The set:

An upstairs

and a downstairs,

winter in the north,

a house on a hill in a silent, coniferous land

Upstairs:

The Ship of Dreams;

a large double bed

where I lie in a sleeping bag

under a warm quilt,

dressed in merino underwear,

studying Chögyam Trungpa, Volume II

Downstairs:

Logs burning loudly in the wood stove;

the best way to heat at least a part of the building

without having to pay ridiculous sums for electricity

Bach on Spotify on the Mac

via the flying fingers of Maestro Glenn Gould,

kept loud enough

to mean something to me upstairs in the Ship,

where I maintain

that a straightforward allocation

of likewise simple statements,

[somewhat like a crude map

or the leisurely ordering of objects

in a space such as a room

or a mind,

leaving details as well as the greater picture

to the reader

- who in the best case scenario

isn't but a consumer, but a creator -

to imagine]

shall constitute poetry

that will make the 95% of all the grammar school etudes

published on public sites obsolete,

perhaps in the manner and method

of John Cage's Lecture On Nothing,

which simply describes the timeline and structure

of the lecture itself,

also having me recall Maurits Cornelis Escher's lithograph

Self Portrait in Special Mirror

as well as his lithograph Drawing Hands,

in which he portrays his hand drawing his hand drawing his hand

I'm even ready to go as far as letting the rebel leader Jesus's cleansing

of the Temple

inspire a recommendation to most innocent souls

to stay the fuck away from the alphabet without a really good cause!