Stephen Williams
Grand Stammer
Paper knows its own fate. Upstream, meaning can be configured through words according to personal experience.
Paper knows and loves its fate. All night long the poet executes poem after poem lying secant to fate's curve.
Let us run and let us crumble. Into the path of the cathedral, into any path you choose.
What game shall we play today? Lost on the river. A game in which all sides have access to all knowledge and the advantage can be gained only by tricking evolution.
No one knew there were so many chambers hidden in the dungeons.
Green swords. Fins. Sirens. Keep fate's aperture wide.
Untroubled by what one saw, when one turned one's neck leftward, rightward, pioneering sin and song at the same time. Marvelous. Simply marvelous.
Everywhere you go, something like feathers start to grow. Where the saints put their tongues.
Clover grants access to the most desperate strata. Finally onto the right path only to find your oxen full of stumbles and your mind in a state of pure quiz.
Look at the edgelord singing into his coathook, look at the great kazoo. Look at the pilgrims. Hear them humming as they go.
They fill the landscape with what they are. Human. They are human.
Look at that one, with the big hat. Look at that one blow a horn in his mind.
Fate stands beside its marvels. Fate looks out over its fields of banal comforts and concerns. Some people love their fate, but fate loves only those who know what the end of the poem knows.