soren.

soren split in 13
and of those 13
there were 3 that took
the side of mr. moller,
and
you
know,
mr. moller, all he
wanted was for soren
to be clearer---
yes, what he wanted
was for this brilliant
man who took
pleasure in just walking
the streets of
copenhagen,
speaking with poor folks
who had no one to talk
with & engaging in
conversation with the
laborers that he
encountered---
but the unthinking & curious
are of course, those that
kill all that could possibly
be interesting---by wanting to be
spoon-fed
by wanting to be
taken
by the
hand
and walked like a little
child
and while mommy tells
em’ just what everything is
about
they
can
suck
their
fucking
thumb
till’
it
pulsates
and
twitches
from
being
over-
sucked.

certainly, the 3 that took the side of mr. moller can be named.

there was, um, mr. eremite, firstly &
foremostly
he went by the name “vick” on the evenings
when soren and him used to
swill the vino
if ya know what i mean

and the two would talk of the final drafts of
either/or---
victor insisted on rewritings,
while, soren, like any prolific writer,
complained of this
rewriting
taking up the time that he could be
producing
more
work
and as all the ideas washed away (like sands after a flushing storm that the weatherman has named around 6
o’clock
and
you
have
remembered
because you have a cousin with that same
name)
the other two
taking moller’s side
mr. A
&
judge william
who wrote in response to
A’s work

soren took a deep breath and spit on all of them
crumpling them up in a little ball
wanting nothing of the
intellectual life
and wanting only
to become
the first successful
pizza man
in copenhagen

he burnt all his philosophical writings
and sent carrier pigeons to the leftover 10
who had been
“subjects”
if you will, of the texts in question
they went by the names of
johannes, costantin, vigilius,
nicolaus, inter
et
inter,
h.h,
um..and of course,
anti-climacus and his best bud,
hilarious bookbinder---
with whom he played a heavy game of
dart’s at O’Patty’s
every early eve from
4pm to 6…

2 more…

think. think. think.

oh yeah,
there was another johannes
(go figure)
and a guy that just went by the name
“young man”
might’a been some kind of secret name for
some really
old guy---
never can tell.

soren had the sauce
soren was the boss
soren wasn’t lost
soren new the cost
soren was quicker than an
albatross
soren threw away his
cross
soren had shitty teeth (knew nothing of
floss)
soren slept on a bed of moss
(in the spring…ok…it was just one spring when he was dating this hippy gal named “fuchsia”

et cetera
et cetera
et cetera.

fast-forward
so soren got his pizza joint goin’
it was pumpin’
freshest slices this side of the…
well, it was the
only
slice---
anyway,
while whipping up his special recipes in the kitchen
and spreading on his
red sauce,
he composed his responses to mr.
moller---
the activity of a traveling esthetician &
the dialectical result of a literary police action.

he did no rewrites.
he was sick of em’.

and after the responses had been received by mr. moller
the two called a truce
and they ate harmoniously
outside at a small café-ish table
people-watching
together
and shooting the shit
while splitting a pie
and waiting for dusk
to rear its little head.