Ron Silliman

*358° of *Universe



 



I am Marion Delgado. Amarillo ramp. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. I had



forgotten that summer was an emotion. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. Herons wading in the



shallow water. My points are extended, their borders provisional. A great din at the ocean’s bottom.



Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Memories of my mother’s mother. A specific tasted, like chewing a



pencil. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the



boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. This means



defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at



each stage in the struggle against imperialism. I am Marion Delgado. This is not so complicated. Amarillo



ramp. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. We begin to notice gangs of



women roaming about the city. She was a visitor. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. Trucks,



cattle dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. As the sun set



they cooked dinner on Bolinas beach. Herons wading in the shallow water. Come Sunday morning, we



brunched in the cafes. My points are extended, their borders provisional. I am Marion Delgado. Calm, as



tho stunned, we performed our functions. A great din at the ocean’s bottom. Amarillo ramp. These flowers



bloom in fog. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about



the city. A tunnel under the river that would take you from Detroit to Canada. Memories of my mother’s



mother. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. Woman in a pink pantsuit, head tipped forward,



asleep. A specific taste like chewing a pencil. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. I am Marion



Delgado. In the rear of the bus a man bottlenecked a guitar as two others wrestled silently in the aisle.



Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the



light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. Herons wading in the



shallow water. Amarillo ramp. Here is a question of truth in fiction. This means defining with precision



every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the



struggle against imperialism. My points are extended, their borders provisional. We begin to notice gangs



of women roaming about the city. My friends were all unhappy and confused over the pill, the diaphragm,



and the I.U.D. This is not so complicated. A great din at the ocean’s bottom. I had forgotten that summer



was an emotion. I am Marion Delgado. There was my life as a form of fact. Rough squares had been cut



from the seat cushions of the bus. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. This is the stage of anti-



imperialist struggle. Amarillo ramp. The fog burns off. She was a visitor. Memories of my mother’s mother.



Herons wading in the shallow water. We begin to notice hangs of women roaming about the city. Able to



apprehend the object of my perception. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. I am



Marion Delgado. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. My points are extended, their borders are



provisional. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. Small speckled eggs. As the sun set they



cooked dinner on Bolinas beach. Amarillo ramp. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I



could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a



window a few seats ahead of me. A great din at the ocean’s bottom. This is the stage of anti-imperialist



struggle. Woman asleep behind dark glasses. Come Sunday morning, we brunched in the cafes. We



begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. I am Marion Delgado. This means defining with



precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in



the struggle against imperialism. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Herons wading in the shallow



water. Anyone with a bullhorn and a red armband was a leader. Calm, as tho stunned, we performed our



functions. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. Amarillo ram*p. This is not so complicated.



Memories of my mother’s mother. My points are extended, their borders provisional. Fuck with fear.



These flowers bloom in fog. I am Marion Delgado. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. WE begin



to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of



the bus. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. A great din at the ocean’s bottom. Ideology is for



everyone. A tunnel under the river that would take you from Detroit to Canada. Amarillo ramp. Herons



wading in the shallow water. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. She was a visitor. Tho it was



too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in



their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. I am Marion Delgado. Patrick



climbed into his Chinese drag. Over cocktails, relaxed, taking in not one but several conversations at



once, I tended to mix the various responses. Woman in a pink pantsuit, head tipped forward, asleep. We



begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. My points are extended, their borders provisional.



This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. This



means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines



up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. Amarillo ramp. Memories of my mother’s mother.



The pelican flew alongside the car, accompanying us over the bridge. In the rear of the bus a man



bottlenecked a guitar as two others wrestled silently in the aisle. I am Marion Delgado. I had forgotten that



summer was an emotion. A great din at the ocean’s bottom. As the sun set they cooked dinner at Bolinas



beach. This is not so complicated. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. A specific



taste, like chewing a pencil. The two girls traveled with their mother, a professional shoplifter, from suburb



to suburb, Kansas, Missouri, Texas, somewhat ahead of the cops. Here is the question of truth in fiction.



Amarillo ramp. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. I am



Marion Delgado.