tracing. a poem inspired by harry smith

i am tracing the postcard that hung on the back of ginsberg's toilet door, where you lie and paper-punch, punch-cards and clock in and clock outside.
i am tracing the nose of your striped friend and doing it again, over the first because I see that there are two here but every time I see one the other appears.
i am tracing the sickle through your blow-hole cause if the silence is any louder I'll try to scream and the film will start, all shaky man and woman and ray.
i am tracing the cord that makes the circle become a triangle that, when turned sideways is a buffalo wafer with tears and photos of tears dangling from a flower.
i am tracing scratch and dance, trying to find the end of the swirling rings and thanks a lot, I think we'll hit it off if I be the blue and you be every other color.
i am tracing the beginning to the beginning through a loop and the end can never come and this is the way I decided to get rid of this fear of sinking or falling or sitting.
i am tracing the fears I still have back to the beginning, the birth so the death is the only end but it wouldn't become a u-shape maybe just a red dot again, showered by white enemas.
i am tracing the white rain to the pixel and the absence of the shape when you look everywhere but directly at the bow and the counter-bow of the spectrum fireworks.
i am tracing the explosion of the color bow and the space of jailed stripes and how I will end the circle but placing the rails of green, yes green and connect it with cord.
i am tracing the pathway to the outside clock where, within the spokes lies the cords and the punch-cards that subtract the clock in and make shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing the shoulder blade around to the stars and ivy of your back and your neck actually ends under there somewhere so

I am going to back up the clock in to see where I'm at,


blade dangling white so a silence buffalo falling outside the cord.
i am again paper-punch, tracing the way to the jailed toilet where ginsberg's of the flower.
i space beginning every time and it am red ivy so I will maybe become or try and back your rings where never have shapes under the sickle begun swirling and hung everywhere to see and end and shoulder the the the because the that that, the green two that sit still with the other and decided their lot, where they subtract tears from the spectrum again, tracing back time.
I've got tracing to do, I’ve gone outside.
I am hit again.
i connect pixels to the tracing when tracing in wouldn't appear.
i back up my tears but get rid of the beginning, I will clock with a striped absence.
actually the fears are seen placing blow-hole rain at a man, a back tracing is green, tracing through I am a woman, the neck dance, the over enemas.
i clock the film turned to the u-shape and shaky doing this, I become this again,
i lie at the end of the clock, the cord loudly tracing the dot of white am punch-cards blue and the lies find triangles and pathways to the first fireworks.
i appear on color shapes and at the end, I bow to you, tracing your sinking beginning end can somewhere be sitting.
i think that the photos of cords, clock clock stars, tracing showered postcards, loop the punch-cards and I begin tracing the ring within your color.
i think death makes you directly fear and scratch and the rays say yes in the a.m. birth.
from start to start,I think I am the circle explosion at sideways scream and the look counter-bow. the circle spokes come to me but I'm only



hung outside.
i am ginsberg's ivy under paper-punch, that neck shoulder lie clock you see blades got you there somewhere in, i'm up to where tracing clock and clock and the punch-cards back you, and i sent you a postcard back the back actually to the toilet of so and so's door, to the stars and around ends where on tracing,

i am only trying to trace the beginning and the end.


i am back tracing the where back somewhere ginsberg's lie and clock in got the outside.
i am paper-punch, of the neck to see hung around and ends stars up your toilet.
i am in of that so I’ve to and punch-cards back where to clock and the tracing actually on my door, at under your shoulder there and postcard ivy clock blade you am.

i am a blue ring.

i am tracing the postcard and still shapes appear again and again.
i am tracing still and still and still and still and still and I am still.