March 1923

The glory of Croniamantal is today universal. One hundred and twenty-three towns in seven countries on four continents dispute the honor of this notable hero's birth. I shall attempt, further on, to elucidate this important question.

They have painted me rose pink lilac Naked yellowness and ebony of shoulders Thick red lips My dress hangs loose and thin impudence of light fabric Such a dress as African women wore to the missionary door And squatted out of into nakedness Of huge and shimmering leaves The jungle Whence sweaty slaves huddled into galleons.

At 7 : 30 exactly he is awakened by a battery of alarm clocks. A Big Ben 7 in. tall with 4%-in. dial. A Baby Ben 3% in. overall. A Jack o'Lantern, so named for its luminous dial. Half a dozen other clocks of assorted shapes, with black or radium-painted numerals; steady or intermittent, top, back or interior alarms.

Her lips are roses rotting in water. Her eyelids two shrivelled violets. Her eyes are puddles. Her voice is of a bird being strangled. Her youth in passing lingers in her hands. They flutter, hovering like two butterflies over the corpse of her flesh.

Withdraw your hair from the simulated Interest of the moon; Take every tenuous shadow From the aimless tongues of these trees And darken your speech until it attains A fickle and fantastic

A dense waterboundary over beyond the Azores needed a ship through it. Having failed to secure a footing for the adventure in every capital, ridiculed, driven about from place to place, in rags finally, his mind burning, the martyr's fervor eating now back of his breastbone, his son at his side — the Italian joins the mob about their Catholic Spanish Majesties encamped before Granada. There he watches his opportunity, for the last time to make his proposal.

He sits on the bridge inspecting his hands. Opposite me is another me it is not hard to find red boats and soon he will come threading his way through the traffic, blow, horns! blow, horns! and the silence dies in the enchanted melody of a flageolet but blow! blow! crack your cheeks and blow! horns! here is birth when I was a child in my cradle a portrait hung over my head and the hard corners ladled its substance into my brain one winked color then and darkness glittered, but blow! and blow again! he is naked, we all see that and leering over him her finger stumbles in his flesh and my senses chatter as we run with him, the horns triumphantly blowing and one with hair streaming running laughing at the head

Crunch of foot forward, foot forward; Flair of leg-muscles, set to steel, Sliding, gliding, bunching to steel; Quiver and poise: foot, shin-bone, and knee — Crunch of foot forward, foot forward.