This Is Orson Welles


Fraternally, I'm afraid.
Naturally, I've told you.
I'm carrying on this conversation because of my plan
to disintigrate you with a ray-gun, or Reaganomics.

Strapped to the bedstand wyws (very different from eyes)
wandering to and from corners. He calls
for kittens to tickle his deft feet. Snow is falling.
The Roman Catholic Church gives itself a face lift.

A bufferfly (very different from a butterfly)
wanders into the orphanage, which is not liberal, and plants its wet kiss
on the marm. Practice this kiss and you will be admitted, she says.
The metal heels and toes scrape against the tile floors.

What? It is making us believe.
He triggers the dynamo with his ashtray:
the abundance, the dancing, the cowardices, indices
of a carnival described within its profusion.

Interrogational, the proteins survive under the microscope
but animate more the sunlight that, furthermore,
only animates his face. His familiar face constructed like a jigsaw, itself.
(The fruits and forks of an assault on classical volumetrics.)

Wandering among the terminology culled
from popular magazines and essays, he fantasizes
among the Greeks of his new found pavilion.
Hatred escapes from the eyes of the auditors ...

but palms raise their leaves behind them, framing them,
explaining them, and unwittingly in their bafflement
they modify the limnings of their mimetic pathology.
Sleep is the resin in which he can find the contentment that is
     preserving his june bug.

Holograms are not people, nor steeples peoples.
Paddies are not economies that divide the lot among slow wage slaves.
Gatherers are earners -- citizens in leisure --
recombine in Beulah wary of the remote control.

Solitudes drift airily in high res patterns
that never strike the diamond, nor push off.
The meaning of this continues when the scroll is enabled.
Predecessors kindly are asked to leave. Or float over the Macy's Day
     Parade.

This is my Latin moving outfit.
These are my charged synapses, emitting signals
at a faster rate than normal Man.
This is a book I rate very highly.

Standing alone in the rain, high on several humped backs,
permanent as an obsessional evening fixation, the retired librarian
     stuffs his pipe.
That is the cinema. That is the facade of the House of (broken)
     Parliament.
This is Wittgenstein's Theory of Pain.

Ordinarily, I'm aloof.
Fraternally, I'm afraid.
Naturally, I've told you.
Something contagious in suburban airs bleats pontificating against
     strategic paradise maneuvers. A kaleidoscopical

symphony of color effects continually changing in elation and
     depression, velocity, intensity, variety and sentiment,
     continually developing and composing new forms and designs,
     not merely of mathematical symmetry, but also as suggested
     from the endless constructions, textures, phenomena revealed
     in astronomy, microscopy, mineralogy, geology, paleontology,
     etc., beginning with a Larghetto in light bluish-grey, muddy
     yellowish-green, greenish-blue and dark greyish-blue; followed
     by an Andante in color containing blue from green to purple;
     and an Allegretto of complementary colors with a tendency
     towards yellow and red; and by a Finale vivace in all colors,
     ending at last with a flower star, emitting rocket-like fire lines,
     trills, radiations of various propelling power, at first
     paraphrasing in the colors of the solar spectrum, and at last
     improvising an outburst of new colors, like ultra red and violet,
     for which optical instruments have first to be invented before
     the human eye can perceive and enjoy them.