[hey this is found art as in i was not really present during its

composition, found myself writing it as i was in the evening

some time after and not then as i was physically geographically
mentally and i swear i saw god and stuff like this blue vase
that was on a table that somehow tipped over then fell then
shattered into an infinite number of pieces then magically as if
in reverse collected all of itself together and nice and
peaceful back on the weird blurry stand in my minds eye i
didnt lend much detail to and i wondered whether if the pieces
indeed dispersed into an infinite number would not then the vase
eternally fix itself back whole and upon reflection figured out
that it was exactly the fault of time which is in my eyes caused
by change which itself that is as an eternal flux institutes any
and all flaw or abrasion on the world we might ever know and
after brushing off the idea time flowed backwards concluded that
any infinite is a rectifying source not necessarily an endless
and in my eyes derelict and foolish sort of magnificent
expanse. somehow to this day i figure there will always be an
arbitrary void go ahead find the hole in reason here^ its
pretty easy that is if time is caused by change would such a
dismantling of order whether of vase or universe be the fault
not of time then but change itself well i tell you i wrote scary
shit for seven hours on newspaper and managed only to slowly
send a gash across my brain forever yes forever is a fucking
dick to people by making shit keep happening but i mean imagine
just if nothing changed and think about pascal like he said our
nature consists in motion complete rest is death well change
may be the cause of time theoretically but time is indeed what
keeps us moving and of course is ipso facto what keeps us
fucking up over and over thank you goodnight wonderful
delightful flawed demented apes
?.]
[optimism doesnt work with poetry without a grand metaphor, or
at the least subtlety, I find. and yes the best example is
Whitman, whose positive capability was a dedicated theme
throughout LEAVES. but he is subtle, nuanced, most figurative
where he proclaims he is literal. if you read him and just see a
saccharine, daffy, manic poet, I dont feel for you at all
because you have no depth of mind to have read him in full and
THEN make a decision. for example, enfans dadam sequences, drum
taps, especially lilacs, are mournful. whitman wrote them not in
spite of himself but rather because to him, death, too, is
something at the least to respect. he is more of a man than I
for calling such a thing sane and sacred.]
JESUS I HIT A DEER
all it is are chants
and we dont know the refrain
for what should we repeat?
what would give the vault sans breaking us?
to open a plan that has been
and rout destruction
to places in the corner of breathing
in the corner of stalls droning
which it always would have become
it is to loose the dead
from the incarceration that is time
so coax it slowly out like a stubborn mule
and back home to its freedom
that is living
extant outside of that and looking up to look within
forgetting the earth is burdened
with so many of the dead!
soulful cherishing earth
itself a thing to bruise any remark on death
I am on the way to the floor of the sky
on the way down there
we gurgle out our purtenance
as we excavate
hungry
out of supplies
and live murderous
and spy willfully
looking for an answer to this dread
spy on the thesis and assay
and oblong memory
that stretch the truth out on a plate
that finagle and scatter the purity with change
I am that altering-ever person
looking for the last change
to have always been to come but not soon maybe
looking for the moment I am dreamed
within words themselves alive
with vexation #VEXATION #VEXATION !!
at being so early stirred and wrongly
they dont like it
the poem doesnt like it
the poem displays courage as Moneta
before a groveling writer
and tells him her terrible beauty
always coaxing as if she were an animal
well
poetry
poems ARE animals
they pressure us to lose ourselves
in a marvelous rectitude
they spite us
pillage our trust
mine
dive
consider
and ultimately hail the one who mirrors that
for one must first exist to be immortal
and if is the infinite
then is the animal cadaver a poem in some form
if we as artists
portray not a accurate death
but how the poor stag live
before being rocked by a van
and lifted out of its body
hold up the mirror
and the death will show
o our idiocy in celebrating a defunct place
that is the afterlife of a horned creature
with vexation
THE BIG STALL
people want to know what you think is beautiful.
people they dare you to carry the aesthetic for them,
carry the conversation - hovering considerably
over you, in awe of you
and your monologue: a vented dedication, here
and there. or perhaps a surprising opinion you have or had
once. highly relieving they think it is, to have heard
you say their torment so well and pithily: an
expression of this, or that, allegiance to a torment, a
great sadness, or something like a scream.
logopoesis is rhetoric: a poetic explanation, yet
of what should shuffle off the edges of an aching brain,
into deadly finality, an absolute never to
be known - and yet which would leave these doubtful
miracles in there to stick? these unsure pastures we
forget to have gorged away at; what notions should
we forget, before a mass of doubt is in our
stomach, our surety gone to blight? such a thing
is to be stared at by mostly the varied of mind, who might
see, almost, a new space to reason, to consider.
so unsure, really, I am so unsure: as to in whatever
personal frustrations conveyed provide the cure
you all hunger after, and which is never after all existing,
but which we cradle absently for life, in our hands.
the showy shadows that are still there fangle some
bliss out of the uncertain. that is the opening act. that
is, shadows we see without a blight of intentions
to squeeze us, that is, out onto the stage,
interrupting the performance of the shadows. we are
drenched in mud, by the time we get there all
the way from the seats in the audience
and as like an odyssey onto the stage, after
collecting mire and bog and swampy mess. nearly
killed your possession of what you suddenly
saw was an acquired taste. believe the minstrels,
however, the shadows tell me: tell them
they sing to have you bless theirs.
tell them they know exactly of frustration without
a harbinger, a god, or anothers head full
of chapped wisdom, barely wisdom. and anyway
I am a person whose failsafe is acquiescence to a
baffling depressive void, a null place, a null
space. an acquired taste
indeed. a deifying the difficult void in our
heads is not for the faint of heart.
but then even then it is not for me to know, nor anyone.
I think that very ignorance is beautiful,
but nobody wants to hear that. they need human.
they need the human. they need the drama
of upliftingness in the face of what is incomprehensible -
in my eyes. so then, a thing boundless. a shadow
boundless and straightening ever out to balance a
magnificently cultivated spleen in all persons
and personalities, such a thing most likely
the result of hard and fast evolution into creatures
that disdain themselves, having less of a need
to brave through or survive nowadays. that is how
I explain. that is my justice. aesthetic
to me is an ugliness. that is my aesthetic.
but nobody wants to hear that.
they want to justify themselves as minstrels,
ask me to advise them - what I can
advise, these hovering ghouls would scoff at.
though they like me look for failsafes, stuff, technique,
lyricism, diction. all that is meaningless
because it is placative. the shadow they are is wordless
and a mess to consider. those are the leaves
I rake up, the gutter I clean. a massive
hole begins in my chest somewhere placeless
thinking of these ghouls, these people
arching their backs before a piece of art that
will probably grow up to be useless.
everyone wants immortality, but words
thrown around is where I see that most. just ugliness,
flawed beauty that stays flawed, becomes that
as its spiritous message. maybe in
thousands of years shakespeare will disappear.
a canon even considered is an arbitrary canon, a
waste of time, and ultimately a period piece,
though maybe the period wherein it
is relevant might last awhile. but it has only
been a few hundred years since shakespeare
invented us, to borrow a Bloomian comment, a trusting
that truly what will make an age will make all ages.
then again, my words dont have to be
recognized to be important kinds of truths,
which makes me shudder. I would sooner trash
the work of others than deny afflatus, muse,
daemon. and if my force is mortal, let it be that.
but I guess I like the attention. that is
despite not fully knowing where I am going,
whereby it becomes clear, I see the human in that
haphazard sway and swerve of ugly points or non-points.
I change to please, like a type of time perhaps
that is obsequious. I go out thus to the
humanity patterning everything I love - the daily
feeling - that what itself hover as the sun
is merely, justly, simply, the diurnal path, an
orbit that yet do make us reel, with little needs,
big needs, to master ourselves real.
EMILY DICKINSON GOES FOR A
WALK
the more art I see in places the more my mind is clear
and rested; the desperate, sterile need to balance,
nearly a thing into raving - and how ironic,
that - is lost, and, I rather laze my forgetting over
the leather chair of big nonsense, call
it a day and yet continue to toil well and good
yet so as to get right well into, into reclining ease,
stretch out on the ambiguous
porch and wait for the delivery of my meal.
I block out the necessity one gives to oneself,
that would have them forget themselves. it goes off
into an unrequited center between two poles,
a mock oblivion to erase the desire,
thwart unpleasant failure.
a jarring consequent of life is not senselessness
but fain needing sense to correct when we are merely
soothing our fears, away from the truth
and back into our bodies, where they
rest and rot. we need not gladhand righteous,
coddling splendor. this is the very
principle that gets us hectic, nay stupified, numb.
this blurs my mind. and it is much an absurd stock of being
to have wondered and wondered, but not bothered
to prey upon my absences rather than fear them,
to turn my enemy into a comedic trifle.
the more I know the gentian weaves her fringes for me,
the more the maples loom is red, as emily
dickinson has written, I say,
might I acquisition you emily well yes you may
I should well sense my own eyes by touch,
than see the dread senseless aether
as something anything
but piles of nothing stacked, upon a plate
and fed to my hands. but the more art I see in places
the more I can enjoy what is not there as something there
the more I can make it there.
and if I can make art there - I can disturb the place, away
from the folly that is in us
as seeing it itself as elemental, real,
and put that maybe in my corporeal form, leave
that disquieted meal uneaten for the sake of knowing
my form: places burgeoning fatly with realities and sections
and truths, so much, that my form would
forget the floor beneath it as we will never know. we stand
in prideful assurance upon a voided space, an absurd space.
a climate unappeasable by our beggared sense.
our assurance even so permanent as to apply to anything
at all, when it is what is unconsciously assumed,
always, and might as well
for that - reason - be a tenuous reality
on my plate: a tenuous reason; our limited season
on this planet, called life: our friendly blankness
tries to show us as a thing the much extant:
and as for art itself: to recognize the space beneath
the floor is to call that veritable chanting
madness the beneath itself, to point a mirror right
in the face of the absurd is not absurd but too
real to fake. you have to have seen that
artless nature, - to have made it a beatitude enough
in its largesse, to chip a fraction from that raving,
that chanting, that chanting display, that madness,
that pure chaos: that truth
A MONKEY PUTS ON HIS
HEADPHONES
notice what words I say, as if in passing
as if it were something to be observed
an activity, somewhere. someone somewhere
making a scene. and yet most, most improbably,
impossibly, a sequence of words.
a pattern thrift as a delicate lifesavings. most the
realer than that, than a sequence, and much less is it
moneyyesthough like it, proud and dreary
shitty, ornate!, o, and hot as hell to leave once
finished with itself. a prim pattern of words, as
fragile as the mind on malaise. these words
are realer than words. too much is in them for
words: o vocable palabra, you get you get-
-yourself in a cheat of a situation, through only
dedication, prudence, smart moves
that backfired: as if there were some evil
guarding you from happening on
the reams of success your notebooks make,
and which is this: really, I cant seem to marvel
anymore, you think: well that is your hardship, the price
paid long ago for your near-vader-choke
lack of faith, disturbing :
o you incendiary, o indecency: things
like robbing you of pleasure, comfort: ah: bad morals-
-and whatnot, hurtled, with bad manners, especially for
the crime it was!, against what you have time and again proven
your insistency a daft sort of truth, reallyis, is, is, is,
is an empty screen. well la dee da. of course,
I am considerate enough to grant you
genius. but I will not follow this with warnings
to not do whatever you didI meanyou
beat me: fair and square. you exist as much, much
much the less,but it seems you have made me
your creation, stolen mine of yours. I cannot but stand
staggered: for you portray, to me,
a man who works not primarily but only
for himself. heh, true magnet for the problematic!,
you. people would confuse dedication
with self-importance, when all you wish is to
chase the dragon like everybody else: peh: you
just do it in a different way, so nobody
gets you: so: you once happened upon grace: you-
-stunned it blank at first: it retaliated, and
you lost for a long time: a long, long time: but for your grit
to change, improve, stir yourself against such-
-pains, refusals of the fire that you felt, but, helpless and
feeling tainted too, could not touch as you used to . . .
that was indeed
the work of myself. first of all. and
of the music you know within, you thought you
would thicken it out with drugs out of at least any painful
loss. but if you had not taken, maybe without meaning to,
the utmost pains, to mold yourself a preternatural
hand: a worthy Keats to trickle him out his
blood, into yours, lonely, serene, drumming primitive
man: well: you could have gone complacent and deluded.
you would have lost and thought yourself
a winner. o chant of the lovely. grow and grow
forever. fit yourselves, yon wordmeat, into-
-into the fit of life. the tragedy of course that you
are life already. nothing but words ?? less than
something real ?? words. less those than nothing at all.
for it is only all that you seek to transcribe
as it blares its answers on deaf ears.
you break yourself into your follies, fears
and aches, depressive throat: you speak in order
to rasp it, when a barbaric yawp would suffice, grand god.
SO MUCH DRUGS
In my nature I am always persuading everyone
Of my nonexistence it is in the corner of what I say
With drugs that make me scrounge a fungible gram
To rob my daresay being and now as so to scram the cat
I take the molly for the blow and roll up my window
While dealers pissed off I came so they cant touch
My lover drive away and I and her outside a Mickey
Ds or hardware store sometimes and I remember
She made me leave the car once to reduce the sketchy
Fractured parts of memory all that remain I savage
For freedom take memory instead for shackles and cage in
For the sake of growing a disorder myself thinning and
Beneath fugged in with regrets room of smoke a fine
For parking initiating paranoia and all the while control
Blasted away long ago to me seizes upon the first
Affirmation of safety I can muster which of course is
A lie I like to say I am zipped up my disorders are
Nonentities yup zipped up like a veritable ounce that
Upon myself beginning to fly into outer space reneges
Its position and the platitude is gone and I am left rough
And unseen as the thing that I really am that grows in
The everloving dark like a tragic mushroom a slippery
Alive squeal of moving growths tentacles of bacteria
Surging through the deeps to my drugged eyeless sight
An imaginative snaking knifed through the denial and
Dim rationale I eyes closed o it all reveals again while I
Prone wonder how I never remember the truth that
Dishonors me can only enter into a frank world if high
In bed o seer of flaws and nastiness through foggy nods
I for the life of me cant stand the North End of
Hartford as if you are white you probably should
Refrain from stopping at a red light or at least have
A piece to guard you like the knife I bought her at
That quasi-sex-shop / variation of a village Rickys
I demanded nothing from her which was her point
I lost her keys all the time or worked too hard on my
Own shit without giving her a glance and before you
Know it she is ruined she thinks the drugs will take
Her she knows this like the fiercest truth imaginable
But does not see a slant in favor of her heartlessness
Which I say is hogwash utterly a girl will always blame
Themselves no matter how often they blame you
JUXTAPOSED
i made a thing. it was a good thing.
it did not start out being made, it was
not all in my head at first; more as i
worked at it, assumed something else
the part of idiom, and grew as if it
had been there all along. i cramped
in various trifles, descriptions, views,
left leaves of it to shuttle from my
palm like playing cards, listless looked
for an end to it. it wont ever. just
continue to explain myself to death.
an epileptic transcription, when
BLAKE is blind and dotting periods
like shells. beach, forest. canyon
rumble. desert, precipitation, mouth
wet, sweaty upper lip, cheek, etc.
i just dont know what Im doing or
why anymore. just frustrated. phuckit.
. . . .. .. . .. . . . .. . . . . . . .. .. .
For this you give me tied up in a coverlet. It was
delivered while you were hunted, on a horse,
an antique trundle noisily dug into the silent air,
and you as a specter as you spend your speed
early along, journey as well through the mind, the
waterlogged gripes of memory and misdemeanor
settled, - the only thing that nothing matters,
for you had always had the pill to slug you off the
planet. So prick the sides of the rouser in flee at this,
so he pricks the - damned - mule - back from dragass.
A hope perhaps to see the quicken of feet quicker than
wind could mangle the unstependous quavering folds
of his peasant robes, the thing in coverlet beneath a
mishmash of protected supplies and miscellany,
always: deadened a thing in the sightless desert shroud
and eaten by dusk, swallowed in the camouflage
of dusk: and you dreading yon treasonous night, I bet,
madder yet to steal it oneself and bungle the bet, left
to be searched and found and hanged at that. Looks rainy,
I say, and it does, as I hear sounds crack up and shift out
desperately to their nearest complex sound, a delta
diagonal through the innumerable trenches, upping an earth
of magma with a single charging plunge they themselves
conjured, for themselves to bring and disappear beneath:
a flute, a tune, who is the traitor, who the bizarro ??
Through the malignant thoroughfare, human passengers
glumly took themselves to bed, not before tasting a
little foreboding, a flavor, then, a passing light
snuffed, so small, off seen by myself in a window comprised
of patches of background buildings, wrecks, and trees
silent and calm enough, kowtowing to the elements, a way
easy way to beseech a quick fluster for when the bane
expresses itself, and will you leave enough room to feel the
pitch of atom, higher, in a clack more than the sales of
a spy could shrink to barely heard and all experienced thunder,
conspicuous miracles, mind-numbing zones, alien routes,
all fighting to be seen and these
to which the more strategic pitch,
the wager in the mind, was settled, a buzz as high enough
to bruise the flourishing green, but subtly, coming,
subtly going, as like something for the trees
taste ?? For welcome is nothing, has been so far, to come before
joy; for yet the random warinesses a stirred heart commits
to beat away, awhile in the blood to tame through its own
anxious torture - such a thing, whatever
it is - climbs statement,
print to print into the snow, a small lake of grotesque, inching
bacteria, then statement, - buoyed
by material light and I to see
as I peruse with eyes over this odd town: torn: I am the sap
of breath, and to wait for you is as much to breathe sap
from renderers: I stare at that window,
stashed away from the unsubtle. Calling it a
night as because it is made in full I no
longer want to await something so dangerous,
so rare more as either more or less aware; depending on
the time of day, awaiting, kept to the charter of some,
still some breached bubbles of a possible meeting,
from the proverbial drenched cauldrons fill. Hark,
trees go bent, enliven before tottering down with
apologetic protracted warning, straight before anybody
knows snaps like a neck, zoomed to the sharpest rock,
lusty natal flint, o, o to make ownership
of a vein, just a taste
of convincing restraint, before we hold down our guns.
. . . .. .. . .. . .. . . . . . . . . .. .. .
Quavering I spot
a smell, odiferous play
on the tongue
Waves turn all
backwards. A multifarious sense
kindles me, makes forth
A line which becomes an eruption.
Muscles blacken, char
out of taste, sensitive to nothingness and its
crept looming lioness, this taint of a cat-thing:
And words, the read words all nouns only, nothing, but
that arrogant stillness precludes before anyone
Bothers, ah, suffers
back into that lazy prerequisite fate,
And so I roar verbs out vomitous
as shiftless nouns, describe an action,
More recluse of the fearing
tribes of men in empire around, thatd come
at my suddenreign of this that
I consider the aloof and
the strainedsymptomnever source,
never achievement, lamed early, gone a further
sway than already-broken towers. Woe,
woe. I collapse, dance
And still focus on the much-resplendent thing
like an old senile dog, merely left in shady, infinitely-booming
reflections, perky silences, remittances, no other
But himself, and old with wit too long in the crib, too anxious
too lessened by things, so weak, I think to chide;
And so then never mind, never, never mind, that god,
that never god could oust from his oblivion, never
That mitred hats shaking could soothe into brawny talk,
but that all were himself to make a nonentity speak
Enough to brush a dusty grave or two,
even clean off a shattered section of the ruins.
That he so light was lifted to desire
and focus by each moment, stumbling to perceive
Nakedly, truly, and lost a
sum of reality for that; how desperate;
at least he possesses the nakedest cage.
. . . .. .. . .. . .. . . . . . . . . .. .. .
language has an urge to become itself lucidly,
rid for varnish, scraping clean: demonstrating
itself a not ignoble source, imitates a setting as
to bring it, wrench it, apart from the unconscious
world, language in its image but not the same:
yeah yeah: but perhaps it is this odd need to make
clear that separates: then is the world a muddle,
or merely needless: a professor emeritus of anxiety
tapping a clipboard with scribbled notation is a nag, if
she dilute the point with hindering doubts as to
the truth of said statement: I am starting to think in
argument-making, which is another door shut: that no
longer do I start, I have already, and dwell not anymore
in stuff I would, myself, scoff at as childish: my gains
defer an original infinite poverty: wars are now waged for
sense to a throne: but that is all we got: yeah yeah: if
clarity, lucidity, really is, that is, if it is something to aim
for - well that is assuming a thing might exist to be
or that there is an endgame to this lunacy: maybe,
you know, there is: but maybe all it is is the end
to time: loose ends can only end well if constricted
by some prior context to a meaning that if no longer
true at least adds a bow to what smashed odds: it would
continue to see as relevant, even prophetic: or is everything
perfect: I have no idea: theres got to be some sort
of magnificent flaw that cancels itself out by existing:
need need need: we need clarity, as people: there
is a flavor of clairvoyance to the well said: some
would argue that we will only tunnel down: personally
I think if it were that way there would be no need
but a happy myth of need we all remit to, knowing
it all useless: the lens one bothers to stare through
is a madness always: thats for sure, to me: but also
these weird burs stun my logic prone: I dont really
know about a smoking gun: an empty promise to that
would begin as lucid as it would be fruitless eventually:
so is clear language any different from a pure paradise
of infinite nonsense: which lingers more, longer:
seriously: if there is no pretense of truth, mistakes can
be made all the while, and all that matters the soul in it:
I guess the irony is, the soul in words the writer works
for is never known to be communicated by said writer:
maybe that is OK however: maybe as long as the writer
says something to herself she has mastered a spoke
on the infinite carousel: enlightened, she might notice a slice
of cheese and a pineapple on the professors table.
It must be so.
. . . .. .. . .. . .. . . . . . . . . .. .. .
I made it safely through the night, dont you see -
And broken up with suffering, tearless suffer not all
As I light a square and fidget on the porch: to have
Made it safely through the night is not all. Shadow
Of a bird swiftly across concrete? Weeds through a
Nasty foundation? Do these signals make full,
Make a full sorrow? May I find the rest of my loss
Here, stalk my own brain on his way home from
The cosmos; or shall I search knowing I will
Scoff at everything the wind might tremble to me, a
Tossed cigarette wrapper closer to me, shitty
Coffee? Stress in the morning? This dumb
Resignation fascinates the less dodgy sort of people,
Sure. But also them who hide rankling, furrows of brow,
Distrust: do they distrust the feeling, and so is
It the source? I feel like I only answer my questions
More by asking them, for the first time; not
Declaring, not saying a way a thing is is that,
But asking whether it be: suppose then I guess,
That as it is - altering - the choice is becometh a lumpy
Bedspread: that smells like a dungheap: rotating bodies,
Two, on the sheets there, bickering absently
In sleep: together: I cannot have it all: all the sorrow: all
The feelings felt might as well mean myself
Cornering a tapestry that is reality, every bit,
Snapping for the latest in the search, in all, in
Everything, in insignificant weeds below the
Porch, deck, or someone tuning up a fine car that has
Cost him an excuse not to shower that day: wipe
Yer ass, find something still sticks: well,
Maybe the limitation is endlessly invoking the
Limitation: but I find it, well, pretty fascinating, as
I said: but then am I really searching, is anything
Really changing, altering: sadness at the least
Should always be cathartic, I never have felt worthier
Than to chant about my tears as they go, chirrup,
Chirrup: or was that a bird unheard, manufactured,
A thing in my minds eye: maybe the unreal then
Is the thing most whole: anything of the imagination
At any point can be a whole wisdom: no matter, no
Matter when and where you stop: and then, the
Only things not to search for are things able to be
Found and processed, real things, a concrete shadow
Of a second bird zipping along the outskirts of
Where I can see, in another direction: the difference
Between this one and the first, the difference of
Direction, that is, is itself
slightly artful: alterations: like I guess a
New night to get through, ah: suffer through, incompletely,
Left in imaginations dreamstate: if left there it is borne
Atop fulness, revelatory relevance, yet
flawed if choice the action,
The action never formed, unless there, from the beginning,
And if there fated to be as unfull as anymore
Descriptions of what coaxes questions answered, as I sit
Sorely: here in my miserable happiness: and write:
. . . .. .. . .. . .. .. . . . . . . .. .. .
"Every creature on this planet dies alone."
Grandma Death
so many veritable winners conceive of space
and fall along in the galley, gripping grace
with hands, delighted with their fortitude,
ye take them as they are and find some rude,
some guileless, some radically to be sworn
by sheer notation, sides enough airborne
to be called centers, racking brains unlighted
can still but cure the carnage of excited
philosophies, churning charnel-houses
made up of greedy members, agents, louses
who plug regretfully in, to cure their brain
only, leaving others to mistake as just insane
what merely would always baffle and remit
to urgencies uncalled at given - moment -
but never swear a truth as selfsame guided,
those fool themselves to wisdom sided
by a nameless need are different though
than those just left to painfully blow
their gutsy answers winding truth
towards some located oblivion, some booth
where you can ask your answer long enough
to double over and consign your bluff
to weathered aptitudes, a life bent out
of shape, a man to arms, a shoulder clout
enough to seem more worthy than
the gathered ultimatum as a tragic span
that wrinkles beauty helpless and sick,
that limited folks might see and call as writ
as much as any hankered, bloomed eureka,
when all is folly such to say entreats a
section of the false to make it irony,
and yet alone as taken is a clarity
too rare and real to ever be approached
as what it is, if done so, seems a joke.
. . . .. .. . .. . ... . . . . . . . .. .. .
sure gut let me spoon out a taste
of liquid afterlife ambrosial murk
tar hazed along in ghostly coils
throughout the center to congeal
at the sides a martyr for this a big
draught would get ye going not a
problem dig more find lethal that
purse of mouth an idea to drains
a making for the lured hurricane
to considerably mess with mine
and control out of sympathy sheds
drips tears location out of center
manipulates to condense in the
cauldron a mercy of space there
a lit build of a digestion fortified
walls of bowels cornering poison
and destroying all with it good
since after all it faked a bad shit
this care this worn this bit piece
so small so royal so lithe-loud so
artful in the breeze of liquids that
pass as air through throats less
protected give me the hurt lips
give me scalding rarity a large
expense on a flattened thing,
houses in the depths of rain
. . . .. .. . .. . .. . . . . . . . . .. .. .
tho steeled against all known cunning angles, we too have
disturbed to life by now few miracles unhurt: these words that
know recalled, unwieldy wretchedness, them to send from
new bacterial dwellings, new spins on pain that should to rust
by now with time: tho we look back, can only on, that is
we can only on a regret, inflated to priesthood,
an infinite course towards making it worse for the common
twat, new blanches of the sun on skull - the epistle of an
orderly, comely sun that hurts its other smallnesses on
earth, soggy now from flames that rose to confidence:
the planet: yet with time look back and ogle at
those very feelings, sodden with sullen, drained,
and this with time: we crepitate with fortune sail the vine
that drops to sere when looking at our pain: it
sells a wisdom briefly, then casts back to some ruin
it knows only, shrinking stem, a losing lack
for brothers, sisters, minds peopling the earth,
each in some nature of remorse merciless: a gentle
acquisition does not make a bathos of mistakes, which
hurtle to life in the inner eye, make a table of
guiding badness, convincing, a trap, an awful tying down,
for we remember hurt with time it passes only,
it is not simultaneous, we remember, people, we, do,
we drum our hearts, then, thinking it alive as much
as what goodness to conceal itself the more with time: by
some great irony we stash it but just to eye our precious ruins,
thinking ourselves safe: above, the wild talk of an ego:
the heart beats itself painfully up: and, like, two tiers
of being, love and love of hurt, curdle the pure good: its
god, the good god, readies to attack the angelic bad,
finding itself looping over that hurtling meteoric sadness,
missing it: it is a thing which then wheels pliant to stab
the good god: we put too much trust in retrospect, and
yet is it all we have: and is it all we have? a medicine
we beg for, hm, is it not the same as relieving the addict
urge with time apart from that moronic soothe? so still
are we cornered: we are so still when cornered, we best
our previous actions, trapped in mazes of dread, dreads
of hair, loony propositions, lost conceits that needed a
place to couch their lie, a needed lie: o you ambivalent
vines: we have contempt, sure: such things are broken
if relieved, but never close to anything still not impressed
as badness: so give a spatial, rabid pride to steel, to shield
us, tho it always fail, the badness reign, let badness reign,
let the vital exist however too: we make a pearl like as
a dog for pavlov, reckon up any species of ease
to pad away the reaching, grabbing hand from endless
swamp: rare this build, yet if no pain a common thing,
a sin, that is, that happiness is rare in some, in others,
everlasting: we can but as like puppets of time or
as things always waving away, we saying goodbye,
so that the pains return, the pain returns, a prick of pin,
a mortal notion, endless the ways we end, to end,
a country of hunting mouthbreathers giving away the
position we scoped to steel against that rage of illness,
depression, unraveledness, uncomfortable repose:
we peek back with time only: time is pain: or is distance
pain: the distance from the moment worsens it:
if it just happened, and all the pain there in the moment,
afterwards unfelt, we all would fall, the pressure of
whatever scandal, whatever woe too much to feel at once:
and yet to string it out is much the worse: the polarity
of it is much the worse, for we identify it fully only with
time, but never all at once: a confused sensation it is:
we get confused, that sunny day we want to die, just
because, and despite the settling of it perfectly
on the horizon and loping over perfectly of day, despite
all good we have as people the power to know our
wretchedness, yet never if that be true to know our good:
sometimes i would prefer to be a block of thoughtless wood:
. . . .. .. . .. . .. . . . . . . . . .. .. .
this strangeness is so greedy,
how fickle the suns preoccupation with trees
that he thinks they can light themselves
and goes off into perimeters aways,
and the clouds too. and a bray like jackhammered
photosynthesis screaming for something to
exist of this, besides the hum of timorous,
undeveloped residences thought planted seed in,
a miraculous stop before the chains cut,
an item for you to cash in and support yourself
while alarming chances lose themselves in hostility,
a fluffy duff wish the night was, whom others
see and nod not considering, thinking to dwell on
real weepy shits of a life their own,
for what is it makes a point, i am fed up, is that
all left of pathos, just to be resigned, lag
the symbol further and further over the ledge
awaiting to get unharnessed into the nippy wind
while i just weather the crap crap crap
and die away, repeating the same fantasies
hourly? goons are trite with meaning depth, too
much, and dry themselves on the clothesline your
empty feet go comatose to explain. what shit.
i am lain vanquished etc. lament
and the sailors jive on the deck drools spit,
am i done before i should have given
a world for an ignored cell, guilty tender, karma,
a world to pike ones head on london bridge
or sanguine, tell a stretchy smile into connivance,
brittle bone-teeth, something or other: and
maybe its the strangeness was a mistake, was
a twice to death, a tally, listing for the sake
of finding somewhere a capable-enough tree, any
for the eaters of sun to spew back throat-wise.
cmon, give up, or you wont have
a brain to bash
TALLIES : WHY HOW WHEN
TALLY_why?
why are all these random strangers on the street asking me if I
have chlamydia.
why are there frogs falling from the sky.
why is life merely a lively death.
why am I receiving twenty different explanations for shitting on
my own chest when I know for a fact it is not physically
possible.
why is the sun blue all of a sudden.
why are cancer-causing agents in strawberries.
why do I want to roll my eyes when people say - do not worry
grandfather. it will all make sense.
why is stark staring madness the - father - of invention.
why is this tiny spider unable to live in concord with my own
needs. and what makes me so special as to deny his needs.
why read a book when you could skull fuck a dead body.
why is the minister of magic in harry potter such an asshole.
why dont we use fossil fuel, oil to make ironic sculptures.
why dont we all just get along. bc that wd mean everyone would
have to be fat and rich [?] atlas is a frugal god. he wastes
little spiritous strength. isnt strong enough to hold a wolrd
[WORLD] filled with billions of fat fucks, ysee. oh. so then.
why is a fish quite a dish. bc I love seafood.
I love seafood.
I love seafood.
I love seafood.
I love the sea. I love eating the sea. it is made of spiders.
but do not worry. the grandfather is reassured. he is grown fat
and dead with the whites of his whys rolled back like eliots
pants.
why cant a man go into the damned sea if he desires to ??
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
why do already the answers to these questions come to me like
lightning in a bottle, people ??, the television exec says to
the bony, dour CEO [CERO] [ZERO] - you get the point [with the
misspleling] STOP.
why are you so annoying.
why are you so lovely.
why is your left buttcheek smaller than your right buttcheek.
why is your aorta so clogged. you must not even weigh 120 lbs.
says the serial rapist who was a doctor before having his
license revoked and whom later spun out of control and had a LAW
AND ORDER episode based on his case after he was finally found
and tried. oh and he asked this question really to no one, uh it
was rhetorical. or there was a voice in his head. who knows.
this upon cutting open latest victim.
why is someone on the rag. I see no rag beneath where they are
sitting. someone should free the rag from the stinky confines of
this girls asshole!
why fight. why not peace.
why linger on those pale blue eyes. when every time they hurt
you the rain falls. it falls in walls as you look at her. the
rain of regret wants to disturb that swell vision. creating a
barrier of drizzle then, slowly, as all of it lessens - like
life which is a lesson but in my opinion it grows and that was
more a pun sort of deal there. so then I ask why I dote on what
carnage left between myself and those eyes suddenly without a
single face. I fail to see her anymore. forever. and when the
sun returns it is once again yellow. it had fed on my pain
meanwhile. and my pain was with her. and yet her eyes were as
blue as a sun that does not exist.
why is the point made the point made wrongly.
why cant everybody be happy with shit being wrong for the rest
of their life like the irish [according to matt damon in the
departed] and also you are wrong marky mark for mushrooms are
much smaller than informants. whom are usually human ?? duh.
mushrooms dont have penises.
why now that I think about it didnt joe pesci ever forgive
deniros character - jake lamotta - in raging bull after like
mads years. it kind of left an open end and was slightly
unsatisfying. raging bull is kewl doe.
why hands. why not feet.
why the rain the rain the emptiest spanish plain blah and blah.
why isnt the plain speaking to me. I did not correctly summon
that imagery to life. I have failed in my duties to understand
the nature of mankind.
why can monkeys easily make really funny faces but whenever I
try to people scream and run away.
why is the earth flattened down with each daily obvious
negations girth as sprouts to greeny florid useless life in the
minds of people. THE GOLD TREE IS BLUE. [podseed text : wallace
stevens] . why are spectacles all a humans bawdy winding
towards dreams. - they powerless to ascend yet hopelessly they
try. they spend life gathering crummy cobwebs round themselves
at SPINNING WHEEL like OLD MADE [maid oops] etc.
why hath winds blown not up a single skirt today and yet have
made my ears cold which therefore gave me a headache later when
I went inside and experienced such a drastic change of
temperature that my body fell off and satan randomly was there
also.
why cant the man in the big yellow hat wear a green hat. I mean
variety is the spice of life. get real man in the big yellow
hat. for the children. for curious george.
why is curious george an entire mason jar filled with
reconstituted burnt plastic.
why isnt this egg on the concrete looking for a job.
why the mortal woe.
why the kindred spirit despite.
why the lofty language. you are embarrassing curious george.
why do people not believe that robert towne was the man for
writing chinatown which has a subtlety and artful complexity
unlike any modern noir film I have seen, including l.a.
confidential.
why are the trees wrung out for their cancerous fruit, why do
they twirl like a van gogh, why mightnt all things hide beneath
appearance so long, scared shitless of humanity, that they in
turn forgot what they once were, slowly dying, the keys on the
dresser slowly dying, the inanimate things not soulless but
things tragically having their souls wrested from their fine
bodies - the vase, the dirt, the syringe, the damaged book of
shelleys stuff, the rescinding twirliness of everything which
is in movement and as such seems as still as a picture, and yet
reality there, conscious, salient as - stalactites dripping
bluntly, light as thick as rock, blue light manifest everywhere
around the manifold scenes of moving, brainless things, trees,
shit, growths, yellow water infolding waves of spiders whom are
- for one godless reason or another - to remain in silent
torture, realizing their smallness, - that they are alive -
suddenly, seeing in the face of conscious people a doomed-
-race, uglily maintaining dignity, groveling not in the face of
what the spiders know, that they are smaller than men, but,
well, who knows - maybe a person perfectly transcendent could-
-realize he is equivalent to a spider in this case. so why all
this melodrama and fanfare and thinking thinkings the best and
COGITO ERGO SUM. I would ask j dilla but he dead, heart attack.
but if you go outside, you should go to 9th street. bc pookie on
9th street aint calling back. you got a see him for his sagely
bundles of wisdom. they are white and it is like that sometimes,
sometimes black as crude oil. tar ?? well his address is on his
crime sheet. but he uses payphones. no way you will reach him
proper. phantasm phantasm phantasm.
phantasm.
why do I seem to not care about the blue light of a receding
sun, and why that dirty gossamer on infinite plains [planes of
realitynesses shattered, broke. and I guess time was invented
for some reason too]. and why is it so that time is: a dividing
dagger, and malevolent as hell.
and why the tides change for a fearless ezra pound. and why the
villains made of cardboard, astute, astute turd of a wonder, my
living grime, my blossom. for I am glad you spit in my face mr
pound. truly honored to receive it, my pet, my rosebud, my, my,
what marvelous sense is this that a long deceased [72] poet
says about my garbage. why. smh. what wonder is this but it
comes from a nonsensical sun. why.
why.
TALLY_how?
how is the world today as in how is all the world.
how do you create such a world how is that grand thing made how
is it few if any know only as much as their mortality allows
them that is sans in death which I imagine is an answer to all
the questions.
how can I hope.
how can I breathe hope through a glass straw.
how can I drown with this fishbowl on my head I mean really.
how fantastic is the idea we are alone in a world anyway that we
cannot know in full if only based on geographical distance.
how does math work again.
how do anything manage themselves. it must be tough to be
anything. especially if one is jealous of everything.
how to go in and out.
how to smile and nod ones head at the dinner table when asked
of politics.
how to create a shrine with your ex-girlfriends hair follicles
from that brush she left here. first know your materials and how
much you have.
how is it I live and die at the same time. well thats emotions
for you.
hows the weather down there.
how is your rainy spine handling its prophecies of skyey rheum.
hows the girlfriend.
how is your mother. she still has that blouse I gave her for
christmas. it was from a retail store and I wrapped it in old
newspapers. kind of creepy.
how art thou.
how is you.
how do things seem to come together in the worst way only to end
on a positive initiation into the world.
how do you spell
how in the world do you expect an epileptic to drive this
motorcycle without giving him a handjob first.
how wise one must feel to have finally figured out how to not
pee ones pants.
how and who does that to themselves without expecting expulsion
from the ambiguous committee handling shit that people think is
stupid and is a regular support system for a specific
denomination of fetishizing people who get their rocks off by
pretending they are bible-thumpers so that they are then asked
to take a seat as drummer in a band called to catch a predator
- a band of meows.
a band.
how is the universe tonight. giant tongue.
how is a murderer too good to eat my undercooked buttered
broccoli.
how is the eternal handjob in heaven. afterwards you get your
wings. they are made of giant dildos.
how shitty are these tits. they will look better when I poop on
them.
how can fucking lead to thicker thighs. childrens. many.
how come this hand grenade I drew the pin from isnt exploding.
says the man gone to heaven after said grenade blew up in his
hand. he will for all eternity blankly wonder at this faulty
grenade. shitballs for example.
how tiny are asian penises.
how large are african penises.
how come all these penguins have names.
how right you are for thinking I am actually a werewolf.
how to come upon a conclusion a posteriori without any
discussion of an inner, recollected truth, known prior to the
antsy problem, tough with waiting for you to collect all the
pancakes. shuffling them like cards with nudie pictures on them.
how fucked up is it that a window is not a purple blanket
sitting on a bed made of strings themselves and all of it the
same in different arrangements. as the world is divisive.
how fucked up is it I think often of how much I hate myself.
usually crying while eating a cheeseburger. lolcats would slowly
surround me. testing me with little nips. hovering. the
vultures. ah. that night I dreamed of my friend who invented
fire yesterday. there is a storm upstairs rattling the committee
of faceless jackasses without a name in the world. they are
penguins. they are obsessed with the body part commonly known as
the penis. they like penis. like a hooker eating a calzone
outside at the standing tables. two fingers are locked between a
cigarette with a large ash accumulation. I waiting awhile to see
if it would fall onto the large other half of the calzone on the
plate was arrested suddenly for public urination at the steps of
the church next to the pizza joint. I missed that catastrophe
and was left in a state of blueballs all night in a bullpen. the
hooker came to pick me up but she had a mole on her left cheek
now. said she got it removed. thats why. oh. she made a
wormhole with her hands and slipped me through the wormhole back
in time to when I was pissing on her feces-smeared tits. said
the odor reminded her of her grandmother. she knows how to have
a good time she says as I piss in her mouth too while she
hammers away at the calzone in a state of despairing pride. that
one will feel the pain of urine down their esophagus but with
chin up and mouth open wide for the ferrying of each atom of
that prime ample liquid by myself to her special place.
digestion makes her warm. I lose the wormhole in my pocket and
ponder poems and also the universe never answered my call. and I
wonder how I knew this arbitrary hooker to begin with. or
whether who was still shocked that the grenade actually went off
was me. I was inside the liberty bell now. it is made of a
prophetic spine as much as the blanket is over here, as much as
reality is divisive, lewd, a rhetoric for monkeys.
how best to please the pungent-smelling prince. lazing in his
abode of the unconscious. jerking the gherkin. toggling the
switch of blue veins and curly foolicle. wanting heaven but
happy with death. he can make a shrine of himself from his own
pubic hair, if he is so inclined to shit on the tits of a word I
do not know-
-how to spell. well you go one letter at a time in succession.
and maybe. you spell yourself to a heaven of dildos. if one
hopes. if one wants wings.
how do you eat a straight up stick of butter.
how do you eat mayonnaise out of the tub without any actual food
that shit is gross. throw it at the mayor so he can get the pope
to bless your arteries. FOR THE THIRD TIME. jee.
how would one become an astronaut without the inventions of
fishbowls. I blame the fishy smell from cunt which of course
goes birthing bass all over the place. no wonder hookers hang
out at pizza joints by the local smelly bog. for only if I
become an astronaut will I be able to poop on the tits of
everyone in the world. to know them. to hear them scream. laugh.
and create the foulest most beautiful game of poker. and. of
course. we scrutinize the cunts on the backs of those 52
pancakes, and show everyone our hand in burying the universe in
the corner of the backyard, near the clothesline. for naught is
grand for long but naught, asking someone how to spell a word
you cant think of. werefowls, covered crouched afraid in a
purple blanket, a shawl that bells like curtains into jail.
TALLY_when?
when the storm ends the man in the gaberdine suit will reveal
his member to an entire public made of wretchedly thoughtless
timepieces. watches, pocketwatches, big ben. for time
necessarily is not of a man or woman. it is identityless. it is
anything changing. the clocks melt to the floor and then no
subject matter is left. and I am made of churchorgan arguments,
latitude : west. the rolling pin.
when the storm ends seemingly. it will go on a brief few
minutes. death rattle or some such. a violent attitude would
suit you to take against the few surprise frowns of wrinkled
lightning. be brave. their indecent light signifying the face of
independent stupendous blankness is in need of nothing and
especially does not notice itself or look at itself. we look in
the mirror. we see another us. to reflect is the same. we only
then have trouble discerning this or that as reality. in the
cerebral case. as it is much the more persuasive - that is
observing it - that is lookin inward - for being vague.
when I am dead I will come across the place of naked desire,
desire unknown all this time.
when is the soccer match. when is the soccer match.
when time is over will everything remain static forever.
when is the cigar just a cigar I mean really.
when should I pick you up.
when should we leave base captain.
when should we kill the girl in the trunk. shed be a snake and
tell everyfuckingbody what we did. at least she cant scream
with uh that black tape.
when desire usurps sense one becomes bland for desiring
insensible frivolous things. like as one with a new obsession
every week. I can only conclude that a sensible man would stick
to his guns. not get bored. or forget. and is forgetting ones
likes and dislikes a difficulty as regards the psyche of a
person, their personality. HMMMM -
when the top clock rings its face off the man returns from
shining and develops himself into the nights energies. he is a
ghost but is also made of flesh. he has dreamt of drugs. first
that but then a jump cut to a field filled with rickety trees.
at the top babies in cradles on branches. and cradles barely
locking tight to the tree. as if they could grip it. deny the
laws of physics. save the baby he says. his wife thinks it is
sweet when she hears this. she does not know he is really
thinking not of their INFANT SON but the stunning night itself
upon this field. dwelling deep in his minds eye he can nearly
hear the silence. how absurd. a thing that - is - of the dark.
it is bluntly blank with black waves that drudgingly seep into
all areas. the silence it is a wager by the man to perhaps again
hear - though however much in his head - that sweet abducted
girl across the street he senses is there but knows not for
certain for only he heard her oaths from the basement up to his
broken muscle. that heart. and none elsewhere.
when the coyotes ride off into the whisk of some deserts wind.
they lose their fur. they get old and stressed. later the
coyotes ask the man with big hands if he has yet rolled dice
against the closed door.
when distance fails, time ends.
when will the evil plan be finalized sir.
when but once have I really actually seen a celebrity. and no I
wont tell you who it was that would ruin the charm. it was
matthew broad-dick, the porn stare in a state for his executives
to give him the good green light. too old and stressed to deal
with young beggars. green light on a few illegal things he had
to film. I only but got a look at his penis. he shook it in my
face delightfully.
when people made of watches that in turn are made of launched
arrows - that is the movement of the arrows themselves - the
movement of time itself a capitalizing on change with human
concepts of significance - ah - for, what do we know. so you
when all that becomes once again something not that. it vastly
stops to trend a deeper speed. minutes to hours. down the
butthole. down would grant us leif to hold the hand of the
pokerplayer. beneath floor. knock knock. spent eagerness lies to
me and tells me you are there. hello god it is me matthew. it is
acting up. like a burnt out servant of the press wearing a wire.
risking his life for a bitch of a con. so then all this. it
became some different elsewhere where the maiden screams without
her mouth loyally for something of this deep in the tricky
subject to parse.
when are words not words but feelings-
-they act shiversome and scared.
when will I be bowled over as like a pin at your disgraceful
brush with death. flesh of a thought comes plastered to my
doorstep. he is holding by the fringes what appears to be a
human-sized bag. he tells me to sail but I just tell him to find
someone else to proselytize.
when is a rapist a holy man that is never never never he is not
a holy man.
when do the stars disappear. for I knoww already exactly when
the start to shine like meager mutinies against a blank insanity
that is the night one might fight by now the urge to develop
into. that is grow like a person into the nights unctuous saved
seat for his friend you took. his mother comes and embarrasses
everyone with her anger at him for not continuing to guard her
seat. she sits at the steps of the movie theatre. in the aisle.
pissed off cunt.
when has billy ever acted with nothing but kindness towards his
elders.
when cant I think about leaving this wretched place.
when does matter turn to energy and is time merely distance and
if so could I get to the edge of the universe with my little
dingy. it is called cigarette-lighter because it is a lighter
boat.
when animals can calculate and speak I think it is safe to
assume humanity is fucked.
when I think about hundreds of years into the future it almost
reinforces my belief in fate. which I dont have. but its a
start. for the stars to grumble down the hall like a red,
horrifying plastic ball slowly silently toward ye.
when will this restless leg syndrome go away.
when I breathe sometimes it sounds like a death rattle.
when is the president getting assassinated again.
when will trials and tribulations inform me of their pointless
point.
when cancerous and bruised with legions will I finally die. my
nose cracked open. my skin thin.
when will the cradle fall.