pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not.  Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
---electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                       A world of made
is not a world of born---pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence.  We doctors know

a hopeless case if---listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go 





home, james