Human Beings Being What They Are, Order

I Suspect Most Of Life Takes Place In The Interstices Of What's Already Been Articulated.

A Sentence Has Meaning In The Sense That A Train Has A Track, Not That A Train Has A Passenger.

Each Of Us, With Money, Gets Further And Further Away From Those Moments Where The Hand Pulls The Beet Root From The Soil, Shakes The Fish From The Net Into The Basket -- Not To Mention The Way It Separates Us From One Another, So That When Enough Money Comes Between People, They Lie Apart Like Parts Of A Chicken Hacked Up For Stewing.

The Reason For Privacy Is Not So That People Will Not Know You Go To The Bathroom. It's To Allow Certain Things To Go On That You Don't Want Other People To Know About, When All Is Said And Done. But The Things I Don't Want Other People To Know About Are Not My Sex Life.

There Is A Hollow, Holey Cylinder Running From Hilt To Point In My Machete. When I Blow Across The Mouthpiece In The Handle, I Make Music With My Blade. When All The Holes Are Covered, The Sound Is Sad, As Rough As Rough Can Be And Be Called Smooth. When All The Holes Are Open, The Sound Pipes About, Bringing To The Eye Flakes Of Sun On Water, Crushed Metal. There Are Twenty Holes. And Since I've Been Playing Music, I've Been Called All Different Kinds Of Fool - More Times Than Lobey, Which Is My Name.