The bit below was stuff I was going to, somehow, even if in much modified form, incorporate into a canzone I'm working on.  Now, I know for sure I do not wish to have it other than excised from those draft screens where it until now has resided.  For a bit I thought I could parcel it out in between stanzas, and I do like the idea of twining entire unspun poems in between stanzas of another entire poem, but I don't think the lines below are apt for that brightness either.  Given how I'm keen to get rid of these lines, it's not the least bit shocking that I'm eager to keep them too, to deposit them in a marvelous repository, a blog, a brooks, a Gwendolyn!:


Every time any one spoke, an hour or so later, scars appeared; it’s not

Clear whether this indicates dangerous expression, or if each cicatrix

Is a seam, part of the permanent construction which is the present;

Or does the closest one gets to plausible posit in-between, algebraic

X mitotically divides, constructs, compasses what one does, what one

Hopes for and what happens as perceived by third parties; to do anything,

Even stasis, is to act, to be a force; but force precedes and succeeds

Action, hence crop upon crop of dissatisfaction, and I am so fearlessly

A multifoliate confidence, and equally afraid, so stuck in equilibrium,

Stasis, a kind that goes, goes, seamlessly flows, fabricating fault, quake;

Or should I cheer myself on for what I continue to do well enough

And realize in-between is the present in its very link, ongoing algebra,

That there’s always a gap, a rush one can’t seem to solve; but what if

The action destroys the agent! I fear people will reasonably abandon me.

　

I'm interested--among many, many, other?, dynamics--in ethics and crime (whether legally constituted or not) and especially so aesthetics, as where else is the matter materializing statement so close; I'm interested in their braiding.  Below is a declaration, and espionage, of this braid:

Art is not a crime and the person who claims the crime is art is a criminal; that the criminal is an artist is not exceptional. Those who unveil the mess, reveal its regal clarities--ladies, gentlemen, this is not a tease, it’s stripped to the quick--will engage ethics, make and make unto marl the notion parities can be sown from disparities, make and make till the more there’s more the less massive monstrosities are. Crime hides its error, precisely constitutes terror.