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!