Albert K. Ashes-Bury Like a Stream Thing

I read that book and thought of the author
all those years ago. It was only how I felt about the author,
about the time. I felt released. I didn’t know what to do
as it was a feeling. I wonder what they think about…
But that would be what I think. Then there are the collectives
of things—where are they? I can’t quite loosen myself up enough;
there are plenty of places to go: there we go.
Once separated, what can we do? I am not sure what any words mean;
it isn’t exactly silence, but nothing, on top of the doubt that comes with it
on top of the anger, which isn’t really anything either.
I don’t like… Ah doesn’t matter: I cannot grab a stone;
I walk on the beach and I’m not even really there.
Working used to be beneficial. We went to lunch
and I still need to seem to eat. When we left
I was gone. I wanted to be less commercial
about this. How many attachments have been clung to?
How can it be assumed that there could be shared thought?
I wish I didn’t have long hair. It isn’t
quite a category, the assumption, which
is everybody’s: I am nothing new. Have you seen the bar?
I don’t go. No no—the body doesn’t respond.
Of course, I cannot be blamed for breaking things apart.
I cannot believe this is it. This is all of life. I am forever starting. Is this
childhood? No blunt blocks.
How are… Go for it—how are these matters formulated? I feel quite good.
We can’t leave it like something happened. O that feeling then too.