minute.

This cannot be. He has so admired you and your people here. You are your sources; your sources are correct. Tomorrow is the death day and that is all.

Any idea what this is, or what this means?

He put on his bejeweled eyes and looked through the door, if you see anything, anything at all, please tell us.

We slipped on our packs and started walking. By the time had an hour, like everything else you saw. The dog is your body. The thing you order around, sit up, beg.

Eric shook his head in amazement. Too deep for me. Like that pool, a plastic bottle filled with liquid. He removed the top and handed it to me.

“Drink this, all of it. I’ll hold the gun,” he demanded

But this really started it all:

In the end, there is no beginning.

Be that as it may, in the end, there was no beginning. At least, Eric didn’t remember the beginning. You know how it is sometimes. You remember the first time you rode a bicycle or the first time you kissed someone? Years, even decades later, at certain moments, you remember again that first kiss or that first time you rode your bike without training wheels, when you wash the dishes or start your car or unplug the toaster to clean it.

Eric doesn’t remember those moments, those first times, because, for him, in the end, there was no beginning.

It’s not as if everything is a new thought; he can remember doing things before, like the last time he changed a light bulb or the last time he ate rice, beans and eggs for breakfast. These moments he remembers.

It’s not as if he can’t remember the moments as they begin or end, he just can’t remember the first moments, the repetitive moment sure, but never the moment that began the long list of times he stubbed his toe, or times he waxed his shoes, or times he picked his nose and ate his dried snot. When did he begin to acquire a taste for his own snot or even his own farts? Eric can’t remember.

He does know the end, though; he found it in a tree, in a dream last night, hanging the antennae for his two-way radio. The branch broke and Eric fell to the ground. Eric does remember his dreams.

This night he only dreamt of one song of love.