i'm reading bette howland, w-3. blunt, protective, evocative, detached. watched white riot last night. that time in england reminiscent of this in america. the surprise in the graphic beauty of the musical march against the racists. i'm lazing in bed. my root throbs like a languid dreamstick. i read some proems by eric baus, again somebody i hadn't known. i sent a note asking him if he cloud send me a book to review. cloud for could, i left it that way. one day i may let myself communicate freely, maybe shortly, in brief glimpses like his, of sentences without insistence of sense, simply mystifyingly existing. like a dog waits knowingly.