Page 178

By Jack Joseph Smith

77 { the tail’for the pointed minds, Women look at what is thick and direct; They musts it is outside of thems. He came to her, her husband,. she moved away from him,, and I hated @hyé'. His piano was so clears Deapth without deapth$. Agong in reachingg The undercurrent. of a-soul,, femains an undereurrenta, Stars fall,.moons pass, but are chissums ever seen in their own images: My Shoulders are wind and boneys. and my face is drouping and fats: “ Lines are orawling,.Omly the slave oan interpet them.I'see them kicked on televison,, would it be pretentious to say I feel the same in my own heamg: Maybe worses. I’no nots. I no not, not from where it comes. Sometimess. Hurays He he,.Can this-be ity only joy? Must I go backy, to live§f Nonsences you are the presentation and the symbol of dreams. ! You-are the adventures. You are the uneducated among those without the-ung. They never , i remember the beforeg the before birth} Kissed in a turbilent windy. the blackness that | brought us together is never reconizeds Lost in unturbulencey.the mind remains losts. hat is needed? Maybe misdirection, 0 Gody, is this where I am going?’ Yes, Danial, come “ : backs .Noy. he refuses, Do you all see this on my face? I am sorry you don't, What a great protectret I am;.The carecture of myself resembles only myself; and I am rémem bered only in dreame,. Bverything ie cast outs Resembelence is the fantisy it belongs : within, yet where is the where I feel theres. Letmll love leave meg, Please, No strength lefts. Buty, O°yess It comes again in yhoughts of laughte? that crumble in those minutés awaking before a listened fault of futal warmpths. Reason is my killing song3 and song I laugh with, Do I live my moments when they 1a chs but of course I laughtwith ut them anyway, I am getting drunker,. but the hot wind will satisfy my body in the afternoons : when I run it all out of me, Steaming with fleshy. catching the silence in a raceyard,. where I itove-alones

Original Scan

Page 178

AI Interpretation

GPT

The night gives way to another chapter as Michael runs hard around the high-school field in sun and wind, coughing up the residue of drink and smoke while preparing himself for one last hospital operation on his scarred face.

The bodily discipline after drunken drift feels severe and almost penitential. Running becomes a way to purge the previous night's excess and to face the damaged face not as style or anecdote, but as a surgical fact.

Claude

The page is one of the most densely self-lacerating passages: the slave can interpret the lines on my face, the carecture resembles only myself remembered in dreams, reason is my killing song — Chapter X closing on laughter crumbling in minutes before a listened fault of futile warmth.