Look where we worship.

We all live in the city.

The city forms -- often physically, but inevitably psychically -- a circle. A Game. A ring of death with sex at its center. Drive toward outskirts of city suburbs. At the edge discover zones of sophisticated vice and boredom, child prostitution. But in the grimy ring immediately surrounding the daylight business district exists the only real crowd life of our mound, the only street life, night life. Diseased specimens in dollar hotels, Iow boarding houses, bars, pawn shops, burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which never die, in streets and streets of all-night cinemas.

When play dies it becomes the Game.

When sex dies it becomes Climax.

All games contain the idea of death.

Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader prone on the sweating tile. Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled, body of a middle-weight contender. Near him the trusted journalist, confidant. He liked men near him with a large sense of life. But most of the press were vultures descending on the scene for curious America aplomb. Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.

It takes large murder to turn rocks in the shade and expose strange worms beneath. The lives of our discontented madmen are revealed.

Camera, as all-seeing god, satisfies our longing for omniscience. To spy on others from this height and angle, pedestrians pass in and out of our lens like rare aquatic insects.

Yoga powers. To make oneself invisible or small. To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things. To change the course of nature. To place oneself anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead. To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images, of events on other worlds, in one's deepest inner mind, or in the minds of others.

The sniper's rifle is an extension of his eye. He kills with injurious vision.

The assassin (?), in flight, gravitated with unconscious, instinctual insect ease, moth-like, toward a zone of safety, haven from the swarming streets. Quickly, he was devoured in the warm, dark, silent maw of the physical theater.

Modern circles of Hell: Oswald (?) kills President.

Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house.

Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills Officer Tippitt.

Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured.

He escaped into a movie house.

In the womb we are blind cave fish.

Everything is vague and dizzy. The skin swells and there is no more distinction between parts of the body. An encroaching sound of threatening, mocking, monotonous voices. This is fear and attraction of being swallowed.

Inside the dream, button sleep around your body like a glove. Free now of space and time. Free to dissolve in the streaming summer.

Sleep is an under-ocean dipped into each night. At morning, awake dripping, gasping, eyes stinging.

The eye looks vulgar Inside its ugly shell. Come out in the open In all of your Brilliance.

Nothing. The air outside burns my eyes. I'll pull them out and get rid of the burning.

Crisp hot whiteness City Noon Occupants of plague zone are consumed.

(Santa Ana's are winds off deserts