.

last night, a watery city
mirrored the bay, concrete

stacks of smoke bled neon
lines of liquid light, their

surfaces swayed, waved and
birthed a tangerine moon,

slowly rose and severed its
roots with all the festive

impermanence of a large
paper lantern, lifting until all

I could see and feel were
curvatures and rotations


think of the book`s long history:
logos, philospher-kings with
Ideas-transcending, interiority
of Concepts, Republic of Minds
in a papery court of reason,
functionaries of thought,
a writer's self-portait
(legislator-and-subject),
the notion of self. I-dentity.
this long bookish rupture
in human history sits
on a plateau of pages
(a multiplicity connected
to other multiplicities by
superficial underground stems,
black syntactical lines that
form or extend the rhizome),
growing up and out of time
like the pages of a book-of-books
scattered on wind, on
Derridean dissemination.
differance.



somewhere between me
and that big orange moon

hangs the egg of a percept
waiting for birth.

its perpendicular movement
sweeps me and the other away,

becoming-the-moon
in a rising night sky

"What is important is not whether
the flows are - 'One or multiple' -
we're past that point: there is a
collective assemblage of enunciation,
a machinic assemblage of desire,
one inside the other and both
plugged into an immense outside
that is a multiplicity in any case."
(D&G, Milles Plateaux)