E dizem que a nova poesia nova-iorquina é um nado morto

What do you write, in that little book of yours

Today:
The least-expected has come through
2 seen choices, available, that is to
say, of the infinity within

Must stop with said relations
Cancel them, be done with them
Remove them
Crush them
Crash

Writing when one can't but write
Only one one can't but write
Prefering silence Dreadful Silence
( . . . . . . )


Why does one continue? Why do I? Do I? Is I something I do? Can't I stop to I? then what to We? But we do... Won't I, who? Why I? No Know I, try the gas station.

Pump some I into your vehicle (can't not) Pum tha thing, pump it into the vehicle of the I, the I in the vehicle, I's the vehicle. Pump it up. No need to ask, it's weird to ask, don't ask, pump. Arrive, pump, what else? No else, just pump. Pump-a-di-pump. It's a pump station, radio (pumpdio) says to pump (more, moar!), hive's a pumper, survive in da hive, pump it.


Musn't. You musn't. You see no hope. I see all the hope, behind the _____ in my eternal _____ I dies. You dead, I. You no de? So I no I...

You're limited by me, your creator, enticing you to buy.

Truth is I see you pass by and pump me others pump. Why you no pump off my pump? I's pumps da good pump.

Not! There's a knot write there.

Letters fade. Book becones table. Circles not cycles, not same thing. Break out into the 3-dimensional world.

(Can't break through the third dimension)

4th, 5th (with the aliens) what's I (damn! Bang head on wall) gonna
/
gotta
(gotta, right)
... or not write...