The man is on his chair in his house in the village. Behold the man amid his Shaker furniture. The man’s white dishes grow gray as fish in the slanted light at the end of the day.
The funny man is rattling in his chair like a car over spikes. He is filmed with a pale slicker. The envelope of his body twice, like a cat’s eyelid. He is casting wet around him as he turns and smiles. A smile of effort, O here are the sizes of his mouth: the demonstrations his bones make down into his open mouth. Wet + the man like sparks + a wheel.
The man is sloppy with longing. He is quaking in his chair.
All of his body is a phrase of desire, and water and semen rise to every open surface of his skin. Stupid with a love that splits from the man to every direction. Wet goes off the man like busted porcelain, milk-glass popping off itself. Tyndall man!
The living man is bouncing in his chair. Slop from his arms like teeth in a fight. O you ugly man, you are spilling all your information; it is like weeping. An embarrassment to yourself and others, and this is the achievement of your purpose.
This is the state the man should be in—this is the most like God. I am watching that horse come down. Everyone will laugh at you as you head between the cottages; ugly man who rises from his chair, I am using the words for you, and I know what you are. Head muscular into the village, man, and be murdered by your neighbors: you are the best one here and anywhere. This is the walk the good gods take. Here comes the viscera of the human body. Here comes love and twelve hundred pregnancies.