4 Walk Selections

"There is nothing at Peace in Walking" - Boris Izsus

II.

Walking gets you from Point A to Point B to Point C which then’ll Direct you to the Return that Turns you to see Nothing from this Point of View, is every the Same is never the Same. The Clumsy non—movement of Life: Rotten is surely Collapsible upon The Body ponders The Body unmoved. Thus, Walking is a working towards the working of Yourself out of yourself, to Exceed The Mind until there is only Body, moving, which always seems to be the anti-progress of a non—movement. This is a Lie*

The Pleasure you find, is neither in Walking aimlessly, nor in Walking in Leisurely to Pace, nor in Purpose. You prefer to Walk without a Destination in Mind, let alone an Outcome which I envision, but this is far from a Stroll down the Lane. Tho, seemingly without Destination, you suppose, the Destination is the Aim, the Trajectory of the Walk, which is always enacted as if The Body, from the moment it steps out of the Apartment, or on to the Platform from the Train, is in a Perpetual Posture aimed forward slightly tucked [i.e. With the Body behind, the Head rears forth, slanted, as if Frozen, continuously in Movement, at the exact moment before The Head is to thrust itself forward & then in, tuck itself under The Body & thus Body under & within itself] resembling a Body, frantic, or rather frantically pacing itself Forward in it’s own Frantic Intense Calm. Thus, Walking is defined by the Body’s forceforward. The most enjoyable Walks, The Body can enact are those without Peace or Desolation but rather one that involves thrusting The Body straight into the Thick of the Shit, in the Loop, at Work Day’s End when the Streets, ever inch of the thick of it, is cluster-fucked with a Total Mass of Bodies that far exceeds the typical Some & with the Cars honking with Necks craned to Port outside the half-rolled down Windows to Scream the Stress’ Good Scream & with the Other Bodies desperately trying to out-pace themselves to Hobble on Home from the Day’s Aggravations, you Find yourself, as the Discarded Newspapers are kicking up from scuffling Home-Ward Bound Feet & into the Wind of the Evening swirling by you & about you, you find yourself begging in your Walk, a Barreling through these Asses. It becomes a Question of Maneuvering The Body just so, so that from 10 steps Ahead, you can gaze into your Path to Swerve in & Out, Fit yourself into the Little Gasps, oh You meant Gaps between These Other Bodies so to Wisk by with Barely the skin of your Fingers touching as you Pass.

& in these Moments, no one is stopping to think to themselves “Now where is this Boy hobbling off to like a Banshee on a Crack Binge?” No, because you’re just a part of this Mass of Moving Asses frantically pressing themselves Home, but you’re not going Home rather, you’re Going to where you are Going, which is where you are always Going.

On a Daily basis, you outdistance & out-speed the Whole Lot who are scrambling to get their Bodies home as you’re scrambling past them to get to where you are Going which is where you are, in fact, Going. It becomes a Game. & you excel at this Game, which becomes your Daily Dance which becomes the most Therapeutic Form of movement that you’ve ever Known: Moving Frantically, yet carrying within it in your own Odd form of Calm, as you Gracefully pass them all in your [reformed] Crippled Bodybody.

& then as you pass the Amtrak Station, the Mass begins to dissipate, to give way to the Streets & you are rather alone but still Pressing your Body in, while you are Walking, You begin your Time to think how your realize how little you actually can comprehend, how little of the World you can Digest, how little you can actually fucking Think, how little you actually feel like you are Living, unless you are Moving, your Body is moving & yYou are Walking on forward on to where you are Going, which is where you are always Going.

& at the End, you turn around, you’re standing on the Bridge over the Eisenhower & you think to yourself “Hot Damn, that [City]Bitch sure do look purty from The Back.”

Walking is Excess, Meditation & Forceful in Movement.

in other words:

III.

The Body, at the Base of the Feet, slinking itself forth so to Form a passing through, this Quaint of Walking towards Oblivion or, masking to the lifetape the drinking of this lightlight Heart in which I never cared for the Crossroad of Knowledge that stretch along crumbling columns at an anglestop--->in which i witness in walking the Thimbles of thumbing the memory of youth, breaking apart, at the edge of Sight, like glass to the Forehead on said to Hell with the fucking Odes we dial the digits & Devour the Affectionate who are restrain within their Body’s dehydration through The Excessive Joy of buttering up a list of Cities in which to castout the Book which perspires upon the Brow with he return addresses of those who had Oxidized or, The Bed wet in the Dreams we embed in which We opened to the flowering Crap in the Chest of this uncompromising Voyage, an exact knife chitin on the Chin, the Broods & the Pendulum dull Slowness of Books which sent us to a Dream that we could not Translate & what could be achieved through the Little Shit of a Book—[?] Ah, the little Fins we have to wade through the Dire Climate—[ing] this Swamp in which we Nuzzle up to 30 years to Life or, a half smoked Smoke from the Lips unveils the Premonition of the Night & the many Crowds in which we’ll attempt to Disappear within, beaming in the Constraint of an Anonymous Face. However, the Sun is Fading along that edge of the Skycraper up/there, belies the Smoke in the Distance & the Repetition that yes, this is known, this is a Short Conjecture of accepting our Failure, twinkling in the Sigh of our Facial Wrinkles under the Eye & not to mention how important it is to Exhale when my Dick up in Ya, mouthing with me the First Syllable which is all that Augments the Matter[n]s of these Lines in our Hands which join to Induce the coming date of our Finale Farewell in this World that is so Spacious that it Betrays the fact that we never had such a Place, which always was, the staggering Problem of our Irrationalities.

in other words:

IV

In praise of my lovers

That I shall crawl

in the language of boners

The steps, slam against

the next step, gushing

forth a form

of us

in Darkness, which surrounds

the Streets like

Cities below

lights lost

in Sleep

like

your hands

below my Feet/These

& Nose

Seemingly

Thy steps are thy cry; nigh

nigh

I’ll eat

till you

are Aroused [face]

down

town in

Delight

in the language of boobs

She saw the Steak

that begot you

around Michigan

the Avenue

she walked out

& was Happy

The Street

was Silent was

what she took

to foot

& sucked your Face

far off