Sunday, November 28, 2021

13,960. DASTOID BLEMISHES

DASTOID BLEMISHES
All of the other actors have
left for their homes, and I
am only left on stage to use
what space is left. Expand
my monologues? Manage
my soliloquies?
-
The Capella stars are high
above, and from their sky
they dance in my broad 
front window  -  I can watch 
the dark night hours as 
they send their dancing
lights this way.
-
Like any other major domo
in a dramatic nighttime sky:
Crime. Intrigue, Avarice.
Lust. And Murder.

Saturday, November 27, 2021

13,959. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,230

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,230
(news from nowhere, pt. one)
I finally feel well enough,
I think, to fit this old spirit
back into the form it once
inhabited. The two no longer
meld very well but that's my
problem, not yours. While I
was drifting along the coasts
of Delirium  -  one 'drunken
boat' in my 'Season of Hell' -
mixing, Rimbaud's, 'Saison
en Infer.' with  his own, also,
Drunken Boat, 'Le Bateau
Ivre,' I was startled each time
by the images and new-shaded
realities I saw.
-
It was a constant, and yet a
fitful, struggle to find that
comfortable state of fevered
suspension wherein the body
hangs between sleep and the
less formal restlessness in
which images, night dreams,
and strange tremors lurk; some
hallucinatory half-point in
which the most ordinary
things are seen in their new 
guises. The high-deliria of
an ill human in service to
the moving outlines of his
life: In my case, over 5 days,
things became super-real
or totally transformed, to a
point I could almost not any 
longer tolerate: The dresser
top, and the vanity on it, 
were somehow fused together, 
to form a sight-line, with the
resultant image of a large 
bear- head staring at me for 
4 days!; Next to that, a clothes 
rack in the corner of that same
room, the rack and few clothes
over it came to life as a deer,
in-place, an immovable and
poised sentinel, viewing the
scene. Outside the winds were
howling, twisting and roaring,
freight-train like, over the high
hill, sometimes shaking even 
the house. The dances of 
movement from curtain and
light, and all the various
angles and irregular lines of
shade, played themselves out
mysteriously along the white
wall  -  as if Dionysius himself 
had inhabited this remarkable
steady-play of light and form.
-
When I first moved up here,
one or two go-rounds ago, a
guy told me : 'Six months nice
enough; six months Siberia.'
That was his determinate of 
the local weather scene. I've 
never been to Siberia  -  not
even in my Stalin-chains  -  
but the conjecture seemed to
work, and I knew what he 
meant right off. He'd never
been to Siberia either, so I
surmised his intent : cliche
in service to image; the getting
off of an idea, not a reality.
It seems that, just about the
middle of each November,
as Thanksgiving approaches,
so does this 'Siberia.' With all
the slapstick of a noodle fight
and rubber swords, somehow
the Winter-world transforms
everything - browns and grays
and raw angles and dull vistas
of bare, all enhanced by a
certain happy and singular way
of managing and being left
alone to one's own resources;
things to be done, or not, only 
as one chooses. The autocrats
of the breakfast table, those
lording over others with rules
and documentation, are long
gone. Good riddance to bad
rubbish. This world is a better
place without them. I'll take
Siberia over Ft. Lauderdale
anyday.
-
What happened next was a
strange in-and-out layer of 
consciousness by which the
confusion of both states of
my sick/well life were battling
each other for a predominance
over my interpretation of what
the world was (is?). It was out
of my hands, since I was weak
and moribund, and merely a
witness to what was going on
outside my resting form. Arms
too weak to reach, and all that.
Days went my, and new things
emerged: my thoughts became
words, yes, but now they were
words that terrorized me behind
closed eyes. In the darkness,
new and startling colors floated 
slowly across my inner-lids -
in brilliants yellow and pulsing
reds  -  and these colors formed
messages, commands, words,
and entire, perfect, paragraphs
of statements and ideas which 
seemed immense, but which,
if I ever tried to grab them,
dispersed, or were dispersed,
as quickly as the lightning
which brought them forth. In
what seemed large blocks of
Chinese-characters, the floating
mass of yellow would begin,
while sliding across my vision,
to form into words, with one
word taking predominance and
then disappearing. What in the
world is 'Dudham?' What in
Heaven's name does 'Carana
Vo Hooris' mean? These were
all untellable to me.  END OF
PART ONE  -  news from
nowhere.





Friday, November 26, 2021

13,958. THE FOX

THE FOX
The fox that howls at the
edge of my fields is looking
for me. Noting an absence, 
perhaps. Does he see that
now as my betrayal, and
ought I be wary of him?
We will need to re-think
and re-acquaint as I heal.
Always a long road ahead.

Monday, November 22, 2021

13,957. I WENT TO JAKE THE BUTCHER?

I WENT TO JAKE 
THE BUTCHER?
The phone rang and it wasn't you,
but the sound resembled my memory
too. Nodding, I asked the reason for
the call. A man named Lance was
washing his car and the girl name
Carlita hung wash.
-
Stepping outside, I realized the
village  -  every pulsing of blood in
each character there, living their
lives of steady intent. The wind
blew the clothes as they dried.
-
Small houses, almost like Dutch
huts, ran up the slow hillside. Dogs,
and a duck, seemed incongruous but
making the scene nonetheless.
-
My plans called for nothing at all.

13,956. SUBLIME

SUBLIME
You may catch the wind as
it runs by : you won't catch
it but you can try. Any emerald
green tint will do, to color the
grass under you : but do not
look down, whatever you do.
This Earth has a treacherous
forbearance.

Sunday, November 21, 2021

13.,955. I WENT TO THE BANK TO BUY BREAD

I WENT TO THE BANK
 TO BUY BREAD
(bum's lament)
In the normal run of things, the
slapdash cathedral bell ringing I was
hearing would have passed unnoticed.
As it was, it was a tune I recognized.
Just a Closer Walk With Thee.
-
Some Elvis guy was on the overhead
in the bank and kept singing. The same
tune with a marked up beat. I'd gone
to the bank to get bread. 'We don't
have any of that,' he said, 'You'll
need the bake shop on Monroe
instead,' Just a longer walk for me?
 -
'How about a hot cross bun, hon?'
That's what the chubby lady at
the bakery said when I arrived.
I said I came for bread instead,
and then I lied. I told her I had
no money and that the bank had 
turned me away and sent me here
to try my luck. 
-
I was on the street again?
Just another walk for me.
Daily walking close to thee.

Saturday, November 20, 2021

13,954. 10,000 PENCILS

10,000 PENCILS
All in all, I ate the tips
and chewed the wood and
used each eraser. Too many
times to re-rehearse, I know
my lines by heart.
-
Caramel at the sushi bar?
Popcorn antlers in the deep,
dark woods? It's all over now.
Ticonderoga Yellow.
-
Leave my coat where I can
see it; all the way down the
canyon, as I fall I want to see.

13,953. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1229

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,229
(superstructure vs. infrastructure)
When the Miller Expressway
collapsed  -  otherwise known
as the Elevated West-Side 
Highway  -  the world little 
noticed. For years afterward,
the fight was over what it
should be replaced with.
Every governmental and
municipal goon within range 
had their say, and their plans.
Studies were done, for this
or that. Westway. Hudson
Docks. New Piers. West
Yards. Hudson Throughway.
It was weird, and it was
almost as if Jane Jacobs had
never existed nor beaten
the pants off of Robert Moses
with the neighborhood coalition
Hudson Street/Greenwich
Village supporters. The West
Side Highway (elevated) had,
since sometime around the 
1920's run or stood (IT 
didn't run; cars ran on it), 
about 40 feet above the
ground-level (guessing), a
few lanes in each direction,
with a posted highway-type
speed. Lots of trucks, of
course, and commercial 
traffic. In those early days
of the development of autos
as primary transport means,
no one knew, really, what to
do or where to place, cars and
trucks. Eventually all of that
became the main contributor
to the downfall of Manhattan,
as neighborhoods were squeezed,
abandoned and them obliterated,
and all other ideas of travel and
movement were sort of consigned
to the less-than-ideal idea of
gridded streets locking up with
zillions of cars, trucks, and taxis.
From the very first day, it only
got worse, and all of America
itself, leading to, and outside 
of NYC, fell into the same trap.
There's nothing worse than 
a planner with a plan. 
-
The idea of an 'elevated' highway
was probably dreamed up in some
engineering-clerk's brain while
doodling on some Buck Roger's
comic strip; wiling away time
and intention. It's too late now
to ask great-grandparents or
grandparents about how this
all began. They're all gone, and
they probably liked it anyway.
One of the fondest memories
I have of the one grandmother
I had, born in like 1900, is of
her talks to me about the arrival
of cars and trucks; replacing the
street horses and foot traffic of
the city, as she'd replicate the
sights and sounds of all that 
was lost  -  along with the new
things that came and got in
the way of all else : paved
road, curbs and sewers, drains
and sluices  -  all the stuff 
that went into keeping all the
new streets from pooling or
flooding, and for the high
elevations and the low bogs,
all of which, or many of which,
were leveled and cut or filled.
She rued the loss of horses and
dirt. I was always fond of
having someone like her, who
didn't just applaud the new and
gleefully accept the losses. She
was adept enough to see what
was lost, how people were
coarsened by the supposed
'progress' which it all brought.
Forty-five years later, that
elevated highway, which ran
from the western terminus of
Canal Street from the Holland
Tunnel, and  down to beneath the
Battery, and to uptown, into like
the west sixties or so to become
Riverside Drive back on solid
ground, was a tottering ruin
of neglected neglected and
rusted/corroded ironwork and
underpinnings, and shoddy
macadam and road surfaces.
It finally gave way and a truck
fell through, spelling the end.
By about 1980, whenever it was,
I was present at the demolition
of it  -  pieces of rebar and concrete
hanging everywhere, piles of rubble
along with it. Like the EL which
once ran the rails through the
heights of Manhattan, it too
would be gone. I made a super8
filming of it, and then had it
transferred to video-cassette.
It's still around here somewhere.
-
The truck fell through, the 
highway was condemned, and 
then all the ghouls came out 
with their plans of refurbishing
the west side  -  piers, warehouses,
and sidings of which had, by the
1970's, become nothing much 
more than derelict trysting places 
for the wayward sex trades which
went on  -  gay, hetero, and all
in between  -  under the old
bridgeworks, along the old 
building-strips, in abandoned
trucks and cars, and anywhere 
else. Waterfront diners and
food stands here and there
still catered too  -  like popcorn
stands in movie houses  -  the
'trade. Hookers, hawkers, drug 
lords and losers too. It was
apparent then that people
STILL didn't know what to do 
about cars and trucks  -  which
old NYC was never really built
for (gridded streets, crowded
proximities, right-angles 
everywhere, with trucks trying
to turn and double-parking
for deliveries while endless
taxis and cars back up, trying
to get across town to any of the 
five or six narrow and clogged
bridges extending outward, east,
or the three going west to Joisey
and the rest of the country outward.
Truly, madness, made by Fenster.
-
One time, when my father was
seeking me out, on one of his
periodic car trips in, to make
sure I was alive and/or well, he
found me down there, under the 
docks and bridges area. I was
surprised as all get-out when,
out of the blue, he found one of
the hot-dog guys to be an old
childhood chum of his from
Bayonne days. They hit it off 
like two gems, going on about
all sorts of things. It was a feeding
frenzy of free hot dogs for 'Andy,'
and for me too, his son! I hadn't
eaten so well in three months!
-
That's the kind of happy and
serendipitous things that happen
when 'street-life' is allowed to
prosper and thrive. All the geeks,
with their plans and clipboards
and charts and designs, they spend
literal billions on forming a place
into their pre-ordained limits of
what will be built (for profit). That's
called 'infrastructure,' and it's dead
on arrival  -  stupid plazas and
sculpture and clean, open spaces
where no one goes and new crime
proliferates (in addition to the crimes
the planners are involved in. The
very idea of planned urban space
and infrastructure sucks and is
stupid. But people roll over, take
it, let the planners take over and
they try to live. What I call, instead,
the 'superstructure' over that, is the
real world of grime, crime, debris,
people using things, mingling, 
gathering, accidentally getting
together, talking and exchanging,
OUTSIDE of the parameters of
standards and issues, government
and geeks. I'm betting that if the
Miller Expressway/Westside Highway
had fallen on the heads of our
accidental hot-dog fest, we all
could have died happily, and, in a
very urban style, quite unplanned.
No one anymore even gives the
real world a chance.


13,952. THE JURY CHOSE MY SHOES

THE JURY CHOSE MY SHOES
Knowing I had nowhere to go, they
chose my destination too. My, my,
why is it I was ever born?

Friday, November 19, 2021

13,951. SUIT YOURSELF

SUIT YOURSELF
My very tired eyes are blue,
though never before have
they been. I took the boat
to Tired Island, and some
guy tried picking me up:
'I love the blue of your 
eyes,' he said.
-
I noticed the lamppost was
out, on the avenue by 19th.
Many years before, right 
there, had been a now
historic riot, where the
locals were shot down by
militia, a big battle, in the
street. About 120 bodies,
just strew about. 
-
We don't do that here 
anymore. I don't think.
-
As the vaunted statesman
told me,' There are different
ways now of silencing people,
and we use them all.' I shrugged
and said 'Your wife said you
should try what I did on her.'
-
We don't do that here,
anymore? I don't think?
-
Another time, the Draft Riots.
Another time, the Negro Burnings.
I can hardly keep up. One tries
learning history to stay abreast
of what, the past? The present?
Which is it? Can't be the future.
-
No matter what, I'll say this to
you, I've never given up. Not
yet. We don't do that here,
anymore, I don't think.

Thursday, November 18, 2021

13,950. WHAT AM I?

WHAT AM I?
(quiz)
The glockenspiel goes home at nine
and all will be silent then. Ice only
breaks the glacier, and I will be
silent more. There's nothing in my
corduroy-denim, and that Pope
has stopped talking to me. Sure,
-
I've got a handless pen that writes
fire, with flames that come down
the chute : I'm a comic, I'm a jester,
I'm a pen for hire, mute. And,
-
fabulous is the fable-izer who makes
these quatrains up, but I want so much
more than that: I want a dollar in my
cup, I want gold-water in my coffee
mix, I want full payment for all I've
done. I'm a magician, out of tricks,
a marksman, with no gun.

13,949. THE MADMAN HAS MOMENTUM

THE MADMAN 
HAS MOMENTUM
Even the madman has momentum, 
until he runs out of that as well. 
Get drunk, for it's the only way to 
live. Saddle up that side-stitched lady 
and take her for a ride. (I took my love 
to the Carborundum Factory, because 
I wanted to rub it in).

13,948. I NEVER FOUND

I NEVER FOUND
I never found your glorious moment;
it went the way of the wind. Over the
top of that was this : One hundred and
seventy feet of sheer rock. Oh how I'd
love to jump.
-
Cars whizzing by were harmless, and
more a danger to themselves than us.
It reminded me of View Master scenes
from when I was young.
-
Like fingers, the riverway dug through
the land : Coasting and gouging, one 
hundred plus years of logs, boards, 
and timber had floated through here.
I could tell by the dead, who were tired.
-
Minisink? A battle? A field? Distant fogs
rolling in could have done no better at
blocking reality now from my face. I
don't believe in dead Indians, and 
Colonists leave no trace.

Wednesday, November 17, 2021

13,947. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,228

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,228
(everywhere, but nowhere at all)
Face it. I've defied physics in
ways that defy physics. Without
much of anything really, I've 
been able to live an amalgam
of lives  -  though if I was
forced to summate, would 
amount to little at all. (You
will note that there is no such
word as 'summate' - most
people would say 'sum it 
up,' or perhaps 'in summation,'
but one of my achievements
has been to realize that language
too is as plastic as the rest of
the world and can be formed
and manipulated into whichever
shape one chooses). So much
for that. I've found the world to 
be rich, in lots of things. (Why
not the past tense? I wonder,
and I hope I can continue
finding that out too). 
-
Pretty much I've run the gamut
in knowing different people:
train people, university people,
criminals, priests and 'angels,'
biker people, farmers, farmers'
wives, country preachers, angry
blacks, drug addicts, sex perverts,
hookers, whores, marksmen,
transsexuals, transvestites, and
even 'altered' gender types. None
of it has, in the end, mattered.
(That might be one of those
'don't bend over to pick up the
soap' shower jokes; not sure).
At one level it's all just been
a visual show of effects : what
the world appears like. What
'form' it takes. Perhaps it's
all momentary, and perhaps
it's illusory as well. Perhaps it
doesn't even exist. I remember
one time some old guy said
to me, 'I don't believe in God,
but I believe that things are
extremely complicated.'
-
I've also read that, when the
World Trade Center (Twin
Towers) went down, one of
the things that kept the site 
burning for all those days was
the vast accumulation of papers;
'All of those notepads and
Xeroxes, and printed e-mails
and photographs of kids and
families, and books, and dollar
bills in wallets, and documents
in files.' That was the year
2001, and I guess there had 
not yet been a true transition
to the sort of 'paperless' society
we're now encouraged to believe
has arrived, or is finally coming,
or whatever. What would burn
now? Phones and phone contracts?
I don't happen to believe any of
it, and whatever people say about
that new-present day, it's all crap.
No one knows, because no one
really experiences anything. 
-
'Lovers pulled up each other's
underwear, and buttoned each
other's shirts.' I read that once
and felt it to be the most beautiful
image in the world.
-
On Sunday night, it's already
Monday morning in Japan.
-
When an animal thinks it's going
to die, it gets panicky, and starts
to act crazy. But when it knows
it's going to die, it gets very, very
calm. I wonder exactly where
that leaves us  -  as a race, as a
people, as a planetary population.
Let's go shopping, and waste
more shit.
-
One time, in New York City, when
I was living in the basement of the
Studio School, on Eighth Street,
which by then had mostly turned
to muck and a crass commercialism
that ranged from shoe and boot
shops, to tattoo guys, to an Orange
Julius stand  -  a little storefront
actually  -  I saw this guy walk
up to another guy, of whom he had
just been told was deaf, and, for
whatever bizarre reason, shout
right into his ear, 'FUCK YOU!!!'
and everyone he was with laughed.
It was a small cluster of kids, the
sorts of Long Island kids or from
wherever (Jersey?) who used to
come in, in '67, to visit NYC and
to slum, on places like Eighth St.,
(no one who actually lived there
ever used '8th'  -  it was one of
those hundreds of untold NYC
secrets that only residents knew
of. Avenues were always words,
(First Ave.; Second Ave.), but
street were always the digits,
(21st St. 79th St.). Except for
Eighth Street, for some 
inexplicable reason. I always
wondered what that stuff was
about and why people were
like that, especially these false
hippie-type frolickers who'd
come in to the Village on
weekend nights to play-pretend
they were what they were not
on the street thereabouts, 
falsely take in the 'sights'
and experiences, and then 
always end up abusing it.
I guessed these were the 
same asshole kids who were
the big deals in their local high
schools, the football and sports
guys and their loose-VJ'd
girlfriends. (When too, I now
wonder, did VJ become slang
for vagina? I'd love to someday
do a dense study of the forms
of 'epistimolgical' developments
of words and slang phrases
through time. I bet, like 
puberty itself, it's a hairy 
subject. (Joke?). In any case,
let me ask, would YOU go up
up to a deaf guy and scream 
something foul into his ear
just to make a stupid point?
On Eighth Street, no less.
-
Other things on Eighth Street,
at that time, were The New
York Studio School, (that was
me), two bookstores (one well
known and quite exemplary,
and the other mostly ordinary
and non-descript some Chinese
guy piercing ears and selling
leather, belts, buckles, etc.,
a few nearly pretentious but
seedy British-style 'expensive'
men's clothing places, and,
lest I forget, and right next
to the Studio School, the
International Youth Hostel.
In the past eras, before this,
there had been legendary
Beatnik and era cafes and
restaurants, haunts and
mysterious locations, but
they were all gone by '67.
Wilentz's Bookstore had
moved to across the street,
the Jumble Shop was gone,
Romanie Marie's or whatever
it was called. Also gone; the
entire street was a ghost, and
the Hotel across from the
Studio School was a ghost
as well  -  even though, for
its day, the likes of people
such as Jimi Hendrix and
Patty Smith and many others
had passed through. I guess
what I'm meaning to say is:
'The entire world had been
turned to fluid-drivel, slow
drip, useless and watered
down ghost of its former 
self. On the level, of course,
of those who wanted it that
way and accepted it as so.
Among whom, I did not
consider myself to be. I had already decided to fight back, somehow, even if it meant my own invisibility. Whatever excursion I had been on, I came back burned like a cinder and was never able to truly' function' again. I hated the world so much that I sacrificed myself to it, or for it - I was never able to decide which of those it would be; but aren't they, really, the same anyway?





13,946. UNIVERSITY OF CRINOLINE SLIPS

UNIVERSITY OF 
CRINOLINE SLIPS
There was a little man in the library
aiding and abetting the books. He
underlined and overscored.  He told
me once his name.
-
'I work here now, researching Zelda.
Nearly every day. The Fitzgeralds
had many problems, you see, and 
she'd gone mad from a hysterectomy.
Not one or two, she actually had 3!'
-
Matthew Bruccoli was the name, 
and I got to know him well on the 
Princeton train. One day after the
other, NYC to Princeton for the
Research Library, Scott and Zelda
Fitzgerald Collection. 

Tuesday, November 16, 2021

13,945. MUMMENSCHANZ

MUMMENSCHANZ 
It was Albert Einstein who said, 
while summing up 'Life': "Our
situation is the following. We are
standing in front of a closed box
which we cannot open." And I
say, 'OK, that's fine enough.'
-
I want to add, also, "Only
someone who'd never been an
animal would put up a sign
saying not to feed them."
-
We often throw the dead meat
of ideas onto the piles of food
strewn everywhere.

13,944. WALKING THROUGH WALLS

WALKING THROUGH WALLS
I walked through a wall that
took off my hat  -  now what 
do you think about that? And,
as well, what can you make of
illusion? I'd have sworn that 
wall wasn't there. Maybe had
I seen it, it would have been
avoided; yet as it was, my
hat and it collided.
-
Other happenings seem less
foreboding  -  that butterscotch
pudding I had, the color of
cream? Well, that's how it 
seemed, and I felt I'd been
broken on the wheel of the
material world : Bring me
April. Bring me May.
-
OK. OK. I can lighten up.
Mirth has been unearthed.

Monday, November 15, 2021

13,943. LAUDAMUS

LAUDAMUS
The way the land works is this:
Nothing moves but gradually;
shifts and increments to take 
great time. Above us, only sky.
-
Imagine this. Outside the
Alfresco Diner the people 
are cold, yet the continue
to dine. Even a Baked 
Alaska hasn't got a chance.
-
The fine waiter's name is
Jacob. He made mention
in his table introduction.
Though it may have been
Jakob. No matter now.

13,942. TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE THINKING

TELL ME WHAT 
YOU'RE THINKING
I'm thinking of mushrooms
and remembering the word
shitaake which I once for a
while took as shitcake and
declined. Shitcake mushrooms?
No, thanks. But I hoped not
ever. And then I thought of
Joseph Campbell, probably
because of soup, as in Campbell's 
Mushroom Soup, which is hardly 
that at all and could get away with
being called shitcake too. Not
that anyone would notice, and
they'd like it just the same. But
anyway, Joseph Campbell wrote
'The Hero With a Thousand Faces.'
-
That was back in 1949, the same
year I was born, and the same
year too that India was formed,
or maybe it was Israel, I forget.
It's what those experts call a
'book of comparative mythology,'
which phrase I never understood;
who compares mythology, and
why? What's the use? It's not to
be studied, but believed in.
-
Only western rationalists would
stoop to dissecting. No? Here's
one: 'I go to bed tired each night
but not tired enough to ignore the
voice that is speaking within me.
It's as if, by sleeping, I am shutting
that valve off. I really just want it
to run, not be stopped. So I make
up the same passive myth by which
primitives believed in God?
-
Keep it running on, but slowly
step away. But then, in another
vein, I get this other idea: It's an
allusion to the fact that God WAS
long ago, IS still today, and WILL
be unto eternity. Yet, then, just
before sleep, I still wonder, will
God instead UNDO eternity by
suddenly taking anew an active
role within the affairs of man?
And what would happen then?
-
Einstein managed to formulate
the time itself is not absolute;
that it is instead merely another
dimension, to be likened to, say,
height, width, and depth. God is
GOD because all these dimensions
are consumed by Him, as the
Creator of time and unaffected
by time.
-
I go bleary and this sleep inches in:
Though God is the creator of time,
and unaffected by it too, God does
not know what will happen 'before'
things happen  -  such a description
would present us with the problem
of predestination and the elimination
of humankind's free will. I nod, to
propose that 'God' is then above
the limitation of both the words
'before,' and 'after,' occupying
instead all of time simultaneously.
-
The entire universe is filled with
'His glory' thereby? This is really
hanging me up. I ought to sleep.