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Chapter One.

Pg. [3] HEARTACHE 126

Pg. [17] SHADOWMEISTER [rattles cage]

He used to smoke and pace outside of the motel room. . . /
It was 126. This was minutes ago. How funny I see it already / As so long. I guess, a deep intimacy
forded time out, left the event back there in the minutes that began / It; yknow, to freeze.
Ceasing to be real, a moment hinges / On chaos. So many thoughts can draw out for hours. Yet
rambling is ego nuzzling up against a common ground with reason, not the passage of time for some
lackluster point, and life a reaction, valuing clarity to the point of obscuring it, dogged to expose
fragility beneath already-reinforced sayings; but, dogged to freak itself / Thence into something,
perhaps, more positive. More like you. A muse might as well / Be here just so I can see all this beauty
everyplace. For example. Item: man with natty hair descends onward through gates of hell, his
favorite. Item: some mother eats a sandwich while looking for her childs monsters.
Item: fat guy gets thin, thin guy puts on a handsome / Few. Item: writer relishes the metaphysical
palm on behalf of the universe, to me, inheriting thus some few clear statements / To mollify a
rageful, ogre-like imagination always in flux to balance itself / Yet always, due to the elemental ringaround of good karma, of a fury surviving as the last living example, at the last endless grain / Of
chant. / A causa finalis. This fellowship of good manners / Is as common ground between the writer
and his depths, which are mine, / In its own right, and outside of my ownership. But
Then, and I guess I will make this a bad thing or whatever, but-Personally, I think its the oddest and therefore
Most rattling ITEM: A flock of birds quickens

From a tree thousands of miles away. The flock

Of birds however, I am learning to my horror,
Is right next to me, sitting its casual burgeon
On the motionless sheet of this motel room
Bed. Remember that time when I wrote that?
Yeah. I dont either. I do think though that
I am lumbering, lack true gesture, yet have
Too much to mourn what I lack, which somehow
Makes me humble, if that is I can see through the
Nitpicking of myself bad and thorough enough
To actually trick myself into saying something
Nice about myself. No one else is though.
I was alone hundreds of years ago, back when.
I was made of strings. I was a haunting piece of
Artwork. Or the sound of a garbage truck at

Four in the morning. But now I just really smoke,

And pace, thinking, well, I should add some
Different thing now, well, I should be as one who
Will smoke but never actually doing it. This
Stasis is most comforting to me, that I can
Move forward by staying still. I should just
Accept that nobody is subtle all the time. There are moments, moments we lumber,
most of all hamfisted, and I cant believe how obvious Im making this even now! It was never a
matter of being deliberately / Abstruse, reality says, waking me up,
But more: I as being reality was more intrigued-By complexity making it worthwhile at the opposing bezel / Of the struggle.
Humans are simple, predictable. I imagined that I could sans mercy exist for the first time in that
harbored space, says reality, outside the door back inside, / Could paint my image and leave it there,
on the underside of another realitys desk, some snoring GOD there, head pillowed by no sentinel but
pages, and ignorant of it
All, though weathered it be with scrawl,
GOD would later wake up with a backache from falling asleep hunched
. . . Over his task. I suppose my head took me
With itself. By the way, I paced minutes ago,
Got a room awhile ago, but now it
Seems kind of pleasant to perceive the same
Amount of passed time. Was this poem
Even written? Ahem,

EXAMPLE : of why I am so great. That I

Gave suffering a chance too, - practiced so long
To thwart a most bizarre divine / Fuck-Up, - bring my hand of Abraham wielding knife - down, / But then ask if my motive please may chill, chill: so, uhm, if you could just
leave me to / Remain at the end of my tether without cutting it free: thatd be great: its a skillful
noose / Youve made, and altogether resembles a weird genetic braid: so, let me ask ya:


Into the practice of giving a meaning for the gulch
I assent it is there as figuration of mostly poverty
And thirst, at most; no masquerade, no, just dryness.
No interminable neverland, but a corpse
Writhed in lye, already dead but whispering feebly,
Right into the nastiest ear of them all, mine, as as tough a ghost,
With / Saying sinister as bones, yet the corpse, he is mendicant
For any info as might unscroll the reason for his being my sad afterschool proxy, which he suspects
he is: but even I wouldnt cheapen the impact of some poetic trope like his, highlighting spasms of
intelligence already foreclosed. As if, o the grief, they could be revived!, I squawk, imitating nihilism
almost too gratefully. A novel broker is gotten anyway by one of us [me] for the currency of spent
left, but it all amounts to
A bizarre gerund, a doing without the verb, a
Field / But seen deserted as an axe to rust. I understand an almost-lethal gall in the / Prescience,
almost a sophism, that so accurately mapped out my place in the universe for me, not only in correct
relation with my values, but this before any of the pecuniary elect verified its coalesce. At least, such is
the America I know, of money and meanings, meanings
Which stand / gawky and impish in the dark, so nobody sees / how ruefully out of place they are
In that place. But I fight that and have faith my grievances thereof are in fact a / Coronation, or
what is left to make / Sense of the doom, and testily rope off the text, / Making speech elsewhere but
heard somber by myself as a prelude to not what I will be, but an / Exotic nothing. It speaks well but
doesnt, like anything numinous, and walks onwards / But prepares for when EARTH / Gets all
alone within a mind a gulch,
A spare livingness redeemless at this point, for whoever is / Smoking embalming fluid
stuffed in a blunt. Without any sense of filial dread, he is left hopeless, is actually dry as the brain
Of a random klutz bleeding harmonies onto
The floor. He dont, he cant, hes preaching
Matters to himself following mortal danger
Already passed thru to the other side of mortal dangers,

Yea, like you care, like you care so much, to

Leave and regret leaving, spy on your
Own feelings like tearing up a science of deep
Cores, lost, breaks not given, slack not
Given, hes a desert, ah, hes the
Ghost: you justly dont tell me, poem,
To spare my antipodes their lack of relation or relatability
Which, if had, would usually by this point be rising up
Out of an eloquent futility, like something of
A birth, a happiest cause to bring the dead
To a life already decided to end. I hope,
I hope the prediction stays breathing. I hope the canvas his
Mind sets up regularly empties of color before the portrait becomes
picture, himself, unknown no matter what, a gulch bubbling in the hot barren heat, and the only
redeeming possibility left, an afterbirth, a thing worse worsening; an eking mind, and thoughts a
laceration of pride to a hairsbreadth of decency. But, perhaps,
In some silly way of realizing the ruin, this could be a moment of dharma, irreversible peace, tuned to
the carnages of tomorrow, vigilant for when asperities between scabby folk in his life lead him to
scream at himself, while loving me, hating me for love, when like a despot I have tried to make risen
corpse. Ranking myself I thwart a qualitative measurement, and hear something whisper thinly that
He makes the qualitative quantitative. In my ear. Ah,
Poem, you go to many places, poem,

You go too many places, you find your room,

You go mindfucking, you mindfuck like chimps,
You illuminate a dram, furnish trash,
Glum partitions, dreamy cloudless day too
Blue to get me beyond blurs, naked sun
Burning the gulch to pieces, senseless.
Carnage, I said that perforce to drown it
Out of possibility, for I have made
The morning psychotic night, found friend
In whats not left. I am resigned to the nothingness
Of what is, and what is, dreams: like the vault
Of sky opening upon a stupid world, identified.

Mensch or mendicant to hang his head at dusk,
Look to new lopsided suns, and however you go
About breeding from the / Diaphragm the next
Bewildered soul, connect / With each empire of
Those the salt of yourself, / Just dont be too
Extravagant and go impending your personality
Like a drawn out wind / To shoulder for the very sun its own responsibility to delegate / Morning
again. So swill emits from grates / Of hot night. The carnivore that is the tramp you is / Connives
with eyepatch, scar, general blatant / Affect, nose the size of his watch, or maybe is / He forth into
something, struggles to imagine,
Succeeds where mortal respiration doesnt. The
Skys work ethic, finally denuded / Rehearsed itself
To life more fully, but this was as like death throes
Of something just far-gone enough, or just this thing
In / The gut, amicable as it is, that tells furious truth
In each breathy circulation of this or that sequence of clouds.
Without them you are not a thing, / Or maybe, crazy with
Fortitude, blessing a / Conception beyond good and evil, and
Something / Gets cooking, perhaps, that isn't meth for once:
Or / Do vagaries partake of the cafeteria's lush / Corncobs,
Ordered special that day, or do this, TO do this, yeah, to do this, would it be like
Something I am - to make it epic with referent - 'I' - making personal: out of gripes with suns
Do many men make a man who is probably / Not any of them, like everybody really is, or at
least tries to be?
There reigns a tourniquet yet that / Only adds musculature to that question, but everybody
cant seem to tackle down it or get the name in their sights even. People
Cannot handle the truth, basically it is not to
Be trusted, too hefty an index finger's truculent

Point at that, whatever it is: his soul's most / Likely still hanging with the gulped breath he /

Can't control in gulping, never to release, there, / So, drug of regret work in place of it: do we, / Him
and 'I' at random about-face, making a one
From a many,do I / Distill from that many a man beyond good and
Evil, but with faces more than tons of suns
Still, as if I felt most familiar with that hydrogen,
Or ideally: was a myriad individual? But am not, / And deliverance to me is every
day, suppose, / That is the personal aspect of not getting all: /
The sun's I want; but do I want to imagine more with / The stringy, bedraggled end of day,
an end that will cost / It a thing, that I give up for what I prefer to / See, the very thing I see, not
knowing it? But you have made too much a point, now

Own thoughts, own branch off life, hanging, as
if by the hands, clenching life, trying to organize
the parts / And make them periods of memory,
like family pictures crowded on a glass table, devising
Own change, over time feeling the / World not shake so much. All those thoughts hiving in you
realize you'd been feeling the world shake silently / Beneath you, been reaching for the branch not
Holding on to it. For you only in the / World feel what / You do and how. Even by right
were all voids, something / Different is to what youd go beside. Stick up for. The
Sickness of empathy soothes you in every pore its in, / Hearing whatever case of injustice or fault
and folly, thats for sure. Sure, spaces of doubt differ because of the / Reliquary-standing moments,
Times that slant, that meant what they
Meant, but they were guided either way to where we are, the both of us, precisely for their nature, so
introspective were we, holding up mirrors to everything. You, me. Because it felt itself / A ruse, a
question, an anomaly. Whatever the sensed / Affliction, our wound on reality. So to / Speak. Thats
how I feel I am. Thats how Id imagine it could be. Bada

Bing, bada
Boom. I see some things
In terms of what I can mentally own since it is that I
Cant seem to own the one thing most important, since
The life given seems in vain, a quest against a
Windmill. But trumpeting all the while for yourself!
Looking for life, measuring it by what you find though maybe
Not experiencing the value of what you find, maybe
Afraid to use it up. These are not fetishes, idols, though. Theyre things that value in themselves
without the / Absorbing. This is after all the nature of anything
Anonymous, not created but there, sans subjection
To search for the first cause, the illumination from afar. Where you feel yourself to have
grown is enough for Williams taking a picture of New York / From the next borough; but
By that doubting would your life seem empty too. That all is a masque of vowels lacking
syllables / And hard Ts. That you while shaded in your own as I said / World of work, of toils,
Frequencies or vibes of the / Being alone, left no slack for tryings or weaknesses, put
All the rest of the good stuff on where these thumbs are pointing now, not indexes.
What I do I do however I do it for magnitude however-The dash-and-slant life became you, the small shards
Of substance became very beautiful to / You for that very
Appreciation for small stuff, a mere drizzle in the rote,
You examining these
Doubtful quantities of spare change, insubstantial to me. Though rotary-like wheels of action,
serious, cold as I am, / Are just to make a picture of what you see, I guess
I see, I beg you, tend not follow them to any sort of hyping reality. Suchre people of pain: estranged
for being a giving sort, giving their lives but hiding their burdens for the help of others. They want
definition everywhere else by proxy, though / A sort of passive-aggressive / Thinking; scoping
Out for scopes not because they want
To define themselves, assuring it impossible, but
In humbly not looking at defining themselves as


A noble effort, defining themselves anyway by how they learn

To get away from themselves. / A variety of ways for this.
You go look for lifes sad side-For you. Dont grapple with the mystifying consequences
Of betrayal, revealed or just felt as though a pang,
But, maintain those top-head solitudes and alienations, so
To speak, and breathe them in, even though its them thats
Causing the World an entire, grand vowel, or in bowels of something
That if youd see behind the joke of what it seems to be youll
Not understand, and what I can never really
Dig to understand myself, since, you know, it
Involves no digging: that GOD in malice played
On you: a grand fear, an avenue of wares of pain to
Choose from as you live, people manically shouting, come
Buy, come
Buy, and you having only your choices / To choose from, the one thing you / Could not control
having, not / Given to you, never knowing withheld by whom,
And never
Feeling like a name anyway


Big, spanning arch, burnt in places by pollution,
Washington Square / Burnt to duskiness,
Random fortitudes swell there, buildings
Do not but people
Alight their day to their business
And buildings look on
Like disinterested giants, on my friends there


A big, spanning arch burnt by pollution some places produces
something in the onlooking gawkers eye or random citizen of the area [to whom
most things would be invisible anyway, but that kind of goes against what I will say / presently
about my neighborhood wisdom, awareness; and at that, invisible, unless, like humans
are so wont anyway, all that invisibility gets boiled over into an image by force: suddenly splats
of hot / milk are left on the floor to petrify, for vermin to smell the residue of, in some
chickenscratch cell of an apartment somewhere: like a bad place. I just know its bad]:
basically, to start again: start with a
hearts thud, I mean, an extra one: it gives an extra beat. So say whoever bothers to dig for
whats produced of the arch, outside of, you know, dreams: all really just
appropriations of the hearts molded need, especially if it be outside the wisdom of the
corral of hipster and proto-hippie locale dusty old men who are exactly
what you would think I would mean
when I say, not rich in the place
of poor despise: theys all deign The Village: well, and a good few decent queers,
thank god: and thank god for
Washington Square, that kind of disgusting edginess about it
that attests to a lack of regular swab or regulars called upon
to swab: I suppose thats the deal with any iconic structure,
it stays around cos people want it but dont get washed off cos
it being there and what it is is enough: take a picture of the arch
and maybe see a face, or definitely a grumpy frown, or, if you stand
on your head, a smile of narrow width and long length, almost
a flavor of the dastardly: yet what 'personification' isn't dastardly, and
high treason, or highly creative irony, like Rimbauds Le Bateau Ivre,
a ship who thinks his way down impassive rivers, from redskins: one may


palely muse like the arch does on the way the arch seems like it can do / without us /
humorously enoughin the urban February chill they [one] themselves could do without, thinking
there / is as much compromised, as in nothing, in the case of that hunk of marble, or whatever it is,
stone; and in regards to the usual hollyfuckingwood harlequin-screenwriter this even more; you
know, that guy with a vision unswayable
who devises not only a clearly inhuman antagonist, or maybe robot works best,
but moreover, a nemesis devised for the sake of a boring last battle: and, sorry, no surprise: /
but the story goes off without us. / As the story progresses we find the prawn-like invaders or robotfetuses or whatever changing their rle:
whatevr fictional alien or beast or robot a-sudden goes toward bravery or
selflessness by feeling pain onscreen, actions hiking up sentiment in the audience
enough for to regard the plight of this poor, completely not relatable robobeast
from Mars, with perhaps a few
irritated squeezes from the glistering eye [tears]. But this is why
I hated that movie, District 9: o the deludedness, the harlequin-creators
schmaltz, that one is more upon the object by making it alive the way people are alive, as if it /
being an object werent enough to lose that, or a structure that is to say:
though now, back to hushed contemplation,
or at the least mildly aggravating musing:
for example, this unfathomable comparison
got the life but maybe not the manners to be
like those who slump their game up around the
surrounding esplanade, today, on a freezing
day: the men are at the concrete chesstables, that have always / been lined round that arch or
object, or thing, in slightly odd arrangement, like / a serious paucity of sprinkles on the [concrete]
cupcake spaced out, for the sleeping bratty child, hoping
this oversight is too an oversight
the bratty child makes, another tantrum avoided. 9 and in a stroller,
him and his mom emerging from that hip cafe where lesbian moms go to breastfeed:
a fulltime hobo traces the next move
on the board quietly, steeled in the shelter


of many loud, soiled jackets people most likely threw out after Christmas: gifts
from that uncle with bad taste: these are old, old men, mind you, and perhaps
gone a bit eccentric from too much time living on the street: and drinking
formaldehyde: one ashlike hand handles a bishop towards
the nigh-slain queen, and then
the game ends when said challenger
to Almighty Cosmic Steve [after
his big twelve, consecutively] gives in,
at first argues for a draw, but of course the dignity of chess allows for
that fat junkie no terms of requital, sans finishing the game: slightly under a
sort of char, one could say the open light of Washington Square Park marks
the skys resolution a bit early for the grime and seedy bastards to come
out, but they do, like roaches to the flame broiled burger piece wedged
under the couch that one time somebody bought burger king
in secret. A month later a family of hardcore vegans [they live
a few blocks from Bleecker, to name someplace recognizable, so as to
smooth your bearings gotten, regarding my obliquely-centered subject, if / you have trouble
finding the building / or rather illegal shack hiding sweatshop workers in the wallsyou knowjust
in case they ever invite you to
Bradleys wake] reports quick to the local
fumigator with much grief that an army
of roaches, apparently lured in by hamburger
meat, has eaten their darling, their poor
boy, 19, 6 4 and 120 pounds, with bones unstrong cos, well, no milk: all
in the name of equal rights for cow-teats: prawn-men: what with all that painful
pinching and squeeze:
I observe the less kept corners of
whats its none less spectacular frieze, however burnt to dusky
resemblance, but not dusk comparable to the dusky heads
of people walking dutifully places, checking
watch, ignoring a crimp in stocking cos well


itll be a deadly crunch for her [whoever that is] to get to / work even besides her not stopping.
Random fortitudes swell through the streets of The Village, back to everywhere, while the buildings
look on, essentially
heartless, sans those ones of especial magnitude you know the
architect put a lot of grit into: just to set the structure upright:
she fought for her plan for The
Big Wonderful Building and thankfully
with a few grants the value of blows along the way depreciated
and her accomplishment, given amnesty: financial or no, it must
have been a mess to work out everything in proper regard to
the municipal grid:
do not but people
alight the day to their business, cringe at night, tongue hitting
for a sec the string of the stringy steak had for dinner, nights ago: gristle, ouch,
stings: buildings dont feel and say ouch, they look on like disinterested giants
on my friends here and there passing,
and their presence among, enough the hello.


If I tell it right, let me get this straight,
I will make a sound, perpetrate the skys
Headquarters, / Will muse upon the rhythm,
Leave the muse muse. Well draw up a plan to get
Me out of this correlating clockwork / With
Synchronicity, perpetuity with sense, vacant
/ Lots hedged in with wire, with baseball fields:
All that matters is, two borders just happen to
Be where am I now: and no, not what of that: I
Mean, do, by vacillating, the meanings lead to
Feeling the rhythm and thus the feeling, which is


Apart, or am I already too redundant: I guess my tallyll

Be hideously, improperly mandated questions, each / Smacked with the golden seal of not being
answered: so, let me get this straight, I am an animal who contemplates rhythms: thats clear:
But do I squeeze myself dry, in looking around / For martyrs, as if I could pull them out of my hat,
and if so, what would then logical dallying mean, / If not but something like Mr Kierkegaards
broken grandfather clock, chiming not on the hour but at regular
Intervals: so if I tell it right, you see, it wont matter
About rhythms: rhythms of languagere the muse, / To me, to be summoned, but not
focused on, somewhat like a faint shawl over the sky, / Peignoir of light roseate broad against cloud

As I hit the baseball over the chain-link, into

That scary vacant lot nobody goes into cause it is
Haunted or something: ghosts in the belly go shoo,
Given that the spic-n-span grand spanking seal
Of sun is observed, relished, making everyone happy: they, themselves
Ill-formed in these words as the ghosts, feel themselves
And their vices and ardors apart from rhythms of
Cloud and sun, for now. Were safe. Its why every muse is
Hallowed: because cast off once beckoned
It is forced to wait somewhere dark and wet
Probably, until next time. The muse knows it is not
Anybodys fault, which is a forgiveness so staggering
For even the least perturbed intellect to consider
Without the feeling like they ass is chapped.
For the reader tidying up their head[hind]quarters, / It might
Be, well, that blind functioning equals an atavistic process back
To the logo of all creations ever-inspiring aporia from craggy gulfs
That did not even know themselves before that light burned through


Em. They pounce upon a taste of knowledge. It causes em / To beseech me,

The writer, for more, which I give only until requited once, and then, the muse,
Fat and happy, leaves myself a shell who writes poetry: awareness
Turned / Ignorant, while the reader reads on / Baffled, but sincere: it
Might be, we lost a few keys to some
Of the doors, and thats the muses payback for even once ranking under us: it might
Be that the doldrums pass by just as unnoticed. But once
The elevated state is gotten, and our faces
Arent burnt off, we realize, well, its a welcome
Distance we have from the sun, and maybe
The drapery, dress, gown, peignoir, is just light
On its heels enough to give a salutary nod to
The same difference, you know, the one between blind functioning
And broken clocks toning in the hallway, like some

Absurd thing in the house: we think, Wow,

What a lonely, static WORLD. But it arrives, or that is to say,
Delivers. It
Spends a key or two, for the sake of easing the struggle,
On vices, but the purity of the message remains,
And baseball does, always will, forever,
Despite ghosts in the belly of the grassy lot: you hit
Ball, and it will be the sun, and the sun will always
Be AMERICAs pastime. Good thing clocks in
The psyche arent sharp enough to deafen the muse,
You know: cause of all the drugs. But at least, at least, at least
The distance, and / Our faces in check, just to make sure, rides
As much on a wave of blind cognition as
Any meaning would anyway, if one thought it in
That state, found themselves in an infinite maze
Of baseball bats, as off yonder the clock clicks a seal.


SHADOWMEISTER [rattles cage]

Im full grown, not a larva, not barely from the womb, nor is /
This as sensitive a subject for me as reality, which if you get it
between your fingers freezes everything, the slightest / Touch
enough to crash time to a stop. When I hold it in hands like some object
-thing, I say to myself, its everything that stops; but if you could, would contact
with utter reality produce the facts, just as elevated? Senses, efficient: a bored
drone in the room doing / Accounting; or a tip of his glasses doing it
to indicate my own presence in some nonverbal form. Things /
Needed to be known, about what fellow of this or that scums office branch / Gonna
be fired, yet as I hear the tallying arithmetic I / Blandish like sword
Wooly tonguing notions myself and spit them at him [the accountant]: theres no warmth
like / That warmth in rudely seiging the morals of the scums bad crony I guess,
meanwhile, this perfect villain handles an irrelevant souvenir of info
fresh from his informants doings, numbers and tax evasion proven
In the works of a better rival, and this once studied followed through with just / To be JUDAS,
because he felt like it, / The paltry wages thereof nothing much to the crony, who could as well be a
stooly for pleasure as much
Of a gain, but still the numbers flow, the praise does, / To places where I might be wrong about
morality[?]: / The praise does, it flows, flows from the typed numbers, large / Ones in particular
enough to garble meanings for them, oh,
For them all. When its just feeble enough to be, it that is, the notion, the hint, a-whizz in
the mind of him the scum; but, when the flagging, scarlet purloins, from weasel-fuck folk living
flatly, so one-dimensional their own ontology nearly suspected / As simulated, / Living on the sides
of towns odd curvature,
When the purloins get cut into piles of the / Meaningful, and we forget those those with the
curling patterns of our mere, dumb

Intellectual wanderlusting, devoted, wellsans of course ever staying for long in this concept

or that, and with waning standpoint until mute, and with truth trod on more than savage heroin is
with fentanyl, well, considering all this
We may forget as well that there is a mark for this, perhaps more / Like a giving bush, not
burning: the bush is fine: the fate
Of one young immoral bookie is not, / The flames wait for him at eve, the whispering bush, o
god, the laughter hidden some other where that he laughs at, what is it, can doing this / Guarantee,
tap, tap, tap, well, HELL?: / Denote evil presences,
Liquify the ambush with your other assets, and then you / Will be left with no fears at all,
much less anything else, / The boss-man says: burning: my faults and the boss-mans are the same:
what you make as leif to call comfort I call out as bullshit, tho:
The accountant nods, glasses falling off at my supposing: I suppose reality stops and so then
time stops with it, but am not sure: if time stops, that is the reality, that / Is, that time has stopped:
reality requires observation: a
Halt of all things for awhile at once wouldn't even be much if no one was there to see it and, most
importantly, keep going: reality then is what keeps going, in spite of time or death: so then, the
reality of the scum's situation is a
Halting of time too quick for morality, unchanging, to catch / Up with and assume
with it the static position: if something
Just shouldn't happen, is it wrong, is it reprehensible: if the world were made of
coincidence, anyone would do anything
Whatever and it would mesh, therefore abolishing coincidence and introducing us all
to a time-free universe, a place that since
All would be in coeval with all doesn't anomalously declaim it all as not so, despite the
unreality that hangs around and which makes it
Not right, but really, right: one feels the sangfroid in the attempt / To force something
just to soothe something: wrong the result is
To un-wrong existence, since the psyche if it does does right for / Itself, sees perfection, there: selfish
really, which anyways is why
I always do exactly what I think is wrong for me, just as sangfroid,
but, perhaps a foolhardy rebellion only I myself could ever know,


just to disprove my own selfishness, itself a polishing of self,

Or pruning: you know, to glisten its figure: but why is the psyche?
If only to say a time-free state focuses, to a point, on a point,
the least-most of what is the strongest crumb of a thing, it
being, for the psyche, preservation of self, different from
self-preservation, a more layman type of physical self, rather
more like identity, behind that, a need to preserve identity,
this needed the least-most, would coagulate like sap into
a mass impossible to invade, get
within, and then who is who: forget all, for the sake that something
happened that was ruinous, as the scum debates the nature
of the boss-man he met, really himself, and laughs, and then time stops, but, no
one knows, then starts, and he thinks, at least it's not my ass


Consider this: a man must deliver hay
to the next town over: he bundles it up and
puts each organized conception of hay in his carriage, and goes through his
delivery home by home, comes back,
repeats the process, again, next day, his head a
clutter of signs. They snap into breakages
that form light, unwilling of the light, the essence, or subject,
in this case, bundles of hay, the carriage existence: he funnels out to the usual boundary, when all of
it is gone, his roaming vessel empty: he is able to relax, then, while / personal empires gain
themselves, aright the given populist in person at their roomy home in some parochial
commonwealth. Dooms are communicated by all the possible logic-tombs this might contain in it:
ah. That inscribed and polished, small version of an unbelievable monolith we lay down in the last
time / shorting out myriad colors. The man, back to work, / is unforgiven by the light he snagged,
because it is his harnessing of the light alone, stuck and stuffed beneath the hatted head of a simple


man. / He gets heated as he drives up the road, to the beginning, again, of meaning something,
desperately, and besides-the destitute corporeal: ah the immanent haste to drag rather each bundle of hay again to
their needed places in life as if to screw it and at least show to who gave him life, to the mother, what
pain is living enough to go through more; to at least
communicate it to some abstract homogeny in the sky: hay: at use for these farming
homes, a frontier almost edible, sky lush and pin-cushion smooth, soft rather: we package
and refill our existence by the day, have new motive,
get tamed downed to believing one or two consistencies, at the days end, fear transcendence as goes
beyond the suns reach, a brew of unwilling themes light gives order to by revealing what but that the
personal schemas leave, which are rectangles that-floof detritus upon the floor of the barn, themselves to be relieved and relived, that dim
feeling of bad choice or some wrong thing done provoked out of dark, there, then
as tips the earths dark in its maneuver, we all see it: again,
wake up to deliver hay: but what if all those stray strands made straight to their use, to, in vaguelywrought homes at the center of their big cranial fields, be a road leading from there to there like a
bridge, the man, at this point fuming with confusion, calming himself
with precious shouts of MOMMA, dog-worthy, not even infantile: says all that the dark of
beginnings in doubt commands of the self light shines judgment on, despite the misgiving of thoughts
on the hay, collected stuff just to save money
and thrill out upon the roomy hills,
is repetition meted again,
like anything diurnal



The emphatic birch is there. Weeds like tiny huts, for savages
To bake in and never strike from. Weeds that cn barely stand their
Inhabitants: whether beetle or small currents of mice, louse,
Fodder, agh, these juxtaposing beige forts really. And so lit around
The fucking tree too are white floaters spent all over the place, w/e, but,
One still finds somewhere a mutter, nearly silent, but angry enough / To stick a damn hole in the
most hermetic panorama: / Its own flagellating thing of criticism, and by that action as much
identifying rhetorical wind in / Sound. From sight out of sight, the thing itself is made in full,
Sound and all accounted, everything,
And identity at all the fey tempter to hurriedly abbreviate / Everythings captor, and mere soothings
to quieten him the ineffable circularity hunting the branches of a birch for one thought. Well I
Made the gag again, he is made
For to put in that scrutinizing existence, shoved in, as
Like the mirror one sees into themself as: the birch threatens to be just what sounds something out of
that, that is, everything not it, not that ineffable thing of being, and
More than trips from the scullery, but a weald made for this silly jazz and openness, /
Paragraphs scooted and justified to paint back / To the point, rather than into a corner: the point
that the book itself in these words, these symbols, is an embodied-Pronouncement, no need to read
The ample verbiage. Its right here, barely in the random barley, as it should
For at least a roughage comfort,
Your only discipline desperation



I reach no conclusions, only conclude the debate until next time. Theres always interruptions; / Like
loud family wanting to open the door. But for a moment alone, anyway,
I hear something different, a spirit out of sorts, tell me that he is what sticks-to you, anyone, once things get going: clapping your bills together with a rubberband
and sneezing out meaningful
water through psyche. Throughout prattles of the weeks into days, like playing catch up
with a friend and only having an afternoon lunch to do with what you will
and days into ideas, well, we take as much of it as fate will allow,
the spirit says, and I a bob in the head away from being in new realms of
distraction, a family knockingly at the door: feel you the handsome rush
unity has because doing unity, for it is our life itself. Given
interruptions, It mostly does not haul the fullest stratum
available, but aches with experience anyway, and, once
knowing reason, runs the psyche to very death in a big,
assbackwards story about it all, in this case, all we remember. Differences-within bedsheets, but thats just between them: meanwhile struck through a door ajar the low
yellow goes all over the room at early morning silkily barging through windowpane, door. A mingling
of tremors beneath the sock, your foot standing on end.
Some sacred allegiance, we can tell,
adumbrates a tense future of more stuff thats forgotten and remembered hastily at nastily
incongruous intervals. So shrug away.
This shabby finger has been dotted by blobs of rain in the noon sun,
of rain, three orbs just at the fore of palm and wrist. With inching cruelty, let
us say, he has galloped his bones away from the window where wetness collected
into a fist to soak his finger: gospel is

The water in the crevices there. Or he has turned his shoulder / Inwards the same, a shameful coil,

perhaps he felt the light / On, cautiously, didnt want to get shocked, went for a towel, / Looked
outside, guts, rainfall, hell, big rocks of hail
smacking the roof. Goes and turns off the oven, in his sleep remembers not whether it was
so that he was drenched, or merely padded
By the finger or by the arm, / By rain. He gave up and dreamt
Of this in its place, forgetting doubt
And the doubtful realities wearily put to rest too,
And, using his dream-sense that he never again would
Wake up to find, found only that it had not even rained.
Give me the light of fury,
And give me in your pieces something worthy, and give me what I have worked long to paint, in
words, a thing the faint picture means. I am not soundless, I scream, in proliferating yells to breach
the sitting sphere. / It does not move, it does not roll,
It is the obligation of the soul
To stand it straight, a sphere as tall as GOD
To capture this dreaming clod
In colors painted to keep, this log
Of infinite, to make me weep.
There is in me / Something after curfew
An imitation of an evening / In an updraft
Now spelling / Like wind on the wharf.
Others previous words, passed around
Ceremoniously like a rag of ether / Whereupon I feel intoxicated, feel the haze launch me a
damnable palliative, up into trouble, betrayed by the sweet cahoots
I dont realize
The time to be home by / Has long passed into
Waste, arrhythmia of time
And, smoking ember alone high after

Nightfall, observing / The azure wreckage
Of Jersey lights from wharf that
Make it seem day, and high / Off the

Whispers and contrition of friends, leave / Myself to troublesome

Forgetting: of schedules and / Maturity
Just to stall time in this / Requital, myself with peace
Just to linger off into this web / Spooled out of spidery wind-Climbing all about my shirt making
Billows / And I smoking my smoke at
Night myself by / The wharf viewing
Jersey let the ember die / Struck by the
Eerie blue of ethers light / And all the
Enrapturing forgetting that is in / Me
Completion, draft the longest day,
And restitute with me my return,
Oblong the sky, and definite the night,
That sun may burn / Away, that we may pray
To ourselves for ends to war, also dight
For battle with the sky, deadened flash / Our sabres to impend the modern doom,
Stick in the blade, and master each his desperate / Calling for the rheum
To take us out, daring it: to dash
Blood across the walls, a pain disparate
From the wealth pain gives, is an honest pain / As torture sans remittance.
Complete the stinging jab,
To martyr this hindrance
To speak the honest blood a lingering stab
To make of sun to sky a separate plane / When I return


The psychological structure had a few

Dents, a soiled foundry, lumps of wit contemplated
Out of any regard at all, an airy feeling deafening too
Each particular, noisy feel, made like down the
Aqueduct, grey chances, loose figurines or
Mere small people made of something fleshless
And stray teeth, brain, removed sickles or
The eye itself, a soiled foundry, garbages that
Lurk in the mind of each particular, each one a
Big noise, and made a feeling, too much
Feeling, not enough feeling, rough metal,
Sharp things, gross pints upon gross pints of some / Sorta blood, or plasma, cuticle-endeavors that
are in the ripping of them off the brain, the wagging brain back and forth like slapped testicles,
staunch mothers in the background of the soiled foundry, something reckless made of small people,
small, green eyes, a pair, great pair
Great lozenge for to soothe the damned with / Lassitude, this, for I the damned, I the constraint, /
Against myself the constraint I make a blasted / Figurine, cold-blooded killer, innocuous crab at the
office, bold ways round the wrist and fecal deposits in plastic baggies, round all this in a depositing
whirlpool towards where the aqueduct-Starts to get anomalous, I reach for
Nepenthe, class myself, reach less, sit sitting in fate, fat marble slabs of fate, a classic conception, fate,
fate to take all this upwash in going forth through the globs of constraint, eyes / Watery as sundry
items left at the motel next
To the socket, wet tiles, crinkled pants too, shit,
I lost my belt, where, in the foundry is
Where all dump goes, the frenetic pace of the hoi / Polloi,
Down the avenue, wheres the avenue, / Avenue of blood,
Avenue down a strench, down / At interlude, between
Wellspring and delta, remorseful, office crab, oh poor one,
Oh poor shunned man, meaningless as drapery / For the
Fifth time, windows, windows for psyche. I write pomes
To escape where Id got lost in / The pomes written before,
A place commenced off that obdurate, insensible microcosm. Like a-

-Manner of smoke bouncing wall to wall, which once aerating the whole estaminet leaves a

spooky residue that you can see all parts of. Sequences sight themselves correctly, by / An act of some
kinda providence, so that / This wheel of townsestaminetsthe whole
Populace thoughts, all thoughts, had been / Victim of no radical, weltered mist into the mix / But
rather knew it, accepted it a dandy fugue,
As if somehow what had been written to be
Seen by fellow thoughtsmy mind in the feeling Id got lost in beforedrew a new knowledge, a
wraith into the next chamber, me taking it wry / Although it delicate, me a shook head at the /
Circumference I describe, inevitable, me at the / Fore of the legion, seeing blank places, towns. And
all that still revealed in the same container, and all this somehow, a metaphor, neatly refined / As
tulle, for escape at large, the piece to come, / Betting ondespite my ric-a-ric about contrivance, /
That very abjured sentiment from the next town over.

This puppet takes his master down. / He

Contrives / An equal space for other limp
Hands to crouch fingers into that pang, his
Delusive sensation a greeted deluge, / His
Father makes the stars in space a chance
Others puppet-like / Might take the reigns,
Others like him. Having done rid of the
Master, sans his GOD, a puppet knows how powerless he is,
Powerless enough to beat that great power, with greater humility. In
What quarters is the final space filled: puppets of all kinds, they have that space of limpidness, they
have a peaceful nullity. They welcome others fill it, will it filled, / They wish drawn faces real,
wisdom in the wooden, / They feel, if feelings will, the will to arch themselves
An own nestled hand into the felt crotch. His
Weak / Soul slathered with sweat, denies a giver, only
What receives him counts. He takes pleasure in the wooden staunchness of his rules, belabors nullity,
the sake of his wonderful demise an order to be honored, an order for the reigns, the strings /
Attached, the threat of the space in sentience forever
Still there. Being wooden, sees no threat, is not


Alive in his aliveness: he draws a wheel across

The specters of his lamentable recesses, draws
It flat, a line, a line of wheels to turn the wooden
Cogs enough to make a knowledge there. Of knowledge,
Perhaps, perhaps a dearth of masters of knowledge, or a lessness
Of insides. An invader comes; a hand
Out the beautiful nullity. It slips in a master animate,
Coarse hands, it makes the folly there, that had he
Not put his hand inside, the puppet would have
Sweetened life to life himself, made sweat upon
His brow, and would have lived with will, the only thing
A living thing can eat, and breathe, and sing.
The only thing the hand might still resist

Darling one no I have not left yet perchance
Hollow I feel in the shades of mine omnipotence
Dangling cats feet off the side of the roof
Hes a one for life to take stock of there or
Maybe the sun and maybe the rain too
I have none less than I did I stand before ye
As sun or rain in the sky ye crick ye neck to see
On this roofs edge I am not unmovable I change
I am not for ye wordy baubles to shroud
Lift me darling instead as reconnoiter and familiar
Clutch me hardly again where I have been where
Though I change I have considered ye beatitude most
I was always before ye tell me o disinterested factotum
Like those old lines I am apart and sad of your ignoring
All sifts anyway like the shade through your thumbing
The material onset traipses like this cat you are then


Some cat leaving lucent feels there on roof, for godhead

So as to waste where I am I have ye take leave the stairs
But have ye derive a pause for memory of being there / Forever to strengthen and so have ye
taken / This rain and sun for self
Have ye listened to the suns talk now. AHEM,
Something else was written in the place of this
I can recall . . . / As I as still as wide, windless
space withstood / Timeless shit: I had, unrested
but resolved, imaged / Out the serious dawn again.
In hope to see it twice: I wonder if that will be so tonight.
If I live on, I say, at least, / That I have seen the sun before,
I think I have: and fearing it deceased, / Once the glow had
gone already from my nether-sidled WORLD / Like some
disinterested lover on the brink of bed, I would then go myself
all errant all night / To picture it again, a begging man.
Would smash / My fucking brains, just to give the
damned thing / A proper supplication. I bow now, as an
echo verbed / It to me then: the word a WORLD into
existent stillness, / Spots of time like drool to draw back
in the sword, fuck the dross / That would have made my
plausible interment: living in dark I have enough steam for
wandering, call spiritual energy a shadows / Face met with
briefly. It grimace, and I in fear and trembling for / The
helpless word again to give a flame again, see it triply; / The
sun, that is. If I have grown the sun again, and lived, and
written / It as it exists, and I existing to see it again,
tomorrow will be / Tomorrow. Because I knew too little
of the broad, daily bedlam / Before it took away me
to some unwieldy, haunted place: I could not breathe: /
And sitting in inertia, friendlessness, suicide, I suffocated
alone. Each person masters these the given day, each one /
Of them to spool anxiety by the simplest node, a curt flag.


To fleet from carnage and extremity they do this. They

bloom the sun into a massive shrugs speechless / Rant,
one that gives more by what is said by it unsaid; / To
bless my wrack, I wrote it as I made yield to this futile /
Despondence; written to splay my daring to the fires
That burn my drafty home for mere harnessed senses
And yet my days, my days have passed sightless / Of any sun, so I
commit one here. Of the sun. When night before has left a coolness
to bedew / The morning-grass. This shifting chaos out before me
sloped. And was my brain. As would an understanding of ones
tireless struggle / To be normal, witnessed, followed through with,
not abandoned, shift / To quiet whispers, peevish little signals
of anxiety stifled / By delusive, mortal hands. I had not mind to
make these fingers bled / Tonight. Upon the touching some
familiar pain / That is a tonnage self, I soothe the ire / Of some
malnourished idea I had had about the sun


Derive this rented space as a welcome chance, / The random blotch
of mold sequestered / On the ceiling, there before / We got here:
our job: to draft flowers / Of the intelligence; to be as flower-petals
/ On the delirious rim / Of the window, as I will tend to do now,
spacing out / At them, and you: and they are next to one of many
candles in The World, besides those to be, in a room the less a room
/ Than the burliest shadows could aid with a wealth of dark, / Could
make real with a thick, / Rife darkness, / The immanent dangle of our
predictable psychologies / Creates an itch before the inching of time
can sew it back / To at most a wheedling of something that is now gone,
did not initiate further, like every state of mind / On xanax, that is,
nothing is indulged or chased, so / Nothing leaves a dent, corrosive or
no / The acids retreat from the parable of ourselves we make / With
returned musing: attentions duration is governed / By physiognomy, the
less of our nerves we feel / The less often we get distracted and fall / From
the roost of the bucking ideas / Destroyed back: such remarks bank

when said / Too much, under your voices / Haughty draining of the
subject to implicit intercession, / As if all along, your / World was a plea
to stay, and all this / Only fills my vision with tears, and I forget to forget
the nerves as they tumble through irreparable mist / And out of sight:
a foggy fucking shame: / A refrain from the more complicated celebrating
we have, / The which comes more like sacrifice, we jobless light / Our
honor well and without fail, from / The daily pyre: we erect it with dead,
strong lengths / Of shoot to rectify our special miseries we leave / For the
uninterested tribe of utter humankind / To yawn an answer at, once
known, once / They know it: all the while / Keeping there in their keeps
an ample dose of judgment / Like a chinky cabinet filled with active potions:
all this / Stings the shrinking pupils in their eyelids when / They look at you
with a suspicious fever / And quicken of glance, yes, looking us as / Slitting
the throats of chickens, goats, etc. barbarism, / Hooting through our tongues
the latest, freshest of / Carnal blessings: sanctities in vogue, / Thats what
the pagan lifestyle is, a fad, ill-thought-out, at the behest of time to prove
itself longer than a notion or a hint, / With time to appreciate it all, really,
we learn to give / Ourselves the right to fetishize ourselves and call it something
not like religion, yet that negates the need for such: but, ah, / The hoi polloi
would never figure that: they would alight from us, maugre the meagerest twinge
of daffiness, each stand taken a revelatory / Scoop into the dreamers inner
unbalance: or, forget the scandal, and we would go forgotten, like love / At
the door of ones enemy: any-me: alrighty, one thing as I see it: / The marching
pole of light from the broom over the days / Creeping, and my noticing your light
differs, different, ah, it differently differs enough to make smile the steeple of this
broken church of a man, lets call each a touchy tooth, sans enamel, totally: to
banter holiness: your blue multiplicity slays the time by adding time, by which
I look at you and see a minutes hour, and the planet feels sunken in the
girth of no malady but irreverent prophecy, import, ludicrous, raving excitement,
if only to a minutes proposal of a given thought allotted you, / As opposed your
image proposing all thoughts / In that one span: you view me yourself, you say
your blue daddy doesnt care: rancid in the breath, he is itching his stomach,


bespectacled, not a thought to focus him, besides on the trimming of the crocus
outside: his addiction to control is as grotesque and demented as any Jack Nicholson, him licking / His lips, apart from himself, / A vacant slaughter of anything
but normalcy by the / Hatchet, handled breezily, elbow to elbow / In jaunt,
in chase to make requiem all his children / For subtle viewing of calyx there as
I see it that makes / A petty notebook aslant off against the side of the window
[Full of petty, snoozing things] bring a nook on the azimuth as you thumb
another cog, bring it past an inch or a few minutes, adding them you,
in my thoughts, though absent I may be as I this jobless priest / Peers at
nothing but fading light from its only source in the room, / Out the
window, I give, I give my pagan blessing with a blown kiss to layers
of gold upon the pate of the walls, your wizardry / Revealed. . . . .


All things lacking, gone in the discus throw
For years across this watery cavern, frontier
Of adrift goings and comings in transit
Throughout waves of universe, this
Dirigible thru hollowed out spats of time
That what never had a thing in it: eels
Scattered like a new water itself before
The large fish: like, really just humungous:
I wondered: was this the new species
Of man: someone had been born
Resistant to some universal condition,
OR would that just remain the end
Of a disease, like polio: yeah, thats
A stupid idea, never mind: what
Could anyone have left to say good
Bye about to you? you say to-



-Yourself, wondering why,

As you catch the fish, the eels merely
Protazoa all this time, barely able
To make it any of them against the
Hurtling discus of this
Medium-sized bass, through
Space and time, just to end filet
On table, cooked: all things lacking: somewhere a man hears
The news about the new species of human on the news
And then stabs himself in the gut numerous times
In the kitchen for no reason, where he bleeds out
Onto the floor: the dad comes
Home from a fishing trip and sees him, laughs and tilts his eyes
As if clutching his heart in a faux way as if in reaction
To on many occasions with his son when
Startled by him, the old man being old / And deep in his thoughts most of the time:
He doesnt even notice the absurdity of this at first, then
Slowly recognizes something of a futile retrograde, the dismissing
And so meaningless hope in this,
In while knowing it true approaching it as something
More banal, blas, unserious, when there is his son . . . . .

In the words of the perpetuum mobile
What copulation ist, spreads a linkless flood?
What could the orchard create without seeds
Nor source? Am, am damnable human. I make
No place to place my placeless, linkless, then.
I shove a retrospect into what lives commit
To as place, after all no place, all seeds folly.

Andlooking backa jettison for the figuration
To murder, after all, beyond regret, and I
Live reliquaries now. Best to get back to present.
Give me apples to work with, something a
Little further made. Color it with zeal. Peachy
Keen. I push and push my memory. What
Detours could tell me to stop, before I spot
The road to the farm downstairs, caught luckily
In synthesis: a clear frame for the chuffing ambiguity,
Held strained from my head like water, this
Strange, delicate place where the head stops
Turning back to seeds at the beginning of time,
And makes the fruit the steam off boiling memory,
But no such link to causa prima, more causa sui,
Deranged and slow, the paths to the orchard
Raining pale, refractory appleseeds up to the sky,
Initiator, like the turning of us along the path,
Yet to the detriment of natures firm rules for
The sake of bawling grounds the beginning of time,
To be swept as though by a powerful hand by
The cosmos, our perceptions feast headlong
Thrown like silly comets to a better seeing maw
While the normalcy in retrospect we obey
From earth, though it much express a bit of tooth
Chipped off at the Good Fucking Lords first
Bite into sounds of something further made, singular,
Not the apocalyptic infinitudes of possibility that
Make us after all hate a present whose
Mundaneness floats over the unthawed glance
A wizened gizzard made at me on the bus, while
Whittling away at some wooden pick or straw
Saying a saw about his tired hump. He was doing
What we shall do, once the time comes to reflect
On the times spent, since they are mostly life
And what it is to one, at this point. We, rescuing the
Flood, taking our thumbs to one and every drop
Like a sponge. Rescued the lucent water from
The bobbing prison headlights as the reverse-rain
Broke yet another spastic unsaid, the sky giving
It its chemical spindles of memory, like noxiousness
Emitting from a spilled beaker. Some tosser of a


Physical impossibility would always break something.
The orchard rests in peace, and strings adorn
This grave of apples, the bough thin, the weather
Weak and cold to waken thwarted sensing, or something.


Lingual pediments get dashed, like dreams once
towers, brief towering virtues numbering the walls;
or words once upon the wake of oceanic interest
fallen; each missive to them from us making
us and them, against them, we as whitecaps,
and everything a structure for a second then
collapsing down into the house I dont get,
expecting an array to wash us up to symbols
dissuaded so assuaged. To meet catharsis
thereby is to refuse what you know within
chambers, laughing itself through dropping
tears on the street like a scrub with a BARNIE
BACKPACK waiting for doom that simply
doesnt come back from a friends house all
night: make it like that: make what like that:
see, the direct flower negation is makes at standby
better wishes but also fraught wishes, which showily
chill with chillingly erotic fascination atop their
own collective ribaldness: the good ones shot out into
the vague prison of verbal economy, for best not to
mean too much, or typify the how: it gets one to points
of wretches, or of douchebag salesmen: rather look
for an emblem or action winging on troubling winds,
apart from parting notions waving goodbye as we



seize the fortress and build up the slipping fluid

words of art call in to make the tools dreams
as like a metronome: skipping not, among the
ruins of classical thought, dropping off your son
at school because you dont trust your towns
infrastructure: eking from your fingers like water:
They are fallen dreams, rusted closed: fallen
from the dwarfs head, till he malcontent like
as cinder ripped from fire to wet ground picks
his beachy portion out nosing out of a routine,
stomachs well the scene of combination
like palm trees donning a temperate forest,
where dream and rust instill abomination;
fighting to make this all come back to basics,
suffuses sense and passion with light logic. So
we chanced where had sprung our folly: drat,
the frozen beach refuses to compose it: dreams
alike with the watery counterparts upon it that
cleave and state along, wander with themselves
drilling into perdition, and I say, mask the shelves
where we are put and never seen
again, a doily to this modest trend
unites us just as entertains us into mood
splendorous, connives a jest besides,
and at the carnival we
desire to stake our very hides
on stint by stint the elevated metaphor,
in bas relief, adorned with beautiful
signs; and left us is our minds upon
the wither, when an amply-moral
duty signs the cause an element


of research-divine, an elemental subject

of wonder as it stabs the faades and
seeming-woolen windows mixed with rain
and heat, that day; our stubbornness was
showers, little meetings with our prey
tuned up avoidance towards
the breadth machines install,
filling record by record all folly of us,
entirely postponed by these
meager judges,
lonely with a tv for a friend,
thanked the season for its end, i did
and marred subtlety in continuing,
keeping going with a sound I hear
hearken me sometimes, or maybe
sometimes, o maybe, its never
because never enough: our blah day
passes with discreet dismay,
us getting nothing.
us to disavow the yelling paving of the way

This is the creation of an isolated frond amongst desert
That once wasnt there, yet on its own intelligence is, will be;
Which cannot have its rightful matter sans this cranium.
Just have me be this there, for my own sanity, be this
Just sometimes a lushness to this ugly spot, sometimes
An eclogue this, for my own free spending imagery
Because I mean for it to, do want it to, it will
In words, comprise the scream of a lost child, instead.


The origins of purity this started as; return o one!

Be the pain in my arm, a thing operated on, o
Compatriot of soul, and regal roy unheard, o
By each and every deaf hour that haunts
Meticulous despair, would I need an extra lousy loud
One, for an answer to life despaired, and there it screams,
Is irony that sits glacial on its being of a life, when it is not,
Is not the green hairs of weed an empire heckles
From its camp between the meaningful wagers
Of a fallen present for, and which echoed go as
The miracles of each and every growth the same
As monotony, and further from their hateful
Home, that ride the wind and say they know not where.

Aimsroeld Sedtodlr walking across phenomena. He is there. He is the magnetic train, the rolling and
forming of primordial snot, the doing of do-do etc. and the big brain's accident if ever was to speak
and to have spoken the words, yet apologizing for his crafty art, jumble, mumble, and all this damn
mundane, people. Duct-Tape carnival-suit moans ad infinitum, suit is mask, mask is of fractures,
they are happy fractures, they are bold as carnival, in motion, in motion, screams of digestion, laconic
sun, beatific-terrific, even, beyond source-growth, beyond beginning, ending cuz, well cuz, well, cuz,
duh, human, a human aiding innards, creative innards, purge, quake of purge, and arbitrariness, and
senseless breaking of the air really just groaning ta patch up da groin of forest, strait of rye, grumbling
rock one might see and call plum as imagery, felt and forgetting felt the hard stock life took o' me
once, judging, corrupting wire, synapse, aftermath horrid, reticent as an un-gust, a blow felt but not,
an infinite, just wonderful ignorance and a just wonderful revealing of sandy shores abandoned, for
example, by the tide, left as musky trenches, protozoa, guck, gack, and the foreseeable motions of
these refusing to pass besides ever-slowly, known but not : : mountains passed in very ages and
suiting it all together without a word in a carnival-world patched and patched as it can, tho! not
quite round. Duct-tape.

an aggregate of feelings parting and returning,
a sum doubling over and over, hovering and hatching,
dead and yet breathing: pondscum: or: low tides leaving
thatches of seaweed, and some bloke broken standing
at the shore. an animal bellowing in the distance, a fast
track to the thumping damage, real, real and unafraid
the catastrophe bungles itself into brilliant life,
ransacks the mystery, rummages for pills, damned life
is in the riotous keys on the riotous piano, but is dull life
on the pond, thinking on the pond, patches of green,
amorphous pods of algae, assembling a diseased quiet
with laughter, trying to be honest, big as a trouts
leap, doubling and returning to the place of specimens,
and the sea and the bloke back to race the contextual
glittery sun on the low tide, seaweed sparse but
also breathing, pills unfound, dead as damed life that
is let to music: then an explosive manner makes
avalanche that goes covering the entire world with
ash and burnt slime. some bloke standing at the shore,
broken, deemed useless by the god. the sum scoffs
at all whom approaching swerve eyes by its affected
sore, its lacy core of squirms of hedon rot bubbling
while the animal of truth bellows in the distance,
considering the thing about the stuff of affectionate
reality, while storms grope: something gets birthed,
then feasibly a person makes itself, and the rally
begins once mre: something should be returned to
as the showers soak the willow outside: i see it thru
my window, play with rain, play with rain, i say
to me, but dont: i leave that atom of a story,



half-reality, just as real for removal , , , or

just apologize and ruin everything back to apocalypse,
even tho reality is our friend here. cant go back.
keys on the piano. pondscum. tracing realitys types.
finding out everything is useless, but like, not.
some fungi, sitting nicely there, so pretty, like
garbage. avalanche of nothingness, volcanic as a thing
caught in symmetry, waiting to deal the deft blow
after so long unswift, so long lumbering in sleep.
piano-greatness leaves a few notes scattered on the
floor, and MOTHER picks them up after awhile and puts
them on the corkboard in the kitchen. a certain,
ah, delirium, a hunger for pain while the sheets start
to breathe too. objects talk to me, tell me to open
my mind. but i couldnt let such a thing happen and
mostly ignore the voices by listening to cool music all the
time. i am a leaping trout. i am storm that rattles you [FIN]
. . . . . . .P.S.
I tease the hophead, a delicious ache, but, theres a lurking
Minion of stupid parody floating past my eyes, or an elephant
Soaked in dripping ambagiousness like a dropsy that bleaks
Me to burning the leftovers of whatever animal mechanism. So I
Shit venereal acid-places. I want to go doing in the passive member.
I start to empty the amaranthine haze like the turkey I is, absterge
The codex of certain plaguing finery and stuff for the big bloke.
Fireworks go to flash upstairs. Upturning going in my head
Like a phallic prediction thru the old estaminet, this brig of-Peoples and hoodwink. I chomp sugar and aleatory like coffee
Grids, ace a bloop something like an avoided embolism I
Defend myself against every day. Despite all this happy
Undermining before a court of gunning pleasers, eye karma
Dreams cloudy ornate heliotrope and lily but no asshole drum
To sing a beat, I suffer the gaze of sun, make it mine in earnest,


Simply arrow out of an odd morning somehow, following bickering

By embroiled, bizarre selfhood in a girlfriend who sat a spat
Like a soiled squatter in
Some acrid efficiency condemned three months ago. He-Most enjoyable shoots up beatitudes so as not to perform foam
And ickiness emancipated usually from his purely conceptual
Throat, dries up day, reflecting like a bumpy headlight, perhaps
A tumor headed for the colon, fantasy cloud, canter I down path
Assessing my usual diet of form and caffeine. So I go to a venue
Later, for once not being a fake but reeling in responsibility like
Some awful fish from the night before, shitty dinner, like shitty-Droppings on hood of car also. I pour black blanket rafters
Over the impossible sun and bigly ayaaa to revere what I pork.
Drumming like a glass prolepsis: when she comes back I-Think spasms a data in themselves: a plastic crook tastes
Dreams, a justice of cereal, manacles of the attractive day.
I feel ugly, I feel my pores pour battled bitter forever greeted
In a moody obeisance for pants to put on through the wallow
Of money trouble. I live in a closet. Dont.
And so what. Im alright if youre alright, OK.
Method: automatic listening. Animal Collectives LP Strawberry Jam. Attempt to synthesize the
present situation, and the personal experience of morning, with jarring music. Involving lyrics as a
part of the poem. One of my favorite albums. Connecting chaos with soul as in my self etc.
Reference: Animal Collective, LP, Strawberry Jam
. . . . . .P.P.S.
: a thingy, 2
[0] One Narrative
I walked down the street and said, Greetings. The void was there and asked me to hand him his nose.
I reached out to the sky out of which materialized a very certain metal suitcase. It however soon it
came into existence spilled onto the floor of the street and thereupon everything was a gruesome
precipitation of Clothing Irons. Irons dripping from the canopies of stores, chipping large sections of
buildings, off. Many were killed. I grabbed all the tears, tore them from the passersby who happened
to attend each and every funeral for those sarcastic few, and told them : : Now, you know you are
ironic. And handed my pointless, fruitless self to the Void, whom right then and there breathed deep


all the smells of an abiding, reassuring cosmos, and of course, had always - according to the
[1] Mr Pagmy :
THREE MONTHS - In The Ward I was there it was where I spent my Summer. Slipped often but no
bannister, cut weak. Or shitty shoes, mate. Left me when it rained plainly on the ground to the
ground but I saw that all only from windows. In The Ward there were many but in That One, had
nerves. Did laps around the halls with a balding crazy. He told me he liked basketball and read the
Finnish papers. But I never even saw him finish a sentence.
[2] Baby Status :
FOUR MONTHS - Heard tell of Prozac but never till now went on it. Heard the pell-mell music
now just memory. Memoriam etc. It was throughout my ears like it all were just two polar saints.
And it was like a ghost. It was all for directing my awful verbiage when the time came to glow
insanely. All seepage though and into like some trough of a field of slop the mind was then. Even
more, now. Since wanting more. 'Memory'. Natal almost always remained, I recall - 'Baby Status' So what. I crawled on the floor. Whoop whoop whoop. Barely able to stand when I did acid in a
college I couldn't stand period. Did acid like everybody else and left my body so as not to witness any
sort of true, pure disintegration. Then it was Prozac got me off, now it does, and at least I'm uplifted
for something more a reality, less an effect of White Lightning [MDA] - when I did that, last time,
fell in love with the worldd. Who knows why but can't love be more'n that yes it can.
[3] Iyambidc Pennamtersh : alligator eats flawwers [NOOSEFLASHE]
Fresh Dionysus lifts ontogeny,
Up into the glades ,as this recital
Looms as storm, over marsh, agony
Of life, chord, bang!, - alligator: vital
Teeth chomp mishmash all a blooming homestead's
Reassurance: left is no familiar
Notion to bake in the mud now as dead;
And yet around blind mist, the orchid-heads
Float along like trim and saddle up
A mainstay in the feral colony
As rain is there to dance, so then this scarlet color,
So then this progeny. So then this remnant life.
So then I make an effort, fife-dog, it's a wrap[rap], , , ,
As like passing clouds. "Pass the frankfurter." SNAP.


Wall beige, next, a sound: tapping cuticles of a sitting lad,
Followed by a similar reverb throughout his lair: his tiny walking
Feet as Lucky gets up
From an assumed though unmentioned
Place before he had squatted without airs. His important portraits line
The unremarkable as the thready carpet walls of the place
Sans definition but with halls. Then an empty, screamed
Blank shrill and silent thing suffers into view like
A gouge: upon his destination to sudden stairs at the foot
Of the flowers banked up in one of those Vases Lucky
Treats his caution: big wails apace, run man,
Direct a thing: he thinks should he
Be talking to himself an aged prisoner of griefs gotten
By others out the window. Distance
Growls outward more like a vertigo shot and
Nothing ends but a blue shade as
Quiveringly abrupt as anthems blend themselves
Right Lucky treads with a held caution over
Where is we is when none is here or there but puppetry
That pants as purtyness: silence a cudgel,
Rainy nevers slip onto the place.
Lucky tries to, is, for some
Time :: for must he reach the stairs
To meet Mallarm: he is believed and seen and
Dressed as lonely igitur and where a created river
By the name of its being there
In talk like this and fucking tragic, well,
To become in pieces, places, for to shy out to the moor-


-Slain, by some repeated monotony of

An object like a boat tinily thriving finally through distance
That a man or maker could fling his mane right at
So suddenly as abrupt as wworldd not-Wwworld but not world-not, the oars trail with
Tranquility, however, this woods of words decides trails
To go the earlier, recent path Luckys
Body took to dripping dwellings biding time,
Boding well. biting the crest Luckys clipping
Down but at a slowness took him
Back to sans a source of being selves from rivers
Raining onto in bits from
The crusty ceiling, singing a falling that
Must be the wicked clap of shorn shoes: Luckys denial
Through that texture of thorns, that
Words that give him away
Without care to another place. Making soft racket
Din of shrouds. A misty force penetrates his eyes.
His mind is ladled round, becoming human
Among walls quiet
As a visited den of peasants whom
None of the party knows;
Like aliens apart from humankind,
Bustles of meaning leaking from his ears,
This lucky
Practitioner a swear away from
Life, as it would stir across the platitudes Lucky
Drives driven forthstairs forgotten
As words burgle the mist, the air, a window by flowers.
Poverty is kin to given up statues,
Broken plates. It administers reluctance
As a shield, you see, against the feigning light
Through windows, out into traffic,
That one cannot see outside of mind. That does not exist.
Lucky trims parroting,


Ranges like a horse looking for a master. He

Wants the stairs out of the closing
Walls, prince of powers of his own, an actual treat
Of plague would
Light Lucky up. These are tight notions expressed
Volcanically. The words are not described,
Are not descriptions of demesne,
Inherit character yourself you beggar Lucky.
I will not help. And I will
Focus on the walls, littered, drenched with what
You seek that you, you the Lucky, he
Laps up in passing the halls and walls and portraitframes
Comparable to lust, irregular as heartbeats filled
With acid Lucky trudges still, and will,
To stairs he has forsaken in his waxing footage
Of a leap to soon for stairs,
Too soon accrual, relishing the details
And putting a little english to this reality of shadow, shift,
Ghost. Lucky gets a whiff of the step down
The more the puppetry of some absent master
Politely wraps him in initiative-To find a crisis and lock the rest down.
Forget the good idea you Lucky say to me as I as I
Profess this liquid qualities of beige,
Ignoring flowers on the stool and windows
Marked with misty light of dust a roomy film. Taken,
Lucky conjures himself from
The stirring of another one. I disappear. I
Become the subject sans description, sans believable delight.
This man of sticks hath resource in the blood.

Fastest tail agate-like trending its voluble-skill all in secrets and hemming at these
wastrels whom roam difficultly // spidering merely this is a grove
Of trembles, anticipated lost, moving bright and suspended well again // erring in the marrow
too bright and glaringly tho // but suited this is a ray


Filled good by such whisper, calumn, breathy danger-warning // it tell and tell // tell
these hordes of wards // they listen early for the desired mistake
But also form you on // remember chalices, balloons, dripping candles from heights //
of dented chandelier // ornate ruffages, then
Boom // hateness // rolled plaster // directly // the ray corrupts neath imagery //
cordial platelets // desuetude makes the maker // tho //
Tremble hips // go back later to the beginning of time // that is the begging of this
pome // to insult that perimeter // essence justly
Of the Just Was; tempered the waving ray goes from wherever it staid and unhappy
gelled into noxious quicksand // the slow ceilinged
Referent // breaking things like a chore of hints // telling indicatings full of wallow
and bray // fecund resoluteness is // the so-called,
Renting writing // stilly the mast gluts under fierce, implacable wind // of wounds // I
felt bleeding in dryness // I distanted institutes
Crummy with crime // I had nothing to do with times address and PO box //
rendered nasty nifty nigglings nested normally // knocking
Knights out // with a look of a stab // just need the ray // charge, to charge that
nasty nifty // lemme wrestle that angel // pls do is said from
Some weird holy place // intend direction again // this // ok // I will be honest, this is
me trying with words to get that light again // I am
Trying really hard, I confess // yes // the energy is felt in doing so // truth has a
feeling to it // I eschew the referent to the poem itself
To the waters what have captured a bit of that shine themselves // the knocking birds
nested normally and bothersome // as well in
Their tweet have it // the rocks sleeping hardly against the tree // nature is the
embattlement of angels // ordnances ring suddenly //
There is the indication of rain // there is indication for all things // always a signpost,
nevertheless a place we just decide to
Remain nevermind about for good until // it desiccated grows black in roots // on the
outskirts of gunning sparrows nests // cheap,
Cheap // sinking pustule in a stream of that light darkened // thought that the shine
// it was not the shine the thunder was, nay
Just the sound of thunder indicating shocks of lightningbolt // shockingly never to be
seen // thunder is the signpost // the source
Is a weak king alone on the chessboard // the people, wards, calumny makers // are
in the place of chandeliers // this space gets
More and more absurder // the plaster tweaks off in significant shavings // the
chandelier changes to a thing that cost all the wards,
Calumners money // it is a material you get for some other unknown thing // dollars
are the signpost of culture and class // the ray


Has me think about things and directions // It is never seen // itself // it might be the
plaster-clips // I have no idea // the thunder
Reminds me of power, as I casually think of it while hearing it need the dapples //
that in the wake of clouds are vastly disappearing
From the top of the stream // the birds cheap and cheap // the angel remains
unwrestled, nay unheard but in the mind of the breath
Of the looking clack! of thunders heeled by rain // by trances of rain, and uh // cloud
// its all very dark // the shine goes away, the
Ray goes away // first of all, crux is honesty // I kindly break the fourth wall and
pose in front of eyes // instead of these ears of talkers
That lead me on // they helped once // they helped me get to the stream // they gave
me a glimpse of the mannered place they were,
Which is why I need them no more // the bravest thing is to tell something how it is,
and anticipate from that clearer nakedness a loss
Of whom were fodder-helpers // I betray nothing // by leaving them I make the
point they, these listeners // want me to use // maybe
They are the audience // I have no idea // As Paz say, I plant signs // perfect, that
// that is all I do // everywhere symbols, everwhere,
Everwhere signs to point the way , , ,
To the wearing ever. And then thunder. So
Some sad unresting fear I know The Maker gave to you. You,
You did not desire it. You did not desire to get up on your
Feet, having no choice or death, walking to leave a dead
Self on the side of a dusty road: her skirt
Leavened up, for the last time
In the wind
Like a sinisterly fake breadloaf. It was unmoving
In speechless wind like a substance, as the big white van ran
Away, signaling the last of their blight with a bag of murder
For her she takes and makes a mythos of herself by taking;
To blind and gag some other part of her goldeny bones,
To leave the treachour here,
To wind a drugged yarn when dragged back
To rehab, the cell-holders all in agreement: : Fall apart, you.
In this room. You remember. You remember how we did that
And did not listen to the whole story until the head that held
It [yours] got draped around it some thin sheets tied noosewise.
But it all this would somewhat like genocide


Id wager, at the highest discussion of it between the netherworlds , , ,

Be framed the light collateral, nay baggage. Others were
Slammed with that hate streak.
And it dividing throughout space Brought no balance to the things outside
The Makers inflated pseudonymy,
But only whom was called The Maker of distressing universe
Was raided all over the place and in every lab of heaven
Was tested this and that Godd for serenity, odd
When you yourself, my baby heart, call true this:

I say what I mean and I mean

What I say. And calls truth this. This,
Despite herself and her loss to the intimate graves
A personality chooses in their mind for the least likely
The most pure, to settle and dilute among spare flowers,
Indigent soil, borrowed from a time less weak than this.
Called The Maker, naught
Called the brash buck killed by attention to only tones
Names whispers from others of indiscretion like big lit torches
For miles to the next feudal land for aid, for aid. These rumors as
Such come a long way to point in the direction of a label that is really
Super neat if you think about it. Amongst faces that vary
But whom eye as well the monarchy of self selfsame
As monarchies of Maker, they nosing in, beyond
Their obsequious dine and simper into warmer,
Deeper food: some power in these churlish agents - was agreed to coin
As beyond itself the word itself. As for the hurtpain
Given out of duty to The Maker. The blackest countries of space
Became themselves fully in deaths by the stacked carcass; an ambitious
Speed of this, its action own realm of a kind, discarded mistake-matter
Which got meant to roam those last residuals to death.
It was due to stars, most pertinently. Stars all this time,
And weird blessed pates of sundust, crazy for pairs

And, dichotomy and unleashed intention

From a marble, hung and shaped apart into personal commanments

To witch the series-horror of what comes to you and women.
Hanging flimsily from light fixtures are light balls
The size of twenty suns, each sun a face to eat up death
And deaths, while today the scorcher rips across the city like hell;
Dripping airconditioner; some smell amidst a stack
Of cash hidden beneath a naked, gritty mattress,
And the whole place left abandoned and
Unscrewed nor replaced after collapse; or even by mere
Lazy abdication on his part, stars were precluded by The Maker from
Linearity and limit, and it all had
The feel of some white supremacy stunt: for they could, well,
Unfairly though still live, these swells these suns and with
A swelling no mortal degrade in hydrogen,
Swelter, energy would now be anymore subjected.
And it was shotgunned in the first place as off the mark
From his sourceless enigma, to places he knew not.

[we ventured to where the world has stopped its ending,

and came to border locks of trees and river, twined
as if guided by some conscious use, around
to so protect what should by now
have been a fiction. not any could exist. though there
was thoughtfulnesss expressed and permeatin
before the eyes of us, and in, who made it past the madness
apparently. then in our sane obeisance to the borderline
we entered in, much smaller than the towering walls,
than the walls, commending whatever weltered power from,
from silent shades into a fluffy unity,
itself emitted stilly in protection of, supposedly,
the lives therein: we barely spoke before-becoming ourselves other, yet again, and spilt
from bodies of our own, and frames, to ones
that younger versions knew, as if utopia had strained
a wolfish mirth along us to a fate of feeling well.]


Such is your soul, poor baby heart. but runs to sense

To find its hurt, finding more doubts only, each a place a
Blind Telos would never have guessed, and less is
Put to rest, the more arrested in you, poor baby heart,
As if the ground was tack, each step taken only
In your knifing off the tack. So it all seems like emancipation
From nail after nail, new progress, centredness removed
As much as you walk, until the precipice is far
Behind, your feelings damaged and themselves in you,
Your baby hearts big weakened sense of self,
Like their own light collateral to soothe such spectacles of sensibility
As green however as the causa prima, and still as immature
As any mawkish daddler, feelings tender as on
The underbelly of your local tarantula,
Or crawling sort of bestial thing or carnivore,
Intrepid, wheeling eke-er with his own Achilles.
The streak ran. It always will: but might as well say
It wont than say morality wont exactly be morality for being
A choice and based in reason and experience, is innate,
Immanent, intuitive, reflexive. Such
Questions an gauges of the subordinate-faces held
Whatever error in place found [maybe], but out of nastiness, and could not
For long. They all of them kicked around Andromeda and were,
Once coming into their own as particles of senselessness,
Debris, were at the beginnings: enticed
By another galaxy, fangled a splayed
Cloud of ricocheting matter and one fragile home for brains.
So these exhausted residuals
Emptied finally in dust that lilted towards the human parts of everything, of all things,
And these insignificant enough to bamboozle any frequency
Or radar from The Makers sourceless howl, all


All an aim for something not your fault,

His own and quiveringly abrupt his wounding wars!, he quit his own star before
Its time, turned suns to Janus, when failing to act upon a chance to which that ugly knavish
blankness blooms the art
Of a salient beyond, trails horror anyway to the very last of unmarked corners. You, no
picture of your heart, not mind, this is not that picture-But which as fits as must, you got sewed up in your name
And label, then knew this at once as fading remembrances of a circumstance:
Once jeweled in preservative amber like a
(A sleepless day, as us both gave the night, the night,
To open eyes, will be the natures change between,
Between our rival breaths across,

at a tundras pace.)

[we find a separate people like ourselves, in their meant coves-throwing stillness, chill, from out the least of places
a corner might make to mirage away from sniffing
senses of those live and well, a fortune we
who come up from the depth of dust will train
our eyes to heal. o the when and where our souls
had once forgotten and abandoned, thinking nothing
of it given chance, we would do this
and replicate, or strive to, idleness,
boredom, cravings for the yet, and yet, and yet,
and this for just a chance to once again
see the world we madly loved, for reasons we
never knew, and needed a new life

just to see, observe, that first wrong rightly,
and maybe chances after: to so bless
us, the people, in rewind from ends, with
why the value for the life of us
was badly, rudely, and in dejection
mistaken for a random inkling: of some sublime:
the least a part of anything we were,
when all we ever were was the sublime,
unhidden then, protected in ourselves,
unhinging in the atmosphere, and free
to recognize in us what we deemed impossible,
till death hath roast us all beyond our keenest sight,
dissembling sense and vision. we were no more-we were in heaven, an ideal to get our kicks
for one last time forever, when wed been souls before.] So,
#juxtaposed, 4
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
"Your what happens when two substances collide." Andrew Bird
The light on some trees is the only light there
Is, amongst a darkened neighborhood of crazies,
Already making bright, convivial show of their fake


Fellowship with the branches out of light; the ones

Caught up in dark and unfed by the dark go simper
To those lucky growths, and prune their treebranches,
In secret, pining for a piece of milky light, and which
Eventually unable to move from the smeared dark
Slump slow and predictable out of sight proverbial
Wanting that streetlamp to feed what nature gives
Maybe twelve hours later.
Like destitute children given not their superb
Lonely empire after an excrutiating time of it,
Squashed under some GOD's vehicle, inciting
Damage to the wealth of nearlyfailing feeling
Already a soaking mess turned lolling on its
Back, as the blood sifts casually from the spot
Where you were shot. to damage the inciting,
Predict GOD, enable your greatest to imply
More than the trees, but costumed earth all
And all, the reaction to nature as it is: so yea,
Whom format follows? and, prediction visions
Open the retreat of fellow devils wrapping up
With concerning evidence: they should keep
Going, an essay on poetics, poetics, which
Graces ugliness as much as it does beauty;
Wherever the position familiarizes, there is
Your frank choiring: the trees dance: they
Are unseen outside the mandate of the light
The empire quickens to glow soldiering on
Each looking eye upon a medieval darkness,
One I have not lost. Oh precious drama,
What maniac fiddling with his very nose
Impels one to redact their former state
And call it wrong what they have sued


For reasons radical, an inspired weave

That makes no sense, or retiring sorts
That do not tell you, for my mental health
What ripening poetics goes for
But miles away
From, just to subdue laws of grace with
As much an antithetical impressive man,
As languidly hangs his immortal hatted head,
Imprinting jests of life against your skull,
Dear one of my design: do you want others
To really take you at your fucking word?
Folly! And the devil to you and your vanity!
It is so hard to figure out the cursive drams
Enervating in the wind, the light a show of light,
The dark a show of dark, and empire all that
Children rummage their own brains to find;
The dolls of action, or heretical dolls of force.
Tell me not to tango with which is worse.

luckily enough i was born from the moody incomprehensible void

i tried to segregate from thought and feeling as its own ghostly
symbol: field of symbols, and which do nothing for the dashing
hare i get along with and am told to be happy with: but this senile
puppetry about my legs and arms delays me. how old was it? i
thought i knew how old. The creature of my questioning side got
to be a clearing of rabbits: the clearing is chafed with field, wild
with facts and remembrances, polished and embellished out
of fact and into fact, a trust as fact: a reason conjured from the


air, like simple rabbits in a din, like faults

sequestered in the eye.
somehow, i wedged in, stuck in the teeth of the problem
like gruesome spinach in the thick of it: and what do i do?
i tale me out of ideas, voice of age, of withering
made, it is alright to smile at my prescience of a death i
want. it made to respond to me in the wilt of saccharinity,
of flowers of denial: i shot my back into the room i left like
a fortuneteller's head twists, backwards, in their bad hell.
the room was made of eyes that told me stories of their
lusty grandness, sleeping now: tailored and fake, not a
new set: repeat, forget, style a cushion to break yr fall.
to snatch me back to be still and safe in that warm body, i
compelled my form to lightning but like a song of grieving
birds to sway me out of sleep; they were telling me: weep,
cheep, cheep, and, were elevating me: out of a doubling
hole I made to challenge its own, make born myself and
push my own elite body fast from thine encrypted nether
world, of feigns and rackets, dealing me like drugs, like i
were an actor merest with their static role, and vocalizing
and begone, then, the use misread, even, what between
the lines was misread metaphor for some uncomfortable
myself, to direct the good to their proper home:
and, amongst silence my little safety relegated
somewhere, called me craven when i was not;
i am from where the place stopped being place.
at limit with my tasteful lion, god of final grace
i, supported by those big hands of void-alarum
gaily twirling glints that were stars from its bright


handle, charm into reckless form therefore to quit

myself from a wealth of scary signs anyway
that decorate
this living sortingout of merest cancers. each of
us is a thought from the fetal mound unto fathers
and mothers; i go wishing with my wrong ways
to be about my sleight of creations whizzing jizzing
spout, to reckon it, to witness it with a being
my own, perhaps against that fateful limit of
the universe, avoiding my curse like some unreal acquiantance. i foster my own precision
that for years i watched: it out of nothingness:
enough to bulge an antipodal dimension being
is, a man made of the words he got from void,
where birthed him; i am the nothing of vague
shouts of particle, trending down the lengthy
sell of universal girth, to us, that
is, a black hole
frying our heads: instead dont understand
what i have written, friend; unmeet the ends;
find welcome to your back, dashing in curves
like innocent sinewaves upon a freakish tell
of what is the universe, which is nothingness
soon to die out into ignorant blankness for
another eon, gestating or not. dont it matter?
no it dont. nihilists dont believe in nothing,
first of all: one must examine the state of
what is belief: belief is separate from holding
no beliefs at all, outside of the ones we each
are chained to, in our being without our own


permission. o to engage this chronicle that digs

out a soul and leaves us bleeding on the floor
at the finish; nihilism is not belief but the absence
of belief: this is why i contradict myself, leaving a
carcass or three of ideological stints behind me,
nihilism is carelessness, good carelessness: it is
why i was born, to light a fire under my ass that
will burn my rectum, nay body, to a flexing singe.
: glamma radiation, 6
Glittery consumption wrought down on easter in the park
Where the fog blasted first, unforgettably brought unto us,
Nailing peoples families to a nice vain choking finish:
Nobody knew the way out of the fallout, out of the taxing
Mire that swallowed us whole, one day: blood the dye of
Skin, nailing us: tore holes in rashed limbs,
Rashed first corrosively
All over the countrys people bombed out of sight, of raven,
Roasted eyeballs of coming dark of standstill and heated vibe:
For them there is no hope but glittery,
Gilt blurs we wander and see until we die, within this
Noxious sauna: some feed hope until out of the minestrone
And transfer funds somewhere appeared safe in the
Newspaper, but the abuse of shelter leaves many out
In the cold anyway, skin filing off to the grieving note
Of the dialtone, skin filing off, another wasted right
On schedule; filing, not singly as in a line
In first grade to the recess room but filing nastily feeding
Itself to the helpless bone millions, millions eaten by the holocaust
Aflame and glitz-perdition of all the population burnt upon this
Glittery stove, atop no
Fortune for the gaming sick ones gaming to a home or place
To die, for we were bombed: for we were in our delicate


State, until the aghast light shredded people: but this is crowds
Of nonsense in my hated head only, glittery and sane upon
Observation, but to me a glut or clot throbbing through
A stroke; my body welcoming cannibalistic razzmatazz,
Is blind
With effort, somethings eating us. And she asks me
Under the sheets, What is it dear, I tell her not of all the
Wasted years comprised within a milliseconds intricate guts
Dissected long ago to mine for stamina, to prove my energy
More than the roaches of thought left alive under the fridge
I touch this density and know not what it is
I touch, to germinate unconditional eternity
By the stream by the cove where once you
Came back twelve hours later to see I had
Not left: well I had chased in all the precious
Time it took to mangle and call truth what I
Beforehand lifted differently, as what aright
To make and lovely manifest atop inelegant
Skulls, truth I disavow otherwise, leave a fly,
Bled part of it as my only lesson for this vanity,
And wish nothing changed, on perceiving it:
Otherness would faithfully populate and call
Something of the thing observed it sphered
Around perhaps to be, in those trillion eyes,
But was not, and this fact a secret, perhaps
The only secret simultaneously known and
Unable to have revealed to us however hit,
Battered, the cosmic mutations make us,

Humanity: spell out, in twigs and roughage
A gospel of the spleen: a fantasy in tune to
That truth outside who suffering in gardens
Of quip and fakery, though entering the air,
And then upon us with their separate flower
Expresses the belly of a sentiment needing
Wrong or else collapsing the holy makeup: it
Is seen out at the grocery store eyeing for a
Remedy, which by touch becomes a poison:
And I observing the collapse of my universe
To visions I have had, leer at the quadrants
Where lonely speaking tends to fickle wind;
Where windy strengths of mind buoy name
By name for a thing, to its place experience
Fits in well, though perhaps not going there.
Intense focus acclimates to the tendencies
Of whatever had been before we took it all,
Made it different, such as perception stains
Reality with some opinionated rat's eyes to
Milk the subject out of meaning's madness,
Nor is this juridical mess altered to explain
By hampered men intending to make a fist
And let the needle enter: like another might
If you left the door unlocked, which happens
Hardly; the rest of my hands called a weight
Enough somehow to be, what, a rock of stone
Instead of metaphor, sitting upon the flatness
And daydreaming still about my giving person,
Respected by the hunched branch of this tree.
I am Inflamed, rite by rite, by religious weather,


Would be as action, almost, but am an object,

Me as much to me the gnat's-width of a grief
Nobody has. It is litter caught in wind, hurtling
Down the streets of mind I avoid, where these
Murderous thugs and teen mothers live and die.
Judgment a muscle, I exercise it when suitable.
For I am deeper anyway than the golden grove
I said about, before, so give me all your money:
For? All the new ideas I'd say if I thought enough
About the ones halfway in my head. Ones that
Try to wrench themselves out of bed, stay alive:
Commonly they break. Like weak morals hyped
By the hypocrite whose job is to take himself
Too seriously, shack up with pretenses, saying
Nothing to his hidden chimaeras that waste him.
My eyes are lazy on the cop outside. He is sauntering for no
Purpose, whistling something dixie, but I don't have the guts
To know; don't know about perceiving generally as an idea
Or even this, that is, if I am in my body or if, like the nowhere
Of that famous godcircumference a body is in me, and think
Of ways to get outside of whatever a self is. These burning
Questions go overlapping with some other contrarian person
Hissing his vulgar obloquy and shent, soldering me to infamy:
Example: cookiecutter uniqueness sold to hipsters that talking
Shit about gets you to see yourself as being: how selfeating!
A pass antique, too old to be worth anything. I am as I look
Out of the caf door tired of filtering qualms into dualities, all,
Though limber ones, I have, about my stability or about hating
Having to make a choice every single momentary second, is


Itself a second's worth of anticipation, a murther of energetic
Body to seethe. Or to adopt a seasickness when you wag forth,
Once shaken hands with an unsure emptiness taking its part
In giving one of who you are to muted inklings of that wonder,
That self: find yourself a referee for mutilations like biting nails
Too harshly, leaving fragile exposed skin to brush up and hurt
Against the cotton rimming your jacketpocket. A yellow moving
Truck passes, stops, goes out of sight of the door I see all this
Clutter through, then comes back into focus closer. The woman
Opens the door. Some lady scratches her ear like an art exhibit
And ignores everybody. The cop, poor fella, he is gone. Two old
White guys open the door. I hear someone ask to get it straight
About my appointment with Don, my therapist. This week. The
Wooden table is ridiculous, as is this, what I listen through to till an
End: a song again: I listen to this garbage quite the more carefully
Than they who, uh, who ask the question about the appointment,
Appointment, shrink appointment. I have so many of those. I turn
My head around. It feels to me like a swivel chair. I am listening to
Myself saying things for a price: it is or is not like a gone cop not
Come back like the yellow moving truck did, and disappears like
The way one day I want to disappear: a long last aspirating thing
Of barely any importance, yelling 'soul' from peaceful distances
". . . . . ."


Endlessness of the listener, quotha,
Each in his turn, the nature here a thing
That turns all in its wake, not that of time,
But not as books. Nor is it darkness, of the pages
Between. No not a lagging organism, here;
No not a leech but for the gatherer's brassiness:
Rumble in the man who listened forth, between
The sense of the sense he did not know he
Made, one did not listen to the prattle, Wordsworth
Listened, the poem didn't to him, and that is why
The nature is forever in the beauty, purely,
Of what wantonness. Ideal
Is not in one who turns aside upon enough, but
In the comedy of that, that is, for one left to meditate
On what must be taken for the Spirit. And yet
This uplifted phrase, the Spirit. Naught of course
It couldn't do, the ideal for us,
For this end: appreciate knowing it: rather,
The phrase uplifted from the house of magma,
By a pinpoint, rather, the poem itself: and all the soul
In everything in what a phrase commands to wish
Is there, no degradation.
The smiling of a nature, not for psyche, in the man,
Upon him, and the fulness of his dreams,
Excluding no essence, prepares the phrase,
Leaves vine-to-the-very-door a practiced truth.
Those leaves I shall not strike however, those sour
Leaves, the fruit upon them however, no
Distaste for Milton. The gatherer of his resolution-To reveal reveals the reeling here, in this,
A work of nature, and a work of a man.
The organism, swift upon the lathering of the wake,


Shored as ruins for a Beckett himself to keep
Of mortal fear, derives, old dog,
A plaited mechanism: the method, the plait between
The ache of canines: in the mouth, that is,
The mouth, there. And the
Ache is in what all things say to us, which
Is not just what nature does. It is all. This
A tincture of the suffering in questions
The trees ask only, first, the rest, however
Much a display, regarded, should be equally
As truth. And so: the man whom
Totters throat in a howl: a final grace for
His ideal, deeper than the glance, though not
The glance upon the pages, not the-Hymnal of some page upon the rafters of
A longer expiation for the house, the rough
Scream of handled wolves their daemon. When
The trees, when the brush and stick made
Themselves for beavers, peace trusted that, and
In their own---Lethe---of recognition, might
Dissolve and justly the song of pure,
Animal things.
And yet, as for when themselves the trees
Were trees, the final
Song gave to the bottom of a martyrdom,
A significance the wind knows. Spring far
Behind. forever, forever behind the phrase,
The phrase no lagging nature, as was said,
Instead, the matter of a rosy cacophony,
And, more brownish, the mix in the duff
Of leaves across the hike, themselves,
Themselves no Summer, for no season
But the Spirit-wind upon
The back of



And in nature there is much that exceeds

The poet's eye, to dally them back
To skeins. But here is this: that the moral
Propagates a skein, itself a fear of death
To be shed, and well---enough---for curtains to will
A fine space behind, the wind behind,
The release, a sigh, a sigh, and, remote,
A corner of the peace of one who lives:
That, a nothingness of Beckett, that for all,
And all the same to tree and beaver, whom poesy
Speaks for in the way the trees know
How to speak to psyches, a gorgeous
Displacement, and a singer for the curtain,
Before I sigh.
. . .
MUTABILITIES SECTION #1: flower in my lungs.
Got clamped the pillar
of another calligraphy,
another flourish for you to gun,
to gun forth in the shapen, lost character,
in the brain there though lost, remaining but the bits of faith,
perhaps, but no crime, the lost fits
were tiring. The ovary
and scream of a flower's whiteness,
rambling in the sacred breath out. Many-to shoot the broken down in blasted whites
there. A dirigible, a soft pkerpow, a method of silence.
"In that, the lead shakes, the gourd does,
"The gourd does in the pistil to relieve it,
Does in its bellows for the gun,
The speech of a blooming tenderness


Respect for the nascent, the beauty of it.

"The goaded verbs, the signals, but a following
"Before. The simple glance of her glance in flowers,
The well-known blue daub, the white not then
In the dark, o the lovely you, the view
Through this damned dark,
This chalk down the pave your eyes draw
In circles of the crime: I am flower."
Describe this lining
This closer place of weave,
Describe the mumbled methods to revive
The reverie, not deceive the
Tap in to the shoot
Of space the rose,
The painted white on that, o
Bride, o clandestine chief
In the heart,
A circle of shining in the bride,
Each floe and pistil-space,,,
O patient grass, o lone spring tuft
Woven in the modern brick,
Captive of the concrete desert.
O patient grass, o one rough
Chosen never ground for it--To stay in crooked tether, there,
And not retrieve the boot, for-Darkness, rest from sirens,
And the blare of the desirous,
And the step through doors of vine.


O young skillful,
Lovely blade,
They are-Your wishes,
In the doors of vine;
Once caught in the dark are out.
Out of the slab, sprung forth thereof,
Tell us what is meant
To be you,
In aspirations, do you
Speak of fury for your season---?
Captive blade of grass,
Your reason. For the change of living,
Of fields for the urban stone.
Surely flowers stand alone,--Baleful, the thoughts that come
To scare away the flower too--O small tuft, you keep you blade,
You keep your blade in power for these teardrops
Of the sun,
O bold grass, revealed from the lowest means
While still the World, in ever-changing course
Do populate a common green, each complex,
Measured soul a blade made WORLD made simple
By the need to stay the same throughout
Each shy and soulful blade, throughout
Becomes at mass---they at rise upon the field,
Upon the colorless foundation, and spread
In one vivid tone, about the stocky hills

That take full vivid breath as winds
Upon the hills, an intrepid Spring, brief
And centered, to take every barren span
Of every field, further from it's Winter
O bold grass, shy and upstart blade, renew
The brief name of modern nature's Winter
As no such turbulence, no such lowly dirt
And root, but as a low garland sway
Climb through the stones, express the bowels
Of each valley, lone vivid, modern band,
Tell, spare none your ambient garden,
Spare none your multitude, spare nature
Swell, woven in the valley, in the hill
And cloud, and, slowly climbing, your sequence
Shall grow heavy on all fields, and soon
That cautious segment grown shy in the wake
Of a new Spring, shall build to wealth
As daylight is an echo
Arriving prompt to sections of the World
And spreads an equal-measured shadow there.

And I am left
With shuffling words, have managed
The raunchy briar, closed
And twirling through once-timid thought,
I have grabbed and seen at face this,
The black briar of constraint,
My hands shake with blood, aching
For bruise, by thorns in daunt, and
At younger years I bore the fear
Without a second's beat for consequence
Might've strangled any clarity, any sum
Of briars, yet some the grass.




flower in my lungs, say, who are you? what
is in the roar of discard; inform the current then
see the discard. it is
awash in breezes

and you form the zephyr

out of it from a moment thence, feeling 'what'.

but 'what is' is nothing however
if a midwifery. what is is what a human is;
not to do with thoughts, which anyways
would have turned
inward on myself.
eventually. but an entrance of the id is impossible,
and felt as a relinquishing to embarrassment
of what is machinery, if psychologically
dissected. the id becomes an analysis
of questions in the face
of instinctual intellect, which is
a wretched anxiety to have, and which
uses its own congratulations
in listening to the true world: the true world
is no midwife. it is the machine seen
as anything. but its replica is. and that is
not what feeling is, in a wealth of negatives. peh.
meaningless tarnation. but to recognize
the negativitism in its negative truth
and still find beauty apart from connotative power. wealth,
peh. the midwife is fed only
in recognizing this bullshit in people as understanding
wealth as an only-positive.
as but signs to feed on: a lack of understanding others
is the understanding: the intellect is hungry:


though would but former knowledge

to be its food; baffles instinct, in remarking
at all instantaneously on
the current it is in: sheets flap: folds: sheep
that follow in their followment
to nothing but an epic positive.--in this way it should be this way,
flying on the character of what it is not
by assuming a similar instinctual fuel
as an attribute, for physical hunger to feed on.
one is not omnipotent enough
to starve themselves of indicators
that anyway remain, as like the growl of a stomach.
intellectual hunger
is much more vague. especially
at far reaches; to make oneself a metaphor for
this waste robs the true instinct to live and breathe
out of anything positive. and then one
must rely on an expressive breath
and also, be able to immediately attribute this
as a simple formulation: for example:
saying, i am hungry, and then you are.
there is an 'i am' but it is untoward
to mention it in the head as 'me'. for
then what is voracious to express intelligence
in forging all thoughts as what they are to that
becomes a dread to express
in the simple statement that it is,
to a head filled with diction: "me hungry."
to see these dullard portals
as anything more than dullard
dismays the magic that could have been
in leaving them wordless in the intellect for the intellect
to starve


for all is a joke,
even the bullshit. the only thing thats bullshit
is a thought on it; the questions
that one might really try to ask and answer are
for oneself only. dry
the tears, give this dose a try,
boy; do not question what i do, however little
the knowledge of what me you seem to understand.
a question is no punctual thing; the answer neither.
the difference, indifference. is not a sickness
of too much punctuating
the point enough throughout:
but not to others: who might see more meaning
in allowing breaths, as a softening of the need
for wind at all.--to force breath is not intimacy, but in the drive to tame
makes houses out of conceit; if seen as a conceit,
that is. houses give tender to your peace, not to be sick
with giving occultism. however much they give-you will return in a scoff
as epically stiff
as any control. they are as unreal:
as what sadness: one who gives knows the more
with painted images,
than that which dirtified meaning
houses for them. it is a trivia of congratulations i find
in even syncing up the pace of my thoughts
unconsciously with the water from
a sink in the bathroom. this sheet,


hanging out to dry, behind, blue chasms, then

a sky for the draconian, mr. bloom,
it needs it mr. bloom. the phenom's a machine,
but not terminally beatless. if seen a person in which
to house things tamely, i can
get comfortable in the knowledge of the will to power
in what forces us all to feel powerful. will is a force,
after all, and like any force
it moves. it moves and moves. it moves not just
painfully, sidling to the side; it moves to flourish
the joke in the fate of choking on standards of
what then is our proclivity? communication,
colloquially applied to quells, anyway,
is, to others, perhaps more-quelling in the words of speech
that break a denial of force, via external denial
of nothing but what norms would deny,
and that is the ultimate insanity.
what blooms from the mist are but
halfway, met in words applied
to pages. fabrications of the sheet. see the texture
on the page. a screen between what
is noticed and what must be left up
to the eye to vacate from consciousness
and absorb, and yet not
attribute.--whatever one feels in the moment of reading, relay to
a false communication with those words, is rather
a fabrication of focus in the texture.
it is in the different ways one wills themselves-


-to feel powerful, and an outline for this, applied

to all, that makes all an island of separations. a
dormant clogging of the nerves suits philosophy
as such; and to take the burden of all meanings
involves being circular. but it is a way in which
the axis moves that degrades a socially acceptable
idea of time. power-struggles for the best idea
are supposed to be formulaic; that is, applied to the mind
in understanding the formula and not shared. saw the unacceptable in
that; yeppers. one might see the beat of each second
in the society they keep, but few the philosophy
of reassurance it brings. the sphere's the shape,
and one must call it that to make it shapely.
no circle could be anything more than a metaphor
for something one does not explain clearly,
by degrading their understanding of what it is literally
with a symbol. call poetry a sphere, and no part
of conversational circles, leave that torture for
oneself to know. moreover know
freedom in the beat, that it is control, and clarity
the sweeping value, away
from time.
in fascination, imbued with phenoms, there is
reaches for wings without the wings they have,
another's wings. they do not speak the flight.
they the downy---dreaminess. holds are
no flight for ranting, good rest for the back,
though; good way to turn. what down lifting
of the sheets, the white sheet, foundering
in the wind, gives us hunger for more breaths,
gives us ornament to breathe, no pride in ornament?
that is the ornament: it is in its fixation, once made
an image
to use sparely out of pride in it. a crown our own of diligence: kin


of the simple sickle: on a crown: what is there to be,

but not in raving it? there is much to see in it.
and there is much for denial to do. there is
a comment on the sheets flapping about in
the wind. there is a fine space there, there
in the folds of them. tell the white to go
away; tell the speaking a chase and the
mellifluous leave. show the blue of the
sky behind them above, like a haunting
blues in character, like a big source
in the chambers made by flapping and
dying. insanity in the simple mind
is a gross torture, the common mind,
a gift. most of us cleave and drain,
cleave, drain. most of us commit to drainage, and
leave the sums at that. but that's
no crisis lyric. a hitler in your own
mind, lashing all attempts to free one's logic?
pah! and if everything in writing on the wire
is that, there is no wire, no need
to feel in beckoning what gods
over you but in beckoning
yourself . . . but there's concretions. there's evil
in the knot if not seen as mere smaller
folds, as nothing to trouble over much as
a knot in a string might be no line, but in its fascination,
not its picture of---compressed wealth.--the travel of a mouse on the wire, the mousy
sheets, the need for control, but not in punishment
a careful scrutiny. of each flapping
negative in the crisis. enough to wait for that to
feed the ego in the white. there is all

penitence, here, in this, in this course

of the wind on the line i cannot strike,
it is powerful flattered with
whiteness of sky behind the bluesy
sympathy of sheets in whiteness,
whiteness in corner-sheets, in the folds,
and folds of some other, vaster blues,
some specific, nominal to the piece,
here, but not no part of what it means;
rather, anagrams, the heil to yourself,
a fearful hitler. signifier,
breathes the music, and it returns
as image as the music builds as a distortion
of the image, which in the mind's eye
sees less of itself, as the music builds,
builds in the moment from the moment
and not back: there is a cherishing stoker,
there is the finality one isolates and leaves
at that, the finality their solitude, not isolation.
shakespear was the only logic-hitler, made others
lord over him forever, because one knows how,
it need not be trivia to be left.
it need only shake its bluesy whites on
the line, compare to thoughts as measure,
measurement. not squeezing, and no
squeezing of the frame, no albeit broken
word before the time of chaos; no relief
but from the pain in my side. so there is
time to wait. to wait for the wind to feel
windy in the brain enough to see the sky


behind, first, know the folds second, and

the sheet last, on the main of this, on the
cornered meaning glad to be of use, since
use for corners. corners of wind, corners
of what breathes in the mast, and keeps on
in the face of not image but in peace.
in peace, in the peace of the word known
that wants to be known in all. such is that.
such is that, i become it, i implant its rescue,
in dissociation, do not lead the rescue. never have, and i
have sunk into the flower in my lungs behind
its back, the pain in my side seen no happening
in the death of blueness for the sake of its white folds.
but here the scary truth is in whatever matrimony
a mind provokes. takes
all with them. it sees not the trembling. it sees
not the following into newness as not newness
but a way to feel old, old and accepted, accepting,
on the brink of accepted natures that no nature
is there deign. no epic here; no; no followment
of the ruse to grace. ill leave the white and blue
and see no black: there is no black stoker for
this world of storms: they move graceless in
ports of wind outside the snapping shutter of
the house, that blankets it. that blanket is a
chasm for the storm, and rules are not there for
it, even in nature. disobey the fury, learn the
intelligence of a portent.
see no brain but your own, the literate stoker
is no part of a man, just the picture of his flame.


it is a flower that makes

me breathe, yea? a metaphor seen clearly in its image
all the time; and wisdom in. it grows grossly,
feeds a bit of corners, not much of them, no,
no meaning in the corners. none left. hem,
and hems in them; and them in lostness of
a flapping---in its many swift folds. in its chord,
one is the pelf of the chord; it creates a distance of need in
applying both to one and someone else, if used
further. to remark on what is stolen is the pelf of it.
it is the snout on the pig, the roster of cards
no seeming for the seams to but break
further with. and application of a mist in the place
of storms is equally a pelf of strength. absence is
what one takes with them of doom; it is not the doom.
. . . . . . and
include the eyes in a picture of deceit as not
deceit. and see the rumble in that vast immediacy
of leaving storms away a scream at the doors.
a haste in retreating at all is the last line,
as the winds scream, as the cherished flapping
remains despite folds of an infinite, of a hurt
that is. it must not be felt. and its image is no
amount, no sum to start on sums with. the sums
here amount to cronies; they characterize a feeling
of unity and do not bless it with pace. they
think, indeed, but not for others, for themselves,
to survive. it is my down mastery, is it, that
conjectures strive against, and not from, to
go away from, and to bless in the moment of


forgetting that all is not forgotten, all is down,
all falls down, all falls down to the place,
the place, the ground a language for the launch
therewith into place as no longer threatening,
no longer from the brokenness a whisper of
useless portent. judge not anything. see wisdom,
not anywhere. see the locks and keys, see
the keys. and if dirigibles magnify themselves
and spoken break, a murderous dighting of
the word that soldiers through, o face
of man, o warring merriments imposed and
stifled, stifled when accepted after, after
words between hath lifted meaning from
what rose, what cornered image now, what
winds, what whiteness, blueness, sacrificed
to the folds of storm, the petite not fluid time
of sense, that makes one shake their heart
forcibly. if i am a mohammedan then tell
me in the room of doors, i suppose; made
of doors. and if i sleep, do not make them
slam, for you would wakest me. and sleep,
let sleep the eyes, and let me do so while
they blink instead, leave nullity as mellifluous
in waking. and do not wake the wake of it,
in builds of shiny portent on the handle of
a gun, not the barrel. ones mouth can handle
the barrel, but ill leave the words on this
to quiet the scene. there is no gun, it is
not loaded; and there are no loaded questions,
only loads of hate, hate towards the meaning
of trivia at large, if implanted in the real of


the world as it flaps down, down, down,
up: token of the past: a lifted relevance this
time, and adjunct to disciples for the image,
long gone into the forlorn. maybe tracts
of the irretrievable come rounding back
to their source, so that all may be in the
softness of folds, the folds the calyx,
the calyx, each one a shrug, each nothing
a trivia giving time for one to breathe in
what flowers only mean to them, and
should, and should in the picture one see
a torment in its obviousness, well to do,
this poem of knives: soft knives: limited
and on the portico to wives that wince:
no widows there: the sheaves clammy,
the snap of them a shadow of the winging
sheets on the line and down the main
in droplets of movement, caricatures
of haste, forgetting in abasement. and
ministers naught; no arbiters; no fallow
in the fallow. speak it plain and see the
blueness in a darksome: corner the wind
as if it were that meaning to worship,
the design to grace your deign, your mental
polyp. speak it out of 'buts' and 'howevers'
as if in the trickle of this---sickle---no time
wavers, despite no immediate pulse.
no pulse in death; trickle death in droplets.
see the womb in each tearing of the sheet
in no sum of fluid folds, no fluid, seemed
swiftness in the seams that pass, like a
nightmare, like a granted nightmare to
the grace for it. like a solitude, and attempts



at it, and the sinister, complex world, not

sinister, but complex, with empty signifiers
while we live, that tempt positives, that is,
the lungs that make me breathe flowers.
the flower in them too. this tasteful lion
puttering round the point to form it in
their chest for so long has had meaning
in betrayal of its clarity, seen no imaginative,
but there is. the flowers there, it is. the rose is.
i is positive, it is the stranger. is it bad to be
comforted by stranger-voices in you, head
that exist? such as a quick garrulity in the
other apartment, about some other thing.
be happy about that. as happy as you can
be; it isnt insanity if it helps you think.
and in which all is inadvertent. pigs goddamn pogs AH my whispers they divert
from a happiness not death. they reel in
its face an irksome steadiness so dire-at least to me
a misplacement of value-for one one who is pitiful beyond
recognition: at least, you know, if seen
as death. so dont crawl: you dont crawl on a wire you:
you balance, right?: and if you cant
just leave---seriously---insert
enjambment, instead: to there where
you dont shoot systems of rhetoric, that is, to quell an
imagination your own, a la pound, but instead,
quell the pigs that eat up your obviousness,
leave the subtlety: you let them be now so that
to aspire to live, not die, not die, becomes the cause: so
she dont see the space. muse, i got news: you dont
either. at least well, if you find the quickness


of inspiration in slowly killing yourself

with smokes: fuck it
----------i appreciate the honesty that began this
in---cosmos, and give my one a white rose.
hi! you cosmos
on the other hand will rise now
as no ambient noise: go on now: here, go on:
go on one: that associates with colors too switched
to be colorful; instead, martyring the picture
made of many beauties, keeps the design
and along with it the sadness of wasted years
as but a stoker for feeling but not the feeling
itself. for the muse in it to be a cosmic being
too epic for kidding, it should do well
to dismantle itself. for the sake of a dear rose's whiteness: let my whiteness
issue mortality: be it my funeral, let people save
the whiteness of death, let me
save it for that, assume no black there,
its my muse, just my muse
after all: likes to feel, likes love. dismantling
is but another feeling for its cosmic charade.
what a fucker. hehe. well it loves the control of punctuations
without meaning, for the sake of being blessed
in ones control that sees itself too much
in the face of pain as an heroic event. its not really heroism
if you are both villain and hero in the creation
of your head; a fakery of the soul: that's too blunt a dichotomy:
its issuance not: white wine for champagne:
carnage for blackness: why not carnage in the brightest
light: move the carnage: well, the populace
deceives: its deception
is a love for duality, as being a 'both' of the soul,
which has no both: it is what is called 'i', which at this point
is too easy a chance to mess up for me to
explain it, white rose: cigarettes: my pauses


are meant to lay down, but people see the peaceful

not in a colorlessness as black is: the populace: loveless vase: my white rose
loves: it loves enough to stick around: to be said and not said and have
it all be her hero, the hero to her, made
of beauty: my lovelessness
puts beauty
in the search but this has been only out
of laziness, and of course,
my seeing beauty---there. but ive found.
ive found the calyx of deaths bounty in what has been,
in the rose of death, an image
of no renown. yet as of late i have refused to see it anywhere
but in melvilles tomb, the poem a tomb
i took: from whence to somewhere not
where it should be: beauty not in the love
of words but in rhetorical devices,
such as an allusion to harold, my harold: my heart,
craning: my sieve is his, my protection perished
for the sake of entering the kingdom
of reality. i am that muse and now understand,
no kingdom here but something much the more.
something passions have in ideals explained,
until they are swept up in the passion
of an inexplicable relation
to finding an ideal as akin to death. cranes
the inspiration, but too celebratory for the darkness
of my meant matter: for here whats mine
is too delicate to love anything: it is
----------dialectic of what is,
the meaning of metaphor, seen
as logic, which is as it is
but not how it should be. but logic to me has too much
an insensible place in my heart here
and begins to hunch out of shame. it begins
to crane over the heart, peer down into it,
but not love what it sees.

theres a need not only

to peer down but peer at all. so like hart crane


it focuses on the search

for what is innermost, believing what
is an unsatisfactory effort towards the bleak
crane obviously found, and found, and found-enough to break his tower, damn the mess,
go to mexico, and leave his epic
as fragments, a lament
for his one leaping toward the ultimate suite
of one who has an appreciation
for the science behind feelings. people of norms
cannot love the science, only appreciate it
from a distance, after all: the idea---of what is---never makes me
mortally wounded: the idea of 'never' does,
as any oratory does, boredom
in the face of apocalypse:
----------a comedian who bombs, sharing
the feeling of bombing as i bomb: heh: makes me to hasten
forth: an unreal place for it:
reality is punctuations like this but for being reality, is too unreal
for the magic of what nastiness is in
the calumn behind: put the speech of what is
in the imagination, and only you feed it,
it refuses observation, plaits the nerve
with magic to meet the experience
of falling to earth. there is no magic
in earth but in dichotomy, muse: get
a grip: dont be said, as you only
confuse when you are said, and ignore
the magic of the dichotomy that is a mere
falling to the ground. no leap, just
an open window
a fall: logic of the fall
from grace is in the sadness of ones
imagination, per se: it surprises with a malleable
what should be strict upon entering


the stratosphere: it lies in analysis, a

relegating of the passions of the real
to---dipsomania---a mania of the ego
----------in a nameless being
swift as waterbrain a pelf
before the crossing glug, glug ill drink to that
but never out of the well,
----------well cheers.
a suit of suites,
dangerous if applied to ones body,
if the poetry that is is meant
to be meant to oneself
an adornment, what sort of garishness!
that body . . . well shoot . . . could there be?
----------in poetry perhaps; perhaps here,
disconnected thus, and importantly,
to manifest correspondences to zero
as but a beautiful sadness
----------of imagination taken on imaginatively. hi! they are
personages on the planet, people who take-who are thoughts, addictive ones, but a sweet soothe.
if left to images, that is: muses
generally envelop, then venerate, drawing away,
----------but should-ones body be caught in the enveloping,
expecting veneration, will not be.
or else, one wraps up, begins,
goes on, doesnt wrap up,
leaves the feeling at sex:--but sex is something different
so dont fall, if you cant fall round, love: fall round
the joke of the cosmos: thats the love---not love but
for lies of nonsense, i love them, either way, for you,
lies of faithre different: put trust in the faith
of inspiration, but do not


analyze the trust: peers do: peers of faith

in the nameless,
being myself: whoever the fuck that is, no hyperbole,
im being as earnest as a beginning
met with honesty as to its unwillingness:
to be accepted: but faith in that peers too much
for what is beyond acceptable: but they do it for me,
the nameless guy, the guy who---in my eyes,
as i speak of myself---sees not
no name but just no value in the name he
was given: like zero at all: so i shouldnt care:
even if people break
my vase with
their own music: thats why i have the moon: its my trick,
in the bag i kept it awhile:
i cant reach it but i can see it: and,
----------also, its hauntingly beautiful---fantastico!---best to relieve
a stodgy mind, yes: like water in my lungs: like
the city of a bent flash: i communicate this:
this is this: that is the roster, it is one of enjoyment
at length, attempting the fantastic, marriage-of the casual louse with a meaning
for the mouse: in the grandfather clock:
the fashionable still is no fashion but yeah
but ones of the brain have a tendency for outsiders
remarked on as a passion
for the outsiders, the dead ones, the
dead passions
in liturgy: and the calf, pig moistened
out of time cannot enter: a spoiled calf, pig of the cosmos
spoils the fact, gives volume to the passion
in her wealth as not lying in tenderness: eh: whattayagonnado: but stillness to one as you
----------namelessness becomes the raving: yes: if i respond to this indictment
with a reality that is its approximation: peers
forget its approval for want of a fakery
that is a compression: want the crumble
and think of all the whiles of the universe,
the wits, the wits and whiles of the negative eking


out of raving, not raving to eke truth: or even

to get to a place where i tell the truth: tell the
lies instead, you: tell the even lies,
----------without retrospect, a lightness
in the blindness---rather---do not
explain the lightness: for one
----------will find it stretched thin
to suit the limits of their mind, and god
will think you intend fakery: if even
in acknowledging a fakery that by this point god
has already gotten past: it is by this
he might find the intellect a pest: meh: well mating
gets rid of his judgments: it blunts the intellect
enough to fascinate what thoughts are
behind the veil: know your place and place
it somewhere where you like, if you must,
but dont let me know about it, anyhow:
dont let me see it: father, old artificer, never let the whispers
be anything more than a diversion
on which hydrogen feeds, from far off:
but do not be what is a far off thought: meet
not its compression either, which is where
it is meted out, because, should remains
for men to take the reigns of
collapse---things even as lies---should things lying
to us, as like the position of death, renounce
a meter---for the sake it might not birth themselves be for its own sake:
well then
----------a bit of hydrogens enough the birth: a sullen glance,
the berth: to rest between the inspired statement
and dullard formation: which is really
placation: for one who might know the witnesses,
with time, the ultimate fatness of compression:
dear fat stevens, a penumbra,
wanting to be lightened, did: but a consternating glance
at fate can only but be sullen: the circle is a circle,
----------nothing more, but a shadow of


what comes tricks a placement of his blue moon

as being in mellow, crude dollops of minutes:
of---who, who, who. is trapped
in the punctilious nature of---clocks--no time in them. you fit yourself there,
a slow, slow shadow of the pigs:
----------of the pogrom: of degraded people but by
fascinations too much with too much time,
though not enough on their hands: matrices adorn the level:
but do not speak the witness,
namelessness, the one in you
there, needing nothing, only justification of the nothing
proves your need for something: it is to be human,
though, and that's fine: and more of control over the work
of the vase if they be adornments, not else:--cant the vase tumble, no, it mustnt, pretty please,
all pleaches, connect them, make a tree:
----------but only
earth makes trees, and
i do not wish to trespass that myth,
a myth of water, of the difficult wealth
that feeds men, and which
one who is a poet can only be indicative of: if it is only
when i give in to how much i dont care about
nullity that it does, well, i would you not fall:
i cherish negations for what the unnamable pleads
the collective might understand: but i keep that,
and find debasement of the godhead
but, cannot the pieces not fall
into panic---panic AND
love: thats why there is to be
that only, if one is to find himself equal with the words written:
and not to---panic---that you feel wonderful: and most
of all not to heed the control of eyes
to thoughts: and not care that the whole fall from
grace, the whole mess is a joke: is not a joke:
grow my panic out you see
apply it to a formidable fascination---disgrace.


apply it to a void i have punctuated

and that despite is not violent.
my loftiness aforementioned
is no hairy thing, nothing but sums, sums
of lovely littlenesses that i understand
and am comforted by, littler love
beyond the literal metaphor. it is just, real.
it is not brogue, which isnt real, not just. it is not
a harnessing of passion
like a machinery
of tongues: to see the soul's machinery
and not connect it to the passion of living
is despicable: one puts too much wait
in the metaphor of what a machine is,
comparatively, to the human soul,
which is the only metaphor transcendent enough
anyway to be a literal one with the soul remaining:
that is how you touch the soul: see miles ahead,
lend to the remains of what things become: darksome:
but to see the soul as darksome
is as darksome a metaphor
as viewing the shade of your inner self
correspondent to the veil over your guts, called flesh.
but call a horse: sweet, thoughtless horse: call it.
a horse masters the machinery of grace
because it is instinctual, and doesnt need recognizing.
call grace machinery in a poem
and you immediately dishonor
the grace of words to fit
a philosophy forever misunderstood
in that delicate form. keep the intellect literal
and find that in poetry, though that
is not whereof it is made. what is made of me is uhm no
polyglot. to make music out of meaningless signifiers,
to fatten the pigs---groundlings of the trivial: vase: pecks and pogs,
time is pecks and pogs, the idea of it as unchangeable
aint: at least in a serious mind, serious about never


taking his words seriously: but the missing one,

the missing piece of it, in what i cannot let myself
understand, is this: it is of the tasteful lions roar: or else lose it all
----------to trivia, as has happened: trivia of a mind calculatedly dismembered
from the point of its weak spot: time: so you need help then with
the pecks and pogs, the width of them for miles, the meaning thin.
as it must be. there are no fascinations
but in the wire we see as fat, as we must.
and to all but who see the disinclination
as to its ugliness as a tarnishing, hath removed
themselves from it: death: the fallow: miscarriage,
but, no endless trumping for the fallow---merely
children---caught---with their lungs in dirt, in the sanity
of earthen retributions, earthen rotes
that, indeed, are what receives us
---this populace:
this nonsense:--who,
speaking a man, sees only in death,
death the man, after life
has passed and left the race
with a sinister trust for that which complicates:
again: for what has parted from the world. for who.
for the name: in pronouns: exclamatory, violent
in a violent mind, made of the past, shaped
by that death to be delicate and unforseen,
unraveled: clogging the minds of an even beyond:
the point of what death is, to those who are. death only
to fatten the pecks and pogs of hairy pigs. lead them,
as if they were lucky, and you pozzo. be the pig of pigs.
who not only leads but spits on them. for allowing the leash
to be over their own. no. just to forget i am fattening them and
----------not god, with whispers.
that divert me from this trashy purpose of my will: to hear


the head of humility on top of my head: to level the junk

and disarm the peril: for we are linear: and i would rather
go linear than crazy, if it is for the sake of sanity . . . in,
unflinching, knowing where this
monstrous ambosia dwells. an
equal disarming of ambrosia, there. unleash.
to not fear the fate that is
an unheard plan:--that i merely approach in whispers
and do not replicate, but in how i feel myself, about them:
ah, the happiness: the happiness of life
it comes back: it relives itself,
it goes: martyr the top-head and see no joke: ill tell your name
instead: with a mask as nosy as adornments: and make it the joke:
ive always wanted to punch, punch, punch
with lines, anyway, but with not a 'one'
i can: just with one: youre linear: transfiguration irretrievable: dont care,
must: have to: need to: to live: to live and retrieve
the white pause of the rose
of that white birds drunken bloom,
and her rise, her rise, to life, cheers. to which all is rhetoric.
. . . . . WHITMAN-GOD: to see the wit in wise, to lacquer death
with pageantries; explain the feeble lies,
in what is spent, and never to 'return' . . .
well . . . what is there not for us to see
but wit, in rhythms, wisdom in the words,
and words, but wisdom's wit unmasked, foretold,
untold in rhythms earthly
for the moment . . . the harness on me has its fold,
indeed . . . the fold's the chains of it, of wit, and masks
an eminence i cannot recollect in wisdom,
only but in the converse
of an unequal clarity-

-connect; and emit the reverse. damnable spy

in my mood; direct, and followed through.
what use am i to you if not to funny
the standards, blandish welcomes
with my wings,
nor steal the snores from god and his
incongruity? they are things, but not
as eyes are things beyond perception
of no melody, here,
in this face of him, no absence either.
and of the one to soothe, to recollect
my naked melody away from a reprove,
to god---reprieves---the melody foretold. to you is god.
so go, if only whitened chains of it could spend
the sonnet and not be feeble in the folding,
too---ah---if only honeyed words
were honeyed words---remittances of hell--to hell the cheat, to heaven,
the reprieve
for all our earthly seekers
of that heaven. all of us has told us well:
in true? in each collapse, that is. once anew,
the navel for this paradigm, combustible,
relays new lanes
of wit,
before the matter's met in view,
and things, perception of the view, and not
ideas of imagery. imagery
is nude with lacking vision, full
with a release. have not the powers full
enough a chasm? have the knots
knotted? the perpendiculars


and yet but they are only pillars

just one to hold
the just many: utmost navel
of a place
imprinted in ensembles, navels,
clarities: cherished well,
by a brain in fog, the imprint of a staged
world on the world stage enough
before my sorrows lengthened to the back
as font of arrogance, as much a stage
of beauty as the truth in it, first pictured,
then seen by eyes. no more perspective there.
or, and altitudes are
but higher merriments, new careers indeed
to bless the snoring snores of---paradigm.
this lengthy queen
of my distaste of length
derides what strength, what imaginary future
in the chasm, is as new a cherishing as thus amounts
to old, the wit the mold, and here to reckon
what safety thou hast cherished in the picture
for what your eyes deny of it foremost
in things: and deny foremost in pictures
of a framed beyond: a lateral of ease,
but not disgraced to an easel for
what cacophony more loudens the gift
with---appreciate---of the colors
of the pastel
rather than what meshings come to life
on that raiment, there, that larynx the wind
sings on to blow it forth
in colors speaking. words that insulate the melody
are no sort of wisdom: so why give genius
to wit, if wit needs wisdom first, a melody outside-of what is, at all. of lassitude and ardor, but an arch


of colors; colors are no theme, if missing some

on a canvas made from fascination
with the easel. drag that fascination to the frame,
deny the fetishism that is really one
with a unity of colors that is
each one you see, and see the one
that is a shade, translucent, of this frame
that is a parting of impressions
by the building of metaphors past and gone
and are no harnessing of the sun.
of wit. no rhythm in it to the god
who pushes words as if they were commands,
commands to listen to thou who wilt not listen back.
and i am left the human of an attitude
no more than glance. a blow upon the
winds, a fighting chance
to change the character of what wit's in
a nose my own. careless, as repose is
to one awake, the minstrels of my fear;
the fear of sense in all. such's the game
i see no more of. no. i know the game,
have left it leveled in a marvelous place.
MAHOOD-ROSE: in the magic the homer dusk
past the red spire of sanctuary
i null she royal hulk
hasten to the violet lamp to the thin K'in music of the bawd
dont tell me more: i have learned enough, and not
to store the brain---now---with uselessness instead:
i have learned the stock, the stock and store:
and i have morsels of what i have learned still,
that i can think about, without a consciousness
of the taming: though i, not its chasm, knew the chasm,



out of a sensation i was tamed the more by poesy

than by my ignorance of it, for the sake
of diction: i have found how serious:
i have found the laughter in no how but no why,
i have delinquents for them, cannot know them,
did not know the chasm: laughed the diction
off as gone already: ignorance however is a way to tell semblances
in the blink of night, suffocating
the tears, the night seen
in the blink, not the tears, the tears the night,
the blink useless---for one as i
to operate his aberrant
condition: diction: perhaps the challenge
of the still remains: to be taught: and learned of,
too: and learned of once gone
into the blink of night, the merciless haze
of it: gone in its grand,
but no grand in the tears
if no shelter from it in closing
ones eyes i guess
. What to say of 'this' limb gone off from my torso---for my snatching
. Things it wants to think I like, that I would,
. If I heard my 'disembody'--.
This limb here, carrying me, as I walk
Up and down. These sarcasms, whatever, this chasm,
These---chained to me the void, my limbs,
They must be if they are to be me things
I would just as well null and disrespect . . .

Well? Any answers? Or they are too

Inflated, and must grow
Witness the 'wilderness' in the chains. My turquoise unwillingly given
For the monkey, my long time
In the chasm. These 'air-quotes' around words,
What superfluity. I would go Beckett
To basics. Anagrammatize
The cosmos around your name, that's
What people did first. The giant contrast is,
The world's so small, and people
Are so big. Not so big as the cosmos,
But still. The idioms we carry,
This 'culture' this 'society'
Are oblique as sarcasms against that ogre. I suppose,
That is why it makes sense-To not be so serious, for why are we? Batman
Knew his villains enough to know,
People accept blackness as
The first step towards hope.
The joker just made that null, despite the only hope
He had was of dying. Not to help,
But out of selfishness.
Perhaps we prepare for death, right when
We fall asleep, right before. Morality,
Odds and ends but not
The kernels, small but also
Insignificant, unlike right and wrong,
Scary things to know, to know enough


To want to die, and prepare yourself

To feed God's hunger for---hateful---nurturing,
Or, rather, truth, a place where all is truth,
What hell! And what a hell it must be to God,
To nurture one forever, after having been
Known to them was---that---hopelessness, the nullity
Of leaving, as if I go forth
Into some new treasure, but with nothing behind
That I treasured to know but as things
I once had, soon-Just things, and I am blinded by this loss,
Though I be in heaven. hm. I suppose,
The Joker's heaven was his own blindness.
But you cannot be dissociated---truly dissociated
In the real world---without being locked away.
The nullity of seeing
For long enough to have had enough? No. For nothing could be
More serious, than
The oblique---shaded---moments
Before death. Nothing is more like---well--As when I slip from fascination
Into rest, too tired to hunger to name myself anymore. That blackness,
People fear it, as people fear anything
Involving 'black and white'
Because it details who I am, in fascination;
The particles of relevance I allowed once to absorb
---And with disinterest---into
The interesting realms of thinking-sans-consciousness.
But you cannot twist this around sarcastically
Like the Joker did, and say
It's the same, consciousness-sans-thinking
Is not the same, as much as black


Is fucking white. To be conscious and not think
Wouldst be more like
A shawl over open eyes. Or
The sense of leaving everything behind
For the sake of something---better---afterwards.
Something that does not
Involve much thinking, I'd say. More like, music-Found in randomness (?) but without the scariness
Of confusion. For example, as to
How significant oneself is, whom in being 'a self'
At least has an object of relation
That is, the really big nothing of
The sky, and the really tiny something of---him--But what is size to power or efficiency, these days (?)
For that is the anger, knowing vastness
Like people on earth know
Themselves, but without a real reason
To think it insignificant. Mighty pigheaded
Of the cosmos, it would seem
To us, to think
Itself anything less than terrifically meaningful.
But meaning is---sensation---and in death,
One is as meaningless as one who has played
A joke on himself in life, to throw the card,
To marry swine and buckle phantoms, riotous ones,
Who---destruct, because they buckle, because they are happy,
Because they are tender, but too tender enough
To refuse the word for them. My own 'lights out' moments come
When the words fail even the slightest atom of doubt
At prevailing with logic that is as sound in the mind of God's
As to be infinitely concurrently occurring all the threads
Then no longer---breached---with a need for the word too much
To what is much---just itching
To scratch a name on it!---to use the gentler one and not refuse


Impatience. all the threads

Once blank,
Now Diamonds. All the sweat of relevance up
To the thing upstairs, our minds, more penitent
For the joke of blackness one might see
Upon viewing the sky, until the eyes separate,
And the trance of death
---Weaves throughout---carefully.
(There is blackness to what is
Beyond acceptable. And being what is
Is knowing suitable degrees of sensation-to-meaning to
The time. One feels attributed
To one's duties, or inclinations to remain
In one's essential being.
Usually, a way to be looked upon favorably.
But that's just because it is the only way,
To be inclined towards what makes us comfortable in ourselves,
Heidegger. But outside of that---is not anxiety or fear of the future,
But a waiting period in the blackness
Of what is. No future, no past, but also no---moment--Which, old man, you had been
Too dogged to not ascribe to some
Flickering storyline. Well, dear pony-boy,
What do you say of one reality, perhaps, at least, that
In being a vacancy simultaneous consummates
Pleasure in violence as in pleasure,
And pleasure in violence? I would say, Heidegger,
One would ignore the nature in
Their essential being
As being
Nothing, in the light of a memory-less existence. So then,
He says,
In being, being on the main, if it
Destructively causes pain, and not to feed
The favorable with an avoidance
Of unfavorables---my psyche's the same.
It avoids no moment of being, if even


To do so and spend perhaps
A moment in the mindful blackness
Of a pony-boy.

Ah, yes. Remember

That no change was made. That is why
In thinking on the main, the main,
In thinking on the main, a mindful blackness
Is denied, and one feels
Not so-alive
There the dweller is Heidegger, people. Showing us,
Through degradation,
That it lies in perspective, degradation.
And in this straight line
In this absurd hand waving itself at me
Neener neener neener
Is a straight line neener
To the murthers either
Of negation
As a balance
To sensation. Feel death,
Not to feel more alive afterwards,
By contrast, but to feel alive then, too,
Because, logically, you are. And any
Sensation of death is
For ponies
Weird odd-shaped ponies
On the main
On the irretrievable main
On down the narrow of books
Oh, love, little lovely, Beckett,
Little one of my memory, take action, think.
Do you ever think, are you thinking? Think.



Ponies---running, little wisps of the will, he says.

Have you forgotten, darling of my past,
A moment ago? Heidegger, I like nature.
No, he says, you like the nature.
What do you mean. You pronounce
Meditations yourself, old man. I mean
No pronouncements but
In what you see in too little.
Break the murthers, you can. You
Can make it stop eking out of time,
And you can short the socket
On the mane, as it flickers, restless horse.
These crass disjunctions of reality:
Layered over themselves
Like another human were there,
Caught in the love
Of her own complicated, harrowing,
Infected reasons for reasons
Seen like a hard thing to manage
But lofty still,
Enough for clarity alone
To be a reason to weep alone,
Fact chucked into
Simple detail:
What is in other words, this sanity
You worked too hard

To find out. Forgive these
Unanswered questions, chill and
Rotting at the edge of
The core of yourself. This very esoteric
Biting, renegade search, in spite
Of everything one
Of them tells
In me, complete with another me,
To disarm that fact of life
Leaves me uh ruled
By which phantom?, who knows
But, always present, waiting
To figure me out of hell
In galloping chords
Of what meanings music
Gallops to my action less verbs
". . . . . ."
The hands on the guitar in the dark I see pluck rhythms
Lit between my sight of the incoming train here
With sightless image,
And drummed on strings as I passed
My eyes from there to there, watching
The subway cars pass, deep in reflection after five
On nothing in particular, maybe,
Hurtful thoughts. They are all I have anymore;
They do not travel lightly on fingers on the strings here,
However. They level myriad chords out of tune
To places, fazed ones, less able to be relished: truncated,
Lost in a disgust for the mundane, the mundane that the true
Me finds most peaceful in itself, waiting for the trains.


And yet my mind waits for something, some typified
Thing, here, in this plucking of the fingers that I view
In my minds eye, crossing between the temples
Like some absurd tennis match, back and forth. The
Hurtful thoughts impel bland reality to places
Much in consternation seeking for their source,
For where is it:
Well, for one, let me tell you,
Let me inspire in this a common gift,
And relatively dwell in placeless hovels
Through the passing windows of the train. I am only voodoo,
I drag my days by by the hand across
The strings that sting. Leave me to my sightlessness,
An only respite, and important if only for
The vulgarity my realness is in, to it, the trance
My soulish fingers crack in strings across the glass,
No vulgar, crass mistake, no out of tune,
Perhaps, out of turn, not quite appropriate, perhaps,
A thing, a res for my deceits and flaws
To test themselves:
The hand plays it,
The hand, it plays a ditty for perception,
The fingers on the hand against the strings,
I see the image flicker with
Each passing car as the 3 uptown
Slows. The hovels in head, in head
That tell me of all my things
In heart, in heart, and of this tired
Mind I say, I say:
The commonness heres uncommon, everyday
I see these strands of image, everyday
I see me blindly through these strands, I seek
And find, and collect for myself nothing of it,
And deep in hovels in my mind I shove it.
And deep the hand goes in to draw them out
With music.


Stronghold, face of other to bespeak, not break;
And yet to stake as well this western cloud,
A measure stays, not to resign the flower
To in its slack observance tone a bent-To thee in these meant phrases, drifting as it passes,
Windmills on the main of it, while down,
While down the elemental grain, in swiftness, wind
And breath commingle breathlessly on-To stole my shrunken heart with ease of hours
And motion, and words: an allowance of the token
I see, blows out this drummed cacophony. O,
To hope and rage within thy bosom hope.
Stronghold, who-Proceeds thee not, if not
Your fortitude your own? To wind you out
His due for bread, it is my predilection. But
From thee proceeds the hour
To quench the windiness thy dismal heart
Runs forth on on what beckoned,
Striated sheaves
Of gulf, imaged places of departing, and cacophonous.
Where pains it? Tell it not me, for not wells
It there but you, and to thyself
Knows knowing's cue the more, the stronghold thus,
The kingly beleaguer. Seraph-wind for gusty dust,
Caught in mine own hand.
To thyself know: gusts in an as
Few a pattern, drain nothing much these days
Of where the passion rattling out in missives, goes
These days: the rote of wizened life


In lungs these days, instead, do drench
As much the flower drafting on my thrill; no stronghold,
Much as thee, who gains
Its witchcraft on the windmill, turning, stain
Of language and beguiled humanness, to brain
The hassle, make benignity of it
To laurel this his boy, this weltering heart
Of youth to sturdiness in the creaking, waves
Of interest, left to wing open on the eaves
A reliquary for this flower's kiss
Across the floor of thee and thy blessed shape
Of patient heaving, breaths old as time? Hath you
Not your own magnificence,
Poem, poem for the man; perhaps,
About a bit of him that hath his empathy
Asleep in dreams of wild response? You dog, to make
Atremble what's conceit, yet never that; he hath
His step a likewise pause as yours,
You ghost-i-the-bowels, you house of dignity
In fear, and fear what of this poem
No father knows, nor sins of him dependent
On directions of a wind that will not heed-But to flowers, beauty of them, shrinking
The despotism of what lord in what wind
To fit through cracks in this proud structure, and
Only to move weeds, just one, this flower
Of a weed, torn to there, from thence
To suit the father: lofty bourn in wailing: shafts-The western bluster knows, to make his grasp
All and never vain, but sidling, humble, falls each
Kelson of the mill in a slowness place-To hymn the courage towards a wiser space
No youth could know, though I
Experience the pause, and know the step.
Hath him (I speak of thee)


His own good planks to breathe, and well, sustained
On the magic?: a single hold of zephyr, strongly
To depart, as mine futurity, mine leper-state,
Folds in departing for youthful proudness to conceive
Of one in separate quarters, different flowers.
Knowing is yet to itself no shrift
For these my eyes, these clowns, to muster, no;
Beat, thump thy chest to mind, and leave to rounds of silence
While I drink this water from the bowl.
Nor language of dissection but the howl,,,
But the appreciation of an imminent
Ecstasy, a loping seraph-wind
To turn thy ruddy cogs and maketh bread
From where flowers water, grave, gaunt
Myth of knowing, rather would I know
Nothing, ever, never see how much
And when it goes to wayside, never worry
Nor relate, but in my sequels of a lovely
Hermitage, pleasantly disintegrate,
And die as happy chaff, and brave in that.
Of a manic grace is this, to fit the looming
Prescience, this imparted smile. And yard by yard
The hoarse croon deafens forth. No wind as yet, nor ever
Could, as anyone, concede windmills a place
From which to rudder thy imagining round
Fully, and forth of grain to flour, flour
To bread? No thing downs here the calyx,
As well, myself the flower,
But that calumny, stronghold
Of the wiser dead, in each of us
The mind of wind a pleasance
For our ignorance


To as suasion penetrate and melt into the scene
Of one, lone flower there, dragged across the deck
Of a weeping mill, the purity, the life, the place
Of thy wealth, and cherishing the boy.
This is not for to figure out, train for. Theres
Much in whats to come of the battle to erect a side,
Just one: polarities make the mixture askew, draw
It all together and nearly, being in cahoots, wrest
My hands from your shoulders: my eyes, can you
See the desperation in them: as I speak contritely
To you: desperately: I have words that in havoc reek
Too much a stinking fug for me blowhard: dont
Cough as I talk: let limbo be, this one struggling in the
Middle of my performance to erect a solo: gibbering,
Dismal thoughts, damn ye, and damn the men in
White and black, who get off coughing all the while
The train, w/o knowing I ever spoke of them or to
Them. What designs should we, the precipitous,
The navel of souls, start from: what side, that is,
Should we stand on its hinds for to boggle the
Architects: watching dashing filament spew out of
Their brains like as if gunshot made to glitch out
Wariness-sparks speaking diggings into the air:
However: itll be refuted, you know this: the side
Will, being the first: I say this, my hands deeply
Gripping your shoulders: my eyes nearly black,
And chary with the burn of tears in reality a burn
Of the inevitable refutation, a sadness: thats
My logic for you, and for you, all of it is for you,
This damn head but the lords fugly earpiece:
I cant, I cant make dullard the beautiful hand,
Strung with popping vein: I will, would will against
Comfort for all eternity, for the sake of not enlightening
Anything, least of all the novel navel-soul, implicit
Con, drumming its spark like a baseballs welter



Beguileth: make it into the leather sack of meaning,

Of a meaning: for fatiguing sides, millions of sides,
Billions perhaps, but millions a better word for its
Being less accurate to describe the cosmos in
Being a smaller number, more poetic for that very
Lessness: anyways: signs, not, too much a mockery
For an apish MICKEYS twitching hairs sideburning
Straight out of a whores
Fellatio, so much each follicle stands endwise, then
To the ends of the street with the ol crow-bastard,
Saddled in his hunch waiting at BUSSTOP on the
Drugblock: later, even though its already right late
Enough, but meat on slab, a stabbing-victim in ghetto,
No grace, graceless, the incident a microcosm fueled
Generally by a general angriness unfolding ever:
Biles of whiling words, these, for whats an proper IRISHDEATH:
Whiling words like suspended cum a whizz at the hilt but no
Sort of blowout, they crumble then, the words do: so do the
Sides, burning: or is this of the heart, the guts one?
My fingers at this point clench you in furious despair: your
Shoulders, they have no face, nor does my face, that of a
Soldiering belly rumbling sojourn and vindictive for his sons
Killer have place, in this: crying, fat GODFATHER for his
Sonny on the slab: What have they done to my boy?":
Smashing, wonderful hilt, but no true side there neither/nor:
What of sides at all:
Id rather bleak the living white and black trainmasters,
Recruits, into panic and so then,
Dismissiveness: beguileth:
a bouquet of ber-dimensions revealing
slowly is like what circumference-plume of congealed
rubber the blind miss dont notice , smoke

attacking the background behind

a silly glass table where that lass sits , broken

of eye , blind , not slightly : a glaze of rheum for to make
the socket turn left messily and lewd , o broken , renegade
eye : burnt cloud of the tarp over us all on fire like
new info , gifting a new dimension to drab
flocks of fiber , stem and petal , nameless flowers
concealing something better of the soul that
sits as blind , as wooly languorous billows sift above ,
a real hellfire for the wedding : but shes still there ,
the blind one , little polka-dotted-dress girl , she
dont notice but she dont smell either, dont even
notice if she sit or stand : they thought her
crazy : she opened up the bouquet , entering
thus a reality the more fecund than juiciest
paradox : all the rest have left , none doing her
the service , that she should be roasted if
she stayed : but she didnt : she inhabited the
spaces of each dotted-dress reality
and hunkered down into the outside of-an eager bouquet , refusing explanation,
and suddenly she is gone from place at all
Emblemof the seasonretreats
By the collision of snowflake and snowflake
To bruise in bloody marks as if they lived
To automate the landscape with living white
That discolors as each skull of ice declines
To ground and meshes into scarleted slosh
The roads, as guts of mind, tarnish past
That to liquid feeding some appreciative drain,
Snowflake and snowflake, killing each themselves,
Andemblemof the seasonretreats thus
To a focusing pain as nearly by dint of cold only:
That my side was made a premonitory pain by that:
The gutter eats it: the roads as guts of mind
The conscious evil makes a snow upon, that lights
As wrong enough to pang the human side, of
Myselfmalice in the snow as like my malice,

And drips too truly. And I look

For brethren, feast nothing on nothing to reduce

My fear by degrees of namelessness more
Than heaven could measure out in roads of thought
To blizzard-ROME; that is if all leads there, what
Palliative, this lack of meaning a thing! But
This pain, pang, still seriously permits itself be felt,
Then makes for me something less an evil,
Makes for me this rift today of days,
When I should penetrate a likelier drive to house
My confusion in, by the grace of a clear
Windshield: I wispily foretell and knead my side
Lovingly: I wispily foretell an
End to grief, this one fine day, and for
Just this once spit out the falling, fragile snows
A heart for them that beats blood on the streets,
In myriads, myriad-screams of ice alive
And I a sound an emblem by the pain and pang
This one fine day: well let me rest will you,
In some pocket of contentment, however enfeebled
By the trust of me in knowing I delude myself
That I have felt this first: this pain is a namelessness
Of misbegotten snow, snowflake, perhaps room
In the pocket for one single ice-corpse: no, more:
Let this dry fierce un-hold itself per individual,
Again for poems, make it some, make more, ah,
Some whom reasonable will alight from
Whatever panicked nerves. So,
So: when I feast such nameless nothings on a
Paradise instead, I have me better then
Than any frigid agony out of sorts, I know;
And marks seem to dissolve, when for my side
I think no longer desperately of my tired roads, yes;
Those things of paradise can soothe
Me into, coax me to a better mood.
Youve beaten out your brains to tell a semblance clearly
Assiduous man who walks in modern mist, and hokum

Alone: and alone he is to phrase this for the nourishing his
Debt to some presentiment. And then Ill leave. It was awhile
Ago it happened. Washed from your throne draped gloomily
In the hooligan-traipsers of a thought, one, like as the plumage
Off a launching bird aways: like as, they had the color to
Escalate morbidities and purely linger, drape, give a mood,
Hovered on top a giant ease of fog. You hosed off it had
Been sitting there, the hollows in the fog where you were
Covering a quadrant of land below you, forever and ever,
As if itself forbidden to claim sight of, only sustain the throne.
Nonetheless you upon hitting the muddy floor decide to
Remain there. Without your glasses. The ground turns
To an ill terrain of knots and stone, once you get to
Walking through the thickness, moisture, and what gives
Is only the ground beneath you. Shoes saturated in
Mud, but something not: a substance like a glue,
A disturbing floor just of mud, no stick, leaf, stone
So write the hope down. Let the myth coincide
With reality, like a chum: I know how to do it. Im
Crying, you see, because the World is so immense,
And I love being a thing in it. In the universe, or
Whatever. The vault of life we are stuck in, what is
It, really: examine it no more: were all stuck, but
I always liked celebrating that: then, a crooked
Half-smile through the tears, a bit more of that
Myth we subjugate to sense, or whats linear,
Or beautiful: I turn my head slightly to the
Left, again teary-eyed: put my cigarette in a mug
And keep writing: whats the recitation: knock,
Knock: heres to moving on: YEAH: Ill be at the
Edge of a cliff, hanging my hat on the chilly wind,
Wishing it didnt have to be this way, the vault
And whatnot: well, what of it: so were stuck in


This place, theres still a contradictory excuse
To love being a thing: things are just great, a length
OF them just more great stuff: length, width, see
The size of your abrupt pecker, the improper metaphor,
Here, as no metaphor: for us, that is, to beg
To unzip with rage and suck down: glob, glob: bog
Down the miserere, instead, and find, we write since
Its a thing like us. A thing without filler, ever: no
Matter what the metaphor is, man: it's all irrelevant, I
The remaining concrete: but wheres the cliff: I dont know,
Man: just tangle yourself in the oddities, myths, for
Now, making them: we each can, just a matter of doing
The phenomenology justice, by being thorough:
No sizable pecker beats a sizable poem: my words
Sex delineates a spongy, wafty carnalism from
Whats mere sways of content, now: the thing is,
Say the saying, and for awhile I thought that was
Enough, and you find that to be more than saying what
You said: whats wrong, my lips ask me, pursing a
Bit: but Im not crying nomores, just lifted into the chill
Like my hat, into the waft, as if hangers were everywhere,
Flaming things to wreathe around an uber-flame: the down,
Below, picks up: as it always does: into senselessness:
But then I pick my tune that way anyhow and
If you dont like it, you can smash me in the face: but
Everyone likes tuneful nothings, some weirdos just want
Bigness-o-schlong to represent big poetry, that the small
Member, shriveled and with crazy popping veins can't be
If the poem's huge, that is: and that criticisms wager, a thing
Of dread for you who thinketh it, a member of the cult, a plan
The poem has, too, along with whatever rote the writer follows:
Those who have their fannies bunched into their pants with
Slights, so much that the nuts loop between they legs: Im hanging
On, for now, absurdly observing things at all: the fault of
The seas in its vault, its big waywardness we want to replicate
But we cant, at least, with cant: uh oh: another
Saying of says: dont miss that, its the representation
OF cant anyway and has proved itself neatly, the
Wordplay being the binge on obviousness but the


Representation perhaps more subtle: so why do you
Continue explicating: I need to turn my music back
On: hold on: Im still writing, about the now, my
Tears dry, my life as large as my dick, my dick a wonder
Made of spongy refuse, a sticky pillow: so: what to
Say of the drafty hat: its the styles the celebration,
Even if youre all mopey nshit: dont bother to make
Brothers of the missive-myth, its all a crisis, imitating
The crisis of a sea that I look out upon, from the window
In my mind: I hold it up to the sky: at the cliff: meet me there:
Irreverent, ah!, the half-smiles there again, suppose its
Because the musics back on, initiating transcendence:
I always write on my bed, makes my knees a bit cramped:
I cramp my hat: my hat is made of water: my hat I give
To the splashing wind: the wind smashes against my
Faceless face: I guess I have a different idea of whats
Depressing, but being faceless is fun: melancholia is
Frigging awesome, and tears of sadness the most liberating
Of water-wasting: Im happy when Im sad, sad when
Im happy, cuz I think its a fakery: happiness, that is:
But what of that: the hat:
IS it relative to being punchy in the face to hang my hat
Over the ledge and watch it drop down into a huge thoughtsea? Well, maybe. But Ill rile the ambiguous detonation
OF sense-bombs with saying-saying, either way: everybodys
Linear, linear and tragic, the tragedy that we dont really
Exist but try to: thats wonderful: beautiful: maybe Im too
Stuck in lament, but lament as lament is a cliche, as a
Liberating experience, just fucking fantastic! Seriously, its
Too much to just expose your nonsense, make nonsense
Nonsense: I hide it in saying stuff about what Im saying that
Wraps up my little GOD in a bow: Dont know: cant,
Without cant: I babble, make a babble-tower, break it down,
Shrug amongst the carnage. Can, Id prefer can, just like,
Can do! Sos to make the chum of myth mouth out chugging
Like a train of inconceivable thought-monster-teasings
Cute, like a damned relinquishing to matrimony, honeys
Left dashing the cans of their just married and all of it
Representing a marriage of sense: so: the music,
Lyricism, is the funny-stuff, the celebratory digits tell me:



My head vacant, watching vault-stuff rather, from a cliff:

Dismiss the sea, and find it filled with naughts babble from
A higher ground than even where you at, at the ledge:
Deny, find the frowziness of frowns: dont frown: even though
Thats when Im clearest: be happy with mythmakers
OF the tubular void down there, at the slapping sloppiness,
Fuck you: Whyd you hit: its too goofy,
Its too filled with filler: what is: this: this this-this, I cant make it
That: hang me hat, then: watch it waft in cool loftiness, down
To below the bellows, the chill the myth, as
The ground shakes, hungry for my body: the coldness is
An oddity, depression, a grand uhm
A grand echo from the straits!: so long,
Dour, peevish motherfucker:
Youre dead: so long, straits-metamorphose: monstr:
So long:

I have left the faintest curse

In the stitching a big beacon
For my repose far off from that by now, I blessed of solitude a moment,
And though I am not clearer am alone. There was none ill of it,
None ill, now that all death is done, and things majestic only living.
That we are lucky no doubt is had, nor lapped up by
This analytic shore. Have
Taken, in leave-taking, the leavings not, have left them there to exist all
Paltry in the light of its mess. And for
All I find some, so die but cannot die,
Since my loudest death is miles gone in that beacon.
As much as sky and air are similar my hope
And my death are of that ilk. I will have done
My job then. O fabricated sun,
By the diurnal lapse I die a little more and little more than man
I greet the sky upon the beach and sun there too as sect of deity
Though I am of sticks twined as frail together, a thrown together man
Made of unfashionable energies that sink and rise
With the burgeon of some other day to kill my feeling
As not but less than bones and broken flesh, perhaps a wealth
It says. And though. Straightly I partake the livid yellow
Of a distant conceptual sun, my written sun, as much soul

And flesh as I: and as all I leave as parcel, is not me
Wholly: yet my reason
Is to search and find it. See here the viciousness. A fiery morsel for ransom, maybe
somewhere, somewhere mysterious: or bloodied metaphysic, thought circling cheap hands,
The most consternatedemblemhere. I am an organ somewhere
To be used once cast fromcrevice, dripping, necessitous cave
Of a vague, tribal desire for to gun the light anyways
Amongst myself, this huddled verbiage round the bonfire in
Some dirty bin that warms the skin of this in the manic fluting
Of man like a hope thats a birth. A squawk of squall from creature,
Unseen, smug omens in the distance, by the clouds. A
Cornering of the oceanic lens, as disembodied light triply
Through a prism.I beg, not diffident but actually
In pride big as when it
Declines to able view, not far perceived
But powerfully. Permanent horizons charity
Gives these waters unction like the skys own flatness
That, by weave and weave, melds both and both.
And thought is all it is. Who is that gazing man,
Brittle teeth, eyes upon the shores Paumaunok,
". . . . . ."
Very like me, is very like me
How someone else might breathe, and go about
The day, yet I am for nothing that I would pursue
But instead balk it out of any possible escape into,
Into sensible catharsis, predictability: nip my spine, great
Linear feeling, ad nauseam make me like eyes peering
Into fattened souls that are not mine: have that
Disrupt over the melody like ungainly surrealness:
Your own, fine tune for the fat letters you sent long ago,
Embarrassing, now that you let stink the fodder-godhead
Of them: all you wanted was liquidated: you were left with


Nothing, then, to want, unless it be impossible like particular,
Casual dreams had lying prone next to a nightstand: well:
And let him win the wainscotting and fair portrait behind his
Godly desk. Ferrari, shingles or bad coughs took care of
Quickly by a good, pertinent doctur: spunk of riches,
Go out fast like that very thing that stars your farthest
Relativity in the film, your most dug-in
Doubts, make it like a hoodlum after he done
Tagging a storefront
And devalue the chase Id like a wolf come
Sniffing upon and snarling, just a mechanism to lick my chops
At, and do nothing about actually tasting. Let the metaphor ring,
Let reason ring. OR be a friend. OR let reason be your friend,
Whatever helps. Just
Do yourself a favor and dismiss the voodoo already:
Crampd styles spoonfed you like you were a product:
Fearsome but clad in a malignantly normal locality:
With the very like you notions you think of about brainwashing
Ones hipster strangeness to the point you finally find cheerios
Delicious: that wont have happened without hearkening back
To some random memory I am now going to remember in words:
My cat got sick and hid under a set of drawers. I took him to the
Vet and they put him in a glass oxygen tank but he died because
He had fluid in his lungs. He was probably terrified: I wish we
Had just left him under the set of drawers, mewing in pain:
Scratched, red eyes that speak in stacks of cards, let
The no-joke diaphanous verse-badness of new content
Fanged in, like one would phone in but with their teeth,
Be a sinking feeling: worry about it, what it stands for
Is not what it means: I saw horror: it was a commercial:
Ill be the eyes all red and ghastly,
You be the burning you see in them, apart and so then
Freed, you suppose, from your own magic convulsive
Repeated coincidences emptied conspiringly among
The hoop of hunched men about themselves, yes, all


About themselves, you say, yet as the say says on
You belt of pained creations birdlike, achieving nothing
That would fuse you with the draconian understanding
That wants you to fuse, speaking scary from behind
You and saying things that dont have light in them: well:
You go and go against the grain: see, that will get you
Seeing, but dont take my word for it, take the consuming
Loneliness like a bitter pill and call for mama but you wont
Get mostly anything out of it, maybe a few chickenshit
Laughters hung draped like christmasstockings everywhere,
Besides that, the divides were longer to be if left divides,
Staid assurances -are- as hate & love, a diva that is yourself
And what hangs around you, me, as I walk to the beat of
Clicking pictures from photographers, everlasting the thing
That is a thing and wants to be back in the fingers
Of your life, that wring themselves, usurp equivocal
Turning clocks, for the sake a delicate maybe get you
Spun: maybe: but I already failed at that sideless side.
I came upon myself and was deceived. A temper fell increasingly
From his flesh as an aroma of resent, or some compounded creep
Pheromones kept held in, till, following to my spot before the image,
I was placed by rage before him, and loosed at the cathartic height
Of my eyes, the smell too on myself as I saw entire universes walking;
As I was shocked by TIN-CAN forgery into believing, cradling hands
With what I thought I was. But saw not the man of, not as, me.
Though arrhythmia bore into me like strikes upon the tones
In gentle, savage understanding parting from incurious tin drums
Glancing hits. I heard a heart the tongue ran vibrant up
To query with the throat. And there went quiet muffling
Seen exquisite, finely molting feathers stuffing it with
Gag and stifle. The feathers gave up to resist, mediate it all blank.


And then the mirrord halcyon got ravaged

By eternal smoke; I did not understand
My new condition, but wary, trundled on,
Conceived a mountain out of that smoke
And baited morsels on the peak myself
Stood holy rue before at the ravine
Of, and motley wakes contended thus
With ornamental whites the sky stoked
Really lightly, on us were the sun
But mental blocks kept blocking and rescinding,
Like gateway clouds the meaning for them
Mocking us to live, and then beginning
To taste of rot, delay, usurped
Trains of thought this way and that,
Trains of what wrought from errant at
The end, an oblique, staying
Figment unto royalty not nuff, and
Sent, was what ever under send;
For under nothing gives us false pretend
But only who we are by tranquil eaves
Recited, knows, is minister of this,
Administering doubt in wavy places
Where I am no doubt missed,
And all of everything a valleys scorn
When to this daub Im born to find amiss
The latters draining down, beginning
With fissures everywhere,
Help! I trod on frequent unknown blunders till
The master stills the marshes with a guile a hand,
And then my fingers band
To reprimand all foreign fates alike, so that
It all might spike a lurid caution to


Forgive the other before he has come, to
Modern chance. I am not feasting, I am bare-boned,
Am like a questionmark attired in throne
Flat-breasted called a page, and lifted thus
To an ignorance unfounded so not there
Have not these limits the flavor of not being self imposed
But reactive to some GOD the likes of which descends itself
But barely levitating what marred purpose might have known
Itself to life but did not only fail to retrieve the time and place
But space itself the grand holy space that changes wisdom
From merest epiphany to the likes of branches dreams
Might as well shudder to aspire to the buds of yet they are
And spell a conniving name upon the skin of our desires
Let me say the agony a tripping over roots would take me
To and I will follow that to some new entrance I had made
Of twigs and bigger lumber for ideas to set afire and desist
At the main point of knowing this seems not something
I want to do but something imposed upon me tell me not
That coupled with clarity a consuming of that clarity in mud
As we pursue new martyrs for epistemology cannot claim
And dies off into the dreams of like melting down or giving
Up the SOUL experience portends somewhere out of dark
To phrases numerous enough to need no stop to keep on
Or do I by my darkest purpose claim the fullest metaphor
To run atop these big hills reason betters into nave castles
The drat of which is of course that there is no of course
To this but only redemption in solid limits someway else
Bourn up into the silly air space makes descry breathe
By breathe as being all there is to say so let me channel
Branches inadequate let me wonder wrong about this all
And trance a needle into some meant shape that weaves
A loud load keeping logic up in the air of all experience
That does not come but hilly sides do and yes we can too
Upon that scary clarity built up to pull truth by the hinds
As if applying the jaws of life to you in the upturned car
As if figuration were not solid yes it is we do not lie
To ourselves but it is GOD lies to us all for us lest


We perish from the truth

What happened was the salad spilled on the floor,

And that could have happened to anyone, just like
How I knocked my heel into the side of a cab really
Hard, and then, like, a bloody scratch got there, now
The weird thing was I didnt react but drifted with a
Nonchalance odd and freezingly to my destination, I
Didnt even say, Ow, shit! Or anything: this says
A thing about my ability to handle pain, and that
Where one would be driven into rage is the exact
Point I would continue to feel the sickness inside
Of me, that sickening pain: not to be too wah-wah
About it, but really I shouldnt apologize because
All these pills run my life: so I just should not care:
A puzzle of salad: great grand castle of mixup tons
Of people revert to rage to feel. But I just gritted or
Something through the mess. I dont get it. I think
Im really not that weak: I want to destroy that sort
Of ability to handle mental anguish though because
It means I usually take the beauty of the world with
Some payment more than others would have to pay.
And where people would normally get angry I would
Be just a man who hurt his achilles and didnt do
Anything about it but regretted the aftermath silently
To myself, like a great thought by the reins except
Its shitty as fuck. Give me the normal reaction, not
As regards high systems of thought but at least

Mundane moments of walking places, smoking or non.
Who cares. Im just right enough to write this wrongly,
Madcap promises hating on me some: but who cares:
This is not going anywhere, just like the headache I
Have because I havent had enough nicotine today.
But who cares. Im more maestro of the negative and
Always will be. Now to rend some eureka through my
Chest and unleash my misery like a traitor to the
Weaklings, upon the weaklings. You like lapping it up.
You dog. This is an elegy to the dream I had last night
About refusing my way from the gape of ambulance
Doors, asking where were my BOOKs, my PHONE,
And all that stuff we normally consume to get by. Bye bye.
Goodbye, Everybody! This guys terrible farewell. This,
This man pounds his own head with a hammer happily
Shouting things only he can hear, meanwhile a death
In the family means nothing to a random plastic
Bag caught in the branches of a tree in winter,
The whole world is bemoand frequently by stage 5
Hipsters, and helplessly necessary remains music
To the will to go on of all people: the martyr spoke
Healing, and despite all of this the kid has him kneed:
His cuttingedge spiritual disposition: in the flimsy nuts,
And all of time referenced as not much of an illness,
Unless it could be that of thinking you are the best.
Well, then, heres a hankerd truth come yr way: u is:
So forget abt everybody elses quandaries: mix it up:
Give help to people who need a hell in their life: u
Will always mix it up: dont count me in though: I just


Am here to be a voice that wants you to count in this
World: when things mean errors, will nonexistence
Be the only perfection: will my silence mean more
Than every word written: do I want to carpetbomb
The shit out of myself with these fucking poems:
The answer is yes: a whole body of work but a dead
One, sitting lashed by rays of sunlight in the smirking,
Murky dawn, up against a big tree: Im free: Im dead:
Nope: but I have no idea what is ahead: nor if I am
Ever able to get anything across to anyone: the man
Eventually dies of contusions from the hammer, no
Wonder he thought he could be heard: he was hurt:
He only thought he could hear the hurt of things,
Which is a no no: the death in the family was his:
They dressed him up nice for it because you are
Supposed to do that: the fucking plastic bag was
And is as much dead, not a single iota of life there,
It being martyrd for the sake in vain the other seer
Dont but live the better and more lifelike: the man
Just wanted to be a plastic bag when he grew up
Into the death-thing: it is an illness beyond hipster
Trash to have broke to the world, then, in that wide
Spreading of better life for the people, each a poem:
This music in particular says go on: yr the best: so,
Theres that: the time it takes for a new usurper to go
And make art is all refereed and sorted and delineated,
Patched together into predictable quadrants or niches
All fuzzy with demanding the zipped columns that take
Us places, as in seem to, but really do not: a kick in the nuts:
I dont care if you care about the sky, I only do my job
And lift more, extra, clouds up like weighty things,
While forlorn remain the rest of the blue, stuck frozenly,
Harnessed in some serene finish too capital
And embeddedly correct to be anything but
Garbage hanging around. Nifty secrets are shared
Meanwhile between the clouds, who know better, better
Than to spread themselves thin over the
Local colloquially-respecting silent chatter
Of borders, powerful ones unto the unwed stains of blue
Like some subservient shuttling rotter,
With blanched cheek, helming still, despite



Without help. Where do these colors go?

Into a sky too old, too old for daughters,
Sons, jumbo reputations; content, rather, to eke
Out of content as a result, not, as many
Suspected, as rhythms KING!! Damsel o damsel, full of
Delirium, why empty the emptiest digestion
Of materials, as your source of ranting?? Oh or
Do I speak of myself, in all the time
Eternity confesses to holding back, it says,
For the betterment, in reality, of onlookers:
We who view blessing with an interior
Despair, too alive to have convinced ourselves
That we wrought it all, the sky, and
Its timelessness, like as would one
Masterly build bricks into walls of
Superstition, regret, feelings, or a need
For tameness so resolute as to render
Everybody still, while the clouds barely
Drift on to inhabit and disinhabit blue
Spaces: is a dream a dream until ache
Muscles Itself into feeling, or do the daffy
Enigmas one sees in looking up enjoy
The confused burdensomeness they elicit;
Or is delay a beauty? OR flowers?? OR trees???
Or are the things of life an upwardbuilt wall until we the each of us
Form our own starving unit? Who knows
Who knows, but alone people without their brains, but
They dont realize even
The rugged Earth is open to us, begs our questions
Be, almost enough to flip the void, the entrance to
The gut we all put crazy doctrines of aside for, you
Know, the delivered, fathomed surprise knocking on
Wood to be perennial, but smattering like dilettante
Stars somewhere creeping in the murk of salutations
Limited underscoring, launched however it may be
Beneath recycled cycles, or, the thing cheapenening
Moorings to break asunder matter, end up mattering,

More than the denying ghost whom falcons change

To the politicking conversations happening to bloom
From verbiage into secret flowers: they take them or
Not, but we always dont, for we are blinded by the
White light, eking into our hermitage, while sleeping
Greenery pursues toward faintest glimmerings atop
The sun but not, as some think, the sun itself, nor a
Leaping haunt into the picture of a bowl of fruit, or
Some other silent movie lost in the name of crises
Manageable, perhaps, but forgotten before tied up
All nice and fragrant, enumerating the digging spiel
With fathers and mothers glumly fastening their heads
And sons and daughters obsequiously tied to criticism
Of the indispensable gaff all people commit to the
Hum of unnamable strings. Let us for an exact example
Not look, nor request there be one unseemly one that
Would anyway be my quietus: in the chambers finally,
After all horrible diurnals have been set, and the Earth
Finally left on her, not its, own, I chew on my bars like
Bark to the panda. We fled from me, till jurisprudence
Couldnt help us anymore. My opus remained, kicking
The ground, ejected from its tip right to the head one
Might inspire and only to weaken the tools, not how
They are used. Anyway, we ran away, out, out, out
Out like a beloved canine, itching to burn the missive
We had been given after inquiring about facetiously:
Treated segments of speech were seen by us, constituted
The page thereby, us way too in the moil of a nonsense to
Giddily recalcitrant, freeze GOD in the frame, and stunt our
Little realities, here and there, clucking like impish fowl:
Swings of knitting to ensnare and call a captivated sojourn
Till mystery overtakes what is already far enough ahead


To be proper spoils, bound we are to that place a dream
Too fictive to be found, yet it is there, like a racket of
Findings tiring out the drive until the hand-a-helm remits
To expectations of beauty. However beauty is, I know
It is not wiling out in the low streets of stain, because
This understanding breaks our understanding further
Than willing consciousness, a holy, liminal beast: let us
Drive on, take this all apart, free the mane of cosmos
Lit up in the agate of itself like true spectacles of
Great void: feel and you shall come: you are the atom
Of the flower, in the flower, a brawny studdedness
Relates us back to the beginning of whenever we were
Fraught by the mysteries expanding more than sound
And space, and time, like an immoral drama of the
Blessedly absurd: let us take apart where we have come
From, extract the colors voicing through the nearby night:
Ditch the residue of res, the dream, the daring spite we
Have regarding no that split our minds into actions
Reverberated answering, throughout the echoes, but
Not the echoes themselves, an audience of noises
Colliding briefly then: may crash again: here, I am so
Apologetic, I say sorry to the sense I am trying to make:
It drums deep like pianokeys on the low sonic nature
Triumphing like glints, perhaps, of what is the whole
Picture. We drift like shed leaves long ago across the
Snow, to no place but where is beauty, and the design
Realized, we go back to bed, before the extraneous
Things get important, which happens while we are
Away, gathering dust on our bluesy hemispheres.
Our ways of eyes are glares inscrutable the feeling.
But we masquerade and set down the cages for the
Day, to hold the falling day: it is snow outside, but


Still I think of driving to the daffy source of all invention,

Come upon next week by the normal atoms that go
And eternalize the sake of humanity unto its withered
Limits. Let the flower be so much in the cells of itself,
For there is beauty in where is the more to exist, awry
This may be, sorry, but by the lofty hope we mix and
Martyr the tangible, succeed the brute upstairs,
Unbind the victims from their prisonhood. We are
Of consciousness braced against the eyes of kindness,
Looping that considerable loop over themselves, fleeced
Till emotion is not there, and this to save us from the
Imaginary core, constraint being guilt at not having
Found it, because we need guilt, not the core, just the
Invisible judgment to unfold the sense and reify
The mixtures of bland winter unto a summer that
Doesnt make any sense, but sins away, all
Freakish and manipulated by the freakish wind,
Let sparrows contemplate that inner Earth we can
But speculate about in forms of wrongness, shout
Incredibly the bane of smallest, cellular rest of
The rest of it all that is what renders prone the fully
Beautiful, the whole disaster clapping like a crowd;
Depressed by silliness, I live in my tones like atom.
I rocket forth from the herd and manage sheep
That bounce and frolic over fences till I sleep, and
In the meanwhile cover meanest, copulating
Grandeur unto givenup respondance too lame,
More dragging in the lasting light than hairs of universe
Would rock the World until the World ran far into the
Shocking dreadlocks of immediate sense that faint
In bucketfuls, drain to the nearby street that burning


Claims the feet that track upon it wildest dreams
Could not have decided, if accomplished, outside
Of manifold blur and trope and exegesis, explaining,
Rocking like a chair in the back, or emulating sheer
Explosiveness till you yourself exploded just to survive
The merchandise of beautys limy tail, its very end
A societys end, and truth the final say a thing untold
But told like showing a secret instead of telling one.
"Don't tell everybody about your dreams / They're too amazing / It'll melt their minds" - - The
National, Tall Saint
"Confess, confess, you dog!" - - George Gordon, Lord Byron
The devil to your vanity! I will live twice as much now so you can have
A fat, familiar slice to relish, or to predict about catastrophe okay? But
Really, this is an attempt to mollify you, with lies: you have no sense
Of control. You accrue a blasted planet of myself, like a shrine in the
Closet of an obsessive, made with stray hair and nail clippings, over
The years trying to usurp the rest from me. Your duty is to have all of
It be you and of you and for you to amend and polish and straighten
Out, to give to me: well thanks. Fetishize the crap out of what you do
Not have in the meanwhile to distract yourself: or see otherness as
As precious a thing: Accruing Sphere: let you rain down your sorting
Out process as measly, measly gifts appointed me to say Thank You
For. Perhaps I am blind but there is only the Grand Nothing to prize.
Plucky, frenetic, crazy with turnaround these are days as eventually
Jam us together. This
Is like happy mistakes wreathed against art making the artful or what


Come of milking a happenstance properly without knowing, us a natal
Self given wider berth from the worry of catastrophic vibrations living
Squanders: you think into caves: the prophecy of soap wants to meet
To bump uglies with you to destroy me to an erratic swan song, along
With me lose all that freedom is at present: find this in the woods: the
Sadistic yelps of wolfing wolves at their fool had at the expense of dirt
Roughen up edgy soap: as a reader of myself you cling to the qualities
Of soap, as the wages for my edgy incomprehensibility you thoroughly
Stultify as flat as ironed clothes: as the thing wolves eat, that's a good
Example. Know the drill. As I once did maintain prophecy: it was like
A raze down of what innocent pieces of thought on The Modern Logic
To a fantastic choir of dismissive chortling dismantling blocks built for
It, ironically. And at that I quit spidering intentions into elements, leave
Them fierce manipulations of bolus. This is some command to clear up
Things: just concentrate the manicured and farrowed absorptions you
Have given me in speaking to me in code, for the love of GOD; those
Daily Living Exercises your you reviled and scrunched into a few reified
Complaints just camouflages the necessity of them: no brainwash, no
Altering blood or stanching of passions to nil scopes of anger. Not
Merely, no, do you cleverly avoid cleverness to play the idiot. That
Is so as to if you did not know if you had halted soapy demons or not,
Neither make nothing sensible appear volitional. Go crazy somewhere
In the superstore if you must: you pretend to browse for clothing or for
Groceries when what is growling for you to acknowledge is
The Very Suds of yourself and your accursed individuality. Or
Things you do not have; do they make you 'hanker' too? As I
Might glint a want, so do you undress, the subject out to sea, calling
For the rapid demonizing of a previous place at this point the narrator


Has surely forgot. Maybe 'I' can marshal up from the reddish quell of
Nil some ghosts exactly like the place where I am calling from, lamed
By naming, by the naming of things to come by those who freshen up
With soap; like I name, you think, and name all day, just to have your
Mouth washed out with soap. However they punish gathering
Up clues to a fortiori drive a point half-home, you think, you
Should appear like them, famous shadows crying out crazily
Of less consecrated people, regaling the sumptuous soap
And not reviling. Minor bruising along the jawline after the
Bombs of war go out upon the land unexplained. They soak
Up under the eye. Where did they hurt you. Not a question.
Where is where. Or someone uncharted by the humanity
Of flaws, the first perfect person who might not need to be
Clean or cleaned. My absolute canyon growing by the eon
You say to yourself, To fit in more the feuding, existential
Roundelay of fair tassles blowing in the wind all circling is
Made entirely of ruins, chipped castles, deals we thought
We made delayed, and human interaction, as much as
Cleaning yourself would need a clean bar of a very soap
Of self. I am that missive unto your barbaric cleanliness
As breaks the tar in crumbles from my feet, say the narrator
In talkbacking verbal handling and so worn from elemental
Battles, bombs, and televised eruptions of glassy personality.
An escalating thing, like entertainment is: but its all a wash
In that it exercises by the rims of flesh so flesh might look
And slyly respect you and your utterly mental soap, as
Water retches leakily from a suffering nozzle. The floor
Is a swamp. It is a real swamp. You hug tight your width
With a towel that barely fits, and slip on the floor and
Almost break your neck. The soap discharges to marble



Sentiment: the narrator disappears after the grand

Destruction like a tornado inflicts a silence upon it
Disappearing back from its ceiling-spot in the clouds:
What giving gifts of clouds of orangeness afterward
Would be to so refresh me for some new narrator:
Reason your own knowledge of your face, even your
Expression. Here's a remedy: a sun: or clouds of soap:
Parlay with meaning, find the cleanest you can be
To make of things predating your own shocked
Imaginings natural bleedings, all starry in the midst
Of finely soaping swooping of felt rain, rain like felt;
As tinctures of sun waken me softly to my sleep.
As many live and few survive the dirty beauty of
A theoretical bar of soap made the hygienic materia
Poetica as tries to displace, as I do, me from fomenting
Knowledge of a me I must have known: impossible!
A me of soap, a me you, of bled suds from the hatch of
Feelingless, undetermined, unmeddling cramping stone.
How is it I have, all along the surface I have made
Run requiem but beyond uphill, carrying the death,
Despite I to cripple what mourning with the lifting
A days bizarre drama with it, standing atop it like a
Chum: they dance a heavy weight with one another
On the shoulders of me, my face dry: a lateral, bruised
Stem-shoot by rented feelings feeding on what is in
Any case the ache for tomorrows tendril-like stain, a
Grasp of infinite brain still in the cradle, as yet, literally


An old routine: to sadden sulk into giving a shit,

And, deify the record of it itself, intimating sanity
But no home for[four] it found: so, left as a wreck but
Clean, empty, a tunneled-into form comes around
To say hello. Still in exodus uphill, I burp out,
Balling up drama with sadness about the drama,
And all of us in 'you dining on
The little socketed thing into the earth that it is,
Or that it made to the frequent begging
Pulling from out the tongues of conceits,
Etymology undone, refined undone, a riot,
A swill the manner-matter of the day today,
While, of course, the anarchic
Comes in tempest form: the
World over: like, a frisked devil
For paraphernalia underneath the hip:
For, we assail with our dubious moisture,
Our humid selves in you but still a racket
Of moisture to give distinction to the dirt: for
One there is more than two: so reify your head
Until it spanking new emanates a thing for sale,
Likes the mist and foggy vagueness beckoning
Vague tendrils, sadness always a thing, drat: there
In the minds of one. . . \. . .

-Walking his way uphill,

Well, where
Is the surface but in what have we already dug
To bypass the incline? To be
Nonsensical criminals with drugs,
Tipsy wagers from that angst in the corner,

Little peals of dissent like anchoring, running

The soul to the feet it has made
The ground of, on
Latter surplices, peculiar photographs
Of an Aunt you thought was dead.
Or of an Uncle once
You reminisced with
On a porch:
You jolt the dumb squares with a handle
On the info you replay for sure, just to make
Sure it didnt disappear/crumble while you looked away
Design me up the way a little. Like an invention down the road
For I am in that garage. Am driven by a dark stick shift mentality
Awkwardly imitates. Fake is what is everything. I dont care. But
Do. Let that tragedy begin with notation, a vapid spiraling dirge
I cannot but attribute my whole body to. Put hell in helicopter,
Rune in ruin. For that glow of loss is a sad one. A lovely bitter,
Transient seat that goes away. Like catching smoke in a glass
Sphere. I am to be for you, and only that I wish upon a sodden
Role for myself to sit down in and be within, would shake my
Fake. Would laugh the glut of rain at my nature, my own, my
Thrown garbage onto the street too late. I have my rottenness
When I be most lush. I, I cant spend time. Only achieve it. It
Is something I wont rattle you with saying I want no more of.
I am in yr garage. Aw, look at pall of widening clouds catching
Redness, early, a filter of that current the sun dips out of and
Forsakes, to forage for a bigger sky down the horizon a little


Bit. You know, past the beginning of this poem. The road is
Not hurled out onto the scene like some rafter fallen onto the
Head of Generic Unfortunate Human. He dies. And is never
Until I mention him, like now, I do, again: and then I think: I,
Well shit, theres A, theres B: theres a difference I tell you b/w
Perfection w/r/t moments and being where you always need
To be. Hundreds of miles away a man is struck by lightning,
Throws his hands up at the blessing. Hanging out are throng
On throng of desperate feelings unsaid but said as a result, way
Down the street to here, where they get heard and hurt being
Said, too briefly to be anything but some halfcreated trepidation.
A dreamself is schooled at home, writing his essay on a house
The entirety of which can be seen. The blocking of a scene. Was
Good. It was all so surreal on the beach that night I thought I was
Sinking. Into the wires reality bruised into being. Visible little
Holinesses, scalping slow and rotten all material into these daft
Cartwheels of reality that break down ceremony, any, to
What? Irrelevance? Here, this: for the sake Ill say it for a stand:
Take a stand: stand up and have there be a reality to that: you
Know: I have no solution: just gabber. A subject-satellite, listed
As atom-rite, is like the physical manifesting of mentalpain: listed
By noter of notations: wish, could throw out clairvoyance: my own
Grandmother saved my life from beyond the grave and beyond,
Thus, time: she knew what would happen to me, simultaneously
Stopped the situation from being my very last one: scariness: oh,
Shit. Lie in bed tho: sweat through sheets you find impressively,
Wowie, are made of feathery time-locks: burpd smoke of minutes


That wiggle forth into reckoning. Dont recognize delirium like this,
I mean: they dont uh make delirium like this anymore: is it even
A truth: be the second more you throes of self layer into sweet
Heavens hellish part, you know, the one made of moiling silence,
Retributive vagary, something unexplained but then explained.
Design my fate like the question I didnt answer, find my trashy
Self, wire some money to the martyr of the world the world does
Have too many of, besides you know the ones not actually that
But softish crybaby souls on the re-up familiar, bodily heats buzzed
Fellows argue the actual pain of over, maybe too cold, too called:
Almighty with fingerpointing: bolting as the reason for this poem,
Ran across the strand of a palm of a palmtree Id want to see,
Rather than this redness-glaze, amazing though it is: I need a
Bit of warmth in my life. Dry off on the offals towel, for now. It
Needs no other thank-you but from GOD: a cause of nerves goes
Happily scampering up the noted body of me. Anxietys chord, ah;
That hellish, invented wheels floor down the invented road of to You.
". . . . . ."


I listen to the music I have faced go its wintry distances across
a field of undue lilacs that should not be here,
peopling the indiscriminate, round hill
and in a scream
to make themselves an art of contradictions
and brilliant misunderstandings of the will
and lamenting contradictions. Our display and chivalry


of all things mean, the all they mean sometimes,
bowing at eternity if a place at all, a science,
a meandering reticulum absconded unto, degree
by degree, the nice fathoms of night, is a thing, as
grows a heart from the heartless pastures, as
grows flowers from the layering
snow of that evening land, a place that is seen with
an obtuse shining eye from that corner of nature, and then
a spine is suddenly native, oh, there is a bridge, a normalized foray:
it squelching out the distances of possibility. The it it is foretells in
ripening snow
and, decreasing ether-mind to its model
thought, a spectrum bearably misty, yet still, in the heightened hodgepodge
of feelings, equally as corruptible as repels from corruption be lies of
his good majesty, defensive and dawdling around on his ambiguous throne, made up
in the present tense, though, hearing out these ornery fixations on to-come,
removes through its crashing weaponry of blind predictions anyway
the things of prior tenses, equally blinding realities of all and dropping them
somewhere else: these empty fits make for being there and
lilacs breathe, despite the freezing weather, empty fits the jabbering,
intoning criticism of bored self a recognizing of the throne itself.
our folly sits by judgmental virgins
having the time of their lives in a hammy harem
in the meanwhile, waiting for their heaven
to hike over beyond the little stream,
to stitch their minds together to endure
the frightening meanings dealt a soul a furor-fhrer, whom



grips to the desk desperately just to deck out from primitive assumption
a new intelligence of what is said. All the birds scream fables now.
Atop description of it sit men who have their great ideas,
They scan beyond the usual quells of finality to do it, fit
Their own ire into restless boxes, look away towards what
Brought them there, but from another routine, strip statues,
Quitting the lamely normal, to find an idea-as-direct-being sans
Hooded carrier, figleaf over the junk; something rather drenched
In its own small white particles of thrust or swerving in and out
Of error so as to work through it, feigned
Coronation for a knowledge, a party by yokels for eternity, just
A sheet, nor special signatures interpreting magic for them
Could smuttter out of detail, nor rake up into rank definition.
Lying down, coming to a stop, in avoidance of the artificial
Yoke that is mis-breathing, dispelling what at first has
No proof it is not there, like grief that celebrates a lingual
Freedom from commitments to attend the falling of a reed;
Beyond a saying that is not seeing it first, among the limy
Reeds hanging, each reed a man, to themself a flower for
Arty sticks to be jealous of, stuck up higher though sticks
Are in regards those brittle virtues life makes bones out of;
Yearning language be around them, fit around their logic
Like an inverted print telling itself on some black canvas,
Sand thrown and stuck to invisible glue, people write about
Their spot despite being around it, persisting multi-venues
Of possibility throve while in the room waiting for the death
That will prove what spat out to be the accurate collection
For a possibility: for their act of placating themselves, with
A meager fist of dust, abruptly-quoted figments, shadows,
Down to their obtuse hypocrisies, to be received as gallant;

To be themselves in their mystical heroism, a solid play-act
Sold. My dismay and better versions of it are in the waiting room,
Look, here they are, a requiem for loss I needed for to gain some
Pretty impetus to forge hammering out forgotten work here, airs of
Drones, bang, it boils my head but soon fits itself to the main point
Of 'it and all that is to grieve for a gain, because I make it furious,
Stiffen it into ghostly concrete, see parking lots where turning keys juice
Up the car: to commit one imprisoned hope to the page is to lose another
To rage, just as to gain the spark I spake again I must involve these men
Of multi-kinds of reason, for a nervous gain I lost, got nervously by them
Again to top the wicked thievery be loosened just this once into
The Real World, a bitter spirt of it is my contrition. That one can
By the doing see, as pull a magic bartering out of some new hat
Is one thing, and not impart a reason for the sight, but I do know
Not not to apprehend enough to satisfy myself by embankments
The imagination sidles along, pure mud is not enough, is at least,
For bodies, scorning habitat and breath for hunching hell, a thing
Thronging for sense, atop the definition I
Can say. One gets happy for the loss,
OR that grief, and pain, is happiness
Across the lucent board of oneself,
Exiling to embankments of meaning
That only are and were descriptively,
Because the words are there before
The reader, cleft of cause, at the door
Of fancy, grief for gain is beautiful,
I grieve not for a loss but hate the gain,
That I have improved; I hate the stink
Of it, the stink of embroidery softening
In gaudy talons, verbose wires of gain
In falbalas, to mock a happy life with
Ignorance of otherness, a pall of a
Thing that makes sense just because
I make it so with words that grieve
No loss, not a loss, but in summa an
Improvement for forever. Celebrate
The wrongness this means out of the


Hat pulled rightwise, and tidied up
Succinct. I have many of them. Add
The consistency of belief, then, to
Surety, and flat to round, and find
That all the hells an empire of a hell
For wickedness and cruelty to relate
Their exalted acts, to stun logicians
With magic nonsense, a snide beg
Away from telling me more I might
Intend to say would be atop, as like
Atop a tower dropping, things for
Not their purpose used in spite of
Purpose, as the flaming themes of
Humankind, a kindly, droll profusion
Of sentimental clods and oddballs,
Heretics, and all them sniffing climes
Of clumsy wrongness, an attired finding
Focusing on the word, not definition,
Of the thing found, not the sure position
Where hence it is of use, but opposite,
Like grieving as one would for loss: for
That is it, as definition, but atop that
I think there lies whatever I may call it,
So say I grieve the gain of an ideal,
So say it and then say it so again, to
Find a missing thing of my declaims,
A fervent hoot, a lesson about eternity,
A mock of meaning, a serious mock
To say that something is put to a use
That is not it, that is used despite it not
Being that, for an opposite, foiling chance
To figure out the message saying us for
Ages: an alerted paracosm, a delight
Of fingers wishing grieving more correct,
Wishing language more correct, or
Wishing the devouring mechanism
Remain unharmed by name, and I
Am armed with shame to make a myth
Of silly pride at prideful, barren pith.
One can get beyond the getting of her prior,



Insistent said for long, and marred in trappings

You have too but mean differently
As in to search for light writhing, you
In presumed space resigned to its presumption
While always freaky latter statements quell as well
That endless conclusive imitation of another manic mind
The drugs have lost in funny, begging lostness, groomed
For a tumbling ultimatum in the business
To say only of the stuff it thought was grand , yet never speak but silence to the answering names /
impetuous poets fling at that unethical noplace
At deeps to stun the jugular with low voice
That etches itself in grim, giant tones /
We hose down to holocaust / a terrible
Elapse of lonely time of prayer : we cannot say, and say less with the more, our mouth is moving not,
we sate / thus in our outpouring wiling / the wrong pressures of this unheardof ventriloquism all
crosseyed stomachs handle and outpour / just to wrangle, muscle and with luck subdue / that
confusing, frozen cavern we all might enjoy / with mundane tea or coffee or the beginnings / of
saying meaning like that, that are / the more in this contextual whisper amongst
Ragged imagelessness / tho / and that this dyspeptic logic takes for walks / to big, angry proof / just
to assume belief be in something more than needing to be fiction.
Brutishly described by certain
Ghouls, the soaked blood of the thing,
Your coat, a message for where the breeze
May lie as instantly as an obvious hook a
Universe gets to cry the panic
Of that intended denoument, it inscribes
Itself early, glows early of its end as strains
The bearded sexton at the gallows with his
Hilt, as you are chaperone of death
Who wheels the car
You drive to noplace. But noplace had become.
It had to, in the freedom of its speed,


Become an action where it all was heard

Beyond the internal, eye-giving orchestra
Like glass upon a certain pate;
As wild as unstable buffoons going crazy in a digs,
As mobbed Monsieur Temperament is relieved.
To scale noplace is as if to hear it was to be it
Upon a ruddy rock of time / by the animal sea,
A rock that changes time / unto a place and for
The voracious imagination to feed on, like goats
On tin cans. Our fathomable place is Cardinal / to
Civic dualism, it plays the price paid / for free men
To excite this to itself / for the sake of all society,
All mules and masters / and furious gilded mishaps,
Where they mean meanings / will feast upon their
Duty of today / to be nowhere but where exactly they should be.
The muttering mutants change and so delay / the sight of it that
Is most there, most extant, sliding into allegiance with the whole /
That crepes up life into a fold or two / nesting us in places, here
And there / and fascinating our most human parts / with jaunts of
Rest, of weary silence / lent upon the baby of this fuel, its virgin
Appetite a matchless stimulant / to fan the flying Jays and signal
Bees / to copulate and carry in their withered cells their minds / an
Ultimate production, some stage beyond fiction and right there, in
Front of all the use it has / to light this petty wooden table, I choose
You for you are the one / to have said the misty mysteries verbose : to trill from veins an eminent
succession arrogant, untidy decrees make as spectacle of life and yet not life, this lively, this sickened
place of hiddenness /
We are resistant for us to march as the very footmen to our little dooms, called hours / we spare each
day from, locked in secret cheating it instead / a wandering mind and favorite betrayer, many faithful
flagging suppositions / left and right awarding dread their vegetating begetting but yet to that fierce
noplace of an utterance : where you are with me, laughing,
Flying on the wing : fleeing out of your bad band : if the hilariously dead focus of this mattering too
much in knowing ignorance / to be ignored, yet refuses to display / an art, a tired note on some piano
/ and dull noise twinkling art in smallish throes / running throes from there, small spot / well / that


deference reveals as simple sums / of adequate, felt regions things of sound that we have not / begun
to fester out of our mouths / and flee with to the point of silence and the pivotalest regale / of that
which does not return / ah, /
But emanates a new place for spread silence, mine, sulked and sitting so long on its means :

Scarred crag-rocks seeking stillness

Against the flatout limit, in the painting of it
That makes it a division, right from left,
Tumult, wavy spars of ocean-din
These rocks are so motionless to move me
To move me so to kiss
Her. How do they do it, the vessel-ones,
How do they make creation shaken enough for the
Piggish oligarchy, and dead thwack on the moment
Your face goes erupting to each burning eye
On you in the board meeting
To announce your letting go? Nothing,
No, nothing seeds in this but what I dont want,
Shit, I would pirouette around the
Point of this, the real point unshaken,
Just to get past this stormy calling
To the brief point of her eyes I mention once or twice
For a blazon, but for to prettify her parts
And still keep the woman,
As shadows of movement clear across
The oceans edge, the painting,
The lightest snap of motion to the crag-rocks.
But for the real of this scatteredest dance, I trace
A lovely loom
Over my sent ways I rummage
For to find the crystalized kodaked image-thing
Amounts of it into ravening oblivion deplore: she is

The reason, not number, I do not settle, nor
Abate for whatever reason, these,
Nor do I create like GOD a moundless
Risk of a hill and hill atop
The ground you float on
She lets met tell you I am ready
For action to take steadiness here atop this hill,
Against a muttering ril,l of trees wondering.
And the trees. The ground you float on,
Above the load of disposition atop this hill,
My face looking at the rocks in
My own stony way. Fly into the extravagant
Melee, no, dance of characters
Charming her eyes apart:
I barely see
The love that is happening to
Me, yet its wonder I make child
To my rolling ambitions, stumbling
Into different slipping ideations by
The day, more, more and more, like a hungry mouth
Of the trash compactor lessening black bags into bodies
Like in that movie GOODFELLAS. Know there is
Much more in the setting sun, willya?,
Upon these fleshless rocks a body locks
In, breathing in and out saintly roaming things.
And trees that give me to seize a pestering ant
Upon this my hill,
My sides -do nil- but
Cooperate about eachother, yet not in, as she wants me



As a thought you always lag behind your fullest,
Dreamiest expression, until the delay gets sick of
Itself and spurns me right to the same nowhere you
Flee to yourself, in those moments of a stifled mouth,
The hand of some shady person come up behind you,
Telling you you have been had, but soon you need
What you have of that anyway and thank the damn brute for:
A, a nursery for people [or principles] like me. I find where I am
Propelled to go easily, that is, being thrown into a nursery, I find,
As easily, if only I take one step forth, tapping steps loudly that-Grate as nails against sensitive flesh, on what your own shabby
'Ideal has going for it, on it, well, then, I am already out of time,
Before a single step takes me curiosity to emergency, and then,
Time is tucked nicely into someplace obvious, simple nowhere,
Just for you, situated between windy strums, pathologies, and
Beleaguering out and all for what I thought
Would be the icon of believable poetry: the
Place made of sense but tragically of sense, and, all this ruin
Veined throughout: it is an obscene regret I do not mention, go
Ahead and hound in the humor of loss, I open the doors to how
Sick we can be, WELCOME, wretches, while people laugh at us,
Refusing pity out of respect, or that would cry if they
Hadnt, humanity, permit these qualities drop down to
Earth, so that they can be at hand, like some soliloquy-You howl out to keep from spiraling out: or a private
Wish you have to help everybody out, then, surprise!,
I am back again, hello, upon us, upon us, upon or uh
At my transported self, away from me, and away
From the well-oiled, big majestic response Id have
Ready if not for the things that wanted busting out,
Universal matters, cadged things all people feel like
Things with. That the reality of coruscated wetness
Entrails of pipes and loam below in the BASEMENT


Have. The benign father takes me there to view the
ANIMAL SACRIFICE. I wow at it each time, entrails of
Such eloquent tangles as I would have be mine, yet,
Yet for such a fine transition, body to form, form to
A functioning ambivalence moved without hands, what I
See as telekinesis, originally, this mad, unseen charioting
I cheer up all those slabs of mirrors, raining down
Like atoms, each a perspective, say, youll get there,
Flying past them to the same old rotten luck,
Straight out, fired like from a molten bourn;
I am projected, blindly, forward, racing willful
Stars the length of comets, conscious stars-And away off into ampler dimensions I try
And scare up the spirit to afford, you know,
For when I get there, from where
Well-worn, whatever, meaning life has left
In it stopped to either dig its hooves into the ground and
Pit itself against me or maybe just peaceably wait, never
Knowing I left it way behind, until it realizes-Too late and is eaten by subconscious dusk
A little kids BIGWHEEL would not fly fast enough to
Escape, down halls I spoke too wide to be adhered to
By plastic wheels, matter in general: however welcome
At first, these physical objects, stitchings
Of some omnipresent trick?, or at the-Least reality, outside of time, is somewhat in
That mute indifferent sob of space I created;
Let me hike like an idiot through it till infinity
Becomes as long as this uphill wilderness is,
Persists an empty echo, multiplied. A second
Step to tread ahead, and then, the moody doom



There you were, when the climate became one surrounded
By sun no longer, when the sun too much existed in ideas,
And, brand-by-brand, laughed, as if to touch the apology of
Absorbed meticulousness with the draining fingers that draw
Up our blossoming time by minute and by minute septum
Breaking: and of normal conversation outside on the porch
Put an end to, since it is raining, I see, I see, there is a thing
Bet on every action, there is a thing we curb from knowing
Fully, but drift like a sailboat across the empty normalcy, us
And them, weird, it wasnt before, now what, how what and
When is this?, doff our craters like they were things of honor
To impress enough unto a flowery grandstanding dense this
We martyr so as to eclipse, we gnostic fellows, we are the uh
Elements you are going to use to create something really, that
Is to say, new, this is a poem thats going to be superb, just
You wait and read, [see]. Her is the grace upon and is a split
In act and act, wanting to watch, waiting to witness, to know
You will witness this beautifully common poem, its just a stun,
A circumstance on the porch. Well, drop us to the floor like the
Nuts we is. Grace? Never. Die out now. Floored. I want to floor
You. Modernist swine. Try me. I am but in a crate of this own
Reflection of itself unto the weird oddness of things deaf to us,
We wont beg fantasies, it will merely be about starting to rain
Here, its raining, drops fall like flak taken by Mother Natures
Dead colossus rendering itself a blessing upon the subject, it
Matters here, fucking right, what am I ever talking about but a
Terrible sadness I feel constantly? Im serious. Its like mirrors
Each drop. Its raining, better continue this conversation inside
About, maybe, my brand of grand PAIN. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN.
[1] The crickets are my ever-loving bastion
My mind emits, as sound themselves distractions
Love tangles in, in grips of love the thoughts
Pour silently as their own representation



Of thing-extant, and woolly by the eerie squatters pad,

Despite, the hush might mucus make for us a bit,
Its so cold. And square off rightly we, bared as eye and eye,
Per difference, listed our own selves one fine and neat, the other
Clumsy, maybe so tonight for outer regions where time copulates
The crickets chant, it will not make it all the way
To my particular name, when I am up against
A wall, and nothing is left there to hide
But asp-fanged loci where the odd sound
Ripples: it a car for my own fear to stalwartly
Crumble, once I hear from her the biting
Question: have you ever felt the alien familiar?
Then, she rests her naked bearings under the sheets.
And I am knuckle-headedly to put my focus
Or what of it I may have, away into the psyche
There against the wall, where nothing can
Be hidden, nothing but the cricket-strain heard for
All to see: pick up this nonsense, stick it well
In your heads ample nothing-core, rub the
Client well, the right way, of your leaving quite
Blas the handkerchief to wag beyond a
Human doubt at what this poem wants to say,
But really aims to right destroy, unto the rigged
World a delinquent pressing up against a promise,
When all that is done here is problematic while
She sleeps her naked self without a single drama
Unfolding, nor with an angered monotony let
Everything coat the home-base where our lair is,
When somewhere else asleep tells us our darkness
On point: two opposing things together in an ugly riddle.


[2] For years, time went impaired my touch of eyes

Upon the very signal it hath given once: no more
Resultant that but is a ward for shade instead. Let me
To cradle patterns my emotions rocked to life, and life
Made wild: was then a life that specter or that notion
Rallied crippled though it was, a furious pretend, nameless
Emissary: lagging at all behind the wintry gutted
Span a life realized, hermetic, this palinode
At the stewed entrance of the genetic print, our royalty
Distends, atop an actors ready crud
The final days respond to well and good,
But I am not there I am therein solidly verbose
To utter swill and try to be myself,
Eventual the ghost will be, after I look over this again
And lose and gain depending on the span I spent
Allusions to connect my retina to an emotional risk
The giant diss against me wouldnt shrink
Me down to whelping dustiness, let merge the cuff
Of meanings with the meanings, let us drift
Atop a machine. Let us delicately dream
Until the innards of myself mean soul,
And body, let it banter off into the swampy mileage
Of another rhapsody, another blessing let me find,
Amongst the clutter of these elements. Somewhere.
[3] The nights that come and go upon the World
And seize us quite peremptory to sleep,
Erase the worries that make to go curled
Around the men and women we might leap


To go and be by day, attach to without reason, and

Embalm the season with a furious cold, the land
Here our revision of the area we wished for us,
So persons can reach heights they wanted to, for once
Without leaving on the floor a fucking project, some to rue,
Flourishing debts, these worries juggled by a needy klutz,
Unmuzzled, and ideal to spray away,
And as for lichen of a notion, pray
I leave you with your aim and not your qualm
For me, the one who lifted up her sheets
And dropped a heavy bomb of information,
Seeks she grandiose mellifluous pique chains
The leaves draw to the drain, become remains
Of stanza previous, what to do now, we
Have little in the World but of a howl
That answers nothing but remits to foul
Dirge, and we left to walk down the pathway
Speaking murderous to streetlamps, so it seems
To curb the dust, the chaff of what is meaningful
By speaking to the thing that are uneven, leaning cull
Unto a point as sparse as leaves come in October
[4] The man grins hard, whenever at the hilt
Of spry recovery an empty spirit gathers
The kin of, lost in murk, the odd toads win
Over you, if not an extremely clumsy, furred
View of these things youd be ashamed of
Seeing in your soul, whereas the bone to
Pick with serrated-shouldered devil kept
Me without an emissary on my noodles
Level, nor be priestly in your tainted look,
Nor fall behind without a seeming look at

Wonders beating rays upon the daze of
Sultry mazes: flowering out confusion and
Then borne unto a World of flimsy air, and
Barely there enough to take a breath, clan
Of devious marauding slighters, blighters,
All I want to do is sneer at their delighted
Stealing acts, they have another chance
To make me soil my pants, I dont, I just
Haunt the open ether like a marionette and
Seize her by the ear, you moron-drone, oh
Flimsy air, bless us back to Christmas will
Ya do, and make us see the extra you, you.
[5] do you have the powerful feeling for sale
beneath the ragged wretchedness
your coattails wigging out against the depth
pulled out the depth of ages and for ages
you are the living carnage of fakery
you watch the unreal die in place the real
pull the poignant out of your pocket
hidden you in your alleyway
I travel down the block of blood
to get to you you worst sort of person
Im waiting not long before you lope out
of the darkness with the dank power
a feeling I have wanted and needed forever



The day was scattered, sanguine everywhere, perfecting
Everything in ivory on the beach, back then, and we,
Harassed by sky-glut gulls, had, as I saw,
That lit up noon between us, a bright one
To feed the drawn netherworlds in us we
Could canvas for awhile, if we wanted,
Awhile the eye of the lighthouse winking off
A sentiment. Though, not red-sanguine, like
A mewling sun not pacified; though not a runaway plume
Of that same sun, as driven blood that dives between
Your brain might stoke passions into parable, estrange
Your tidal look at me and understanding it.
Just try to sight some scruple fighting in the mirror,
Find realness a passion, then know valence;
Subdue those alienating, 'merely chemical' tones
As similarly, by dint of sight and memory I clarify
My own explaining, here, in an unanchored
Head. No, nobody,
Even I, is enough to set like the sun, much more
Would I, the audience to your smile, demur from
Seeing that light light the globe as I do not deserve,
I am askew; my plaintive vision is a balmy trail;
Like knifing Aztecs to that spheric God, would not
Blood more than the mind
With sacrificial waste. That day. We spoke,
Just to invent us further out of blood, as something
From paper to ontology: the strife on strife of living
Souls unmuzzles and gives breathing depth to you:


But sanguine-happy as undated stars garnishing vast

Cosmos: still, hinging amulets mocking time with slow
Processing the light to this small orb: sheathes of stars
That rock upon a nail up there! Ours was the skip
Of undines deep upon the muddy locker
Of our fearing hearts, hearing that jaunt,
And which in the right jagged sonority emoted
Through the epileptic lines of oath and exotic
Conversation, in some exotic motion with love
The mindless syncope of plash and plash,
When us our speechless eyeballs sank upon
The alter of this fugitive, rich
Shore, like teeth; to cusp the very sand with
Green matter and dead shells, sea-trash that ran
The spinning fossils off to their elementary and
Pristine, unvarnished gourd
And snug certificate of place, as us to
The safe, dry places of that rock where we read
Poems from the Ommateum by some rash
Radiance of spectacle given terza libre
Furlongs, holy Ammons.
As wouldst kill the finest effervescence
Atop a universe saturated with bright miles
Of rays and rays, to something more base than
That, I take up no known honesty of sect,
Eclipsing pneuma, if it bar me from you,
Nor graphic plain of what I do expect
Outside your own: that pleases more than
Entwining spindles of this metaphorical corset
Stifling around my unoxygenated, fat mental vessel
Called my personal ideas. That gloamings
Redness, like as flame, wouldst reconcile
To fit new colors to that ivory span, eventually,


But for then and by then everything was

As white as sin. When you and I went touring that bluff,
So slight we were against the waves sincere eructing sound
Of wave on wave, to banter in the haunts of some derided
Cave, imploring with its sound, us as two
To undress our nimble symphonies, once
Before the reach and grasp of thoughts cryptic
Vestibule ransoming ecstasies we soon would know
That, foreign to our thought, till then distracted climates
Of so-long orphaned respite, when we had no idea it left
Us till this time. Take this dream, aloft baby by the armpits
To compare
That days unwearied ivory with this blur.
My eyes turn matchless on the mill
Of memory. I record no abstract villainy.
Daughter be the god
Of your unfastened glee, be
Without the hurt I know you contain
Well enough, better than the glee
If it is indeed unfastened
To work best
Destroy that sympathetic wave
Of doubts upon their impact,
The familiarity to it
Is a symptom of grief;
The grim grime of life only
That grime up anyway
A courageous sample
Of yourself only;
I know you see it not so,

But no
Threshold more could a
Bitching vulgar thing
Conquer, make beyond itself
For praise where none is due
Than where you did.
The vile, moral cleanup for reality's
Bent, as being harm for beings,
You do not undo
The way you do with heartpangs,
Lively though wrung counsel from within
Playing its speechless part. You
Think true seeings are but dirty truths
By the trillion to eschew away and fail to,
Nihilistic angers shuffing again like
An oracle in rags, clot of pain
In sensory admonishment, ton
Of bricks,
Whatever the stake you drum the calves
With telling switches of burnt bark no more,
The opportunities a day possesses
Yield more to you than you had
Left there prior: the windbeaten seed you
Assumed would shatter once ripe leaves
Began to stem, attacking a cruelty you hoped
So long that kept your sleepless way
But these, all the way you thought
To but dogged illusions,
Heroic daughter, contentment is not as
Unexquisite thought: some valuable swine



That martyred long ago your breath's reprieve

And robbed all things, touched or no,
Of finality was not your home. It was when
Broken was the socket of your
Feeling eye, my daughter of the call;
Actually hope was there, alone things
Parting ever from a hitting verge
At your most weakened ruining parts
A night encourages more in sleepless
Spans of wayward thought, upon
The brutish tears that climb my
Watch mutely as I stray from thee my love,
As I go make myself a witty, meaningless satire, am
With a grin, my child, as I go on to stop the gesture
Before its gross entrance
Enters halfwise and wrong, stumbling meaning
With meaning nothing, its prude danger an aurora
Borealis across my lewd,
Mouthbreathing pate, danger
I muffle as if to endorse a loveless mandrake,
As I almost hear a killing scream: the doomed
Reprisals of a goodbye from thee, then nothing,
Thee farther more from my epic little evil I would
Have preserved and left for thee, by the vanity
With the antiquated cloth that had the frills,
So silent a remembrance, so thee
Would know my sore,
Gritty, lamed, impassioned swill
Of self, held like a mosquito


That already happened in jurassic amber: stony

Shadows get slain as like a pickaxe breaking them
Across these weak and painted crevices
Of my brittle mug, awful with torn
Wrinkles: that desire more than anything
To sift away to impossible, glintless powder,
An image echoing the soul I
Face without a face
But say for but one moment in
Those cruel undue clockless times
Thy pure yelp yelps of my conceit,
And I agreeing as I go give a withering
Sardonic, sad, forgettable twin-comment
At the sides of my mouth,
As if both sides to figure out were not
But stranger inconceivables to grapple,
As if a flippant thing was all we have
Incriminating myself and blaming thee
To your crooked face with tears
With my poor
CircusFlexions of my shadows, drifting sentinels
That follow me home, but not more than thee,
Who gives me of the drowsy day no penance
But for trying the best structure of myself
The rainfall licks understated
On this comedy of panes, talking rabid talk,
Ringing out the things we hold close most;
Is by the lash and strain a likewise fashion
As a fallen question I left your pursed lips
To question back, dipped, generous, brown
Eyes the acrimony and the seen ghost

Of bedfellows once, that time amongst
The horror of our thoughts, alone
And side-by-side, listening to questions
Raining outside, drop by caustic drop.
In the bleached light of hospitals and wards, lonely
Wayward letters copied monklike in a spasm-cry
No match for any Sisyphean Blankness to detail
Across a wideness the size of our look at us
For 4 days by my side like someone who must,
While morphine was the lackey I entrusted with
My pain, the storm now like the guts of ordnance
As I shove in my amplified elbows from their
Arrogance, into some hunched lassitude, against
Less. I won those days by what plenitudes
Of luck as would barely have spared me; more,
The drastic curlicues informed the haunting somewhat
Of my injuries: I should have had my yesterday, my
Been, once was, of things I never wrapped up,
Nor could have, if made the stock of some daft bier
To hold my casket and leave strewn realities
Upon a floor, like toys; but life is not child's play.
The storm is a continuum of graceless haughtiness
Inflicting stains upon the metalworked window
Like proper crucibles that stalk me to the marrow
With very fear the absolutest clod were but a mania
We chance to call the flesh of situations and
Regrets. How that word is worming, is as worm
To burrow holes into a stomach of the thing.
In the descent and gloaming of any tragic day
As all days are an empty fiend that weren't



When they began, yet now I cry for you

The tears of vicious ecstasy by the track
Field, now I make of this glint webbing
Any sitting knoll stuffed
With flowers, each time an eclogue where
We might stop the car at to examine
Beauty; or the place with the granite bench when
At night, we held hands amongst oceanic nothings,
Traumas that we spoke, of life in all its theatre and
Crux, inviting thunder, lightninglight almost aware
Of the pivoting schedule of vocal spray, like
Rain burst from the rocks, of exploding vapor;
Or driving in the cemetery, that deafening stop
To weep for my survival of my surviving death: this
Song is for the now: it invigorates the heft I daily battle
With, limned though saturninely
And with a bobbing throat at that at you now,
Who chuffs with winedrenched words at me
Like a nice amicability, not perfection, o
My darkness, but I to have interpolated spleen
Like a bad rut in these traveling grains of wood:
Atomic doubt, a lithic wedge between the fellows
Of My Ghostly Pleiade surroundingly
Of hostile friends.
That is because my recalling follows this cramped violence
In being culpable if visible, this comic, giant, inflated form
Of wretchedness a theft from memory the giantest spasm
That is so more than wave on rock, than poetic fragrance
Of buds whom lift into their person, but forget their prison.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .seeing someones heart break for you in front of you
when you see it in those eyes that say, astonished, how
horrible that must be, to experience yourself in such an


unnatural light: inorganic: a literal taking-on of the scope

of what you originally thought mere metaphorical sense,
that is, discomfort within ones skin, having flesh be your
enemy, but your flesh; structure imposing itself nowhere
and this includes your own body-perspective: maybe you
like to cry all the time because it makes you feel real the
most, which is the closest you can get to joy: but all that you
say goes looking at yourself saying it, some remarks met
with a poorly-concealed sniggering from someone offstage:
your act is of inhabiting mostly-missed-marks, every so often
an attempt at the wrong point to aim true, pointed off; and
when feeling off, pointing true, and clasping your aim
like the sleeves of an interrogated criminal, you, always
screaming at his silence as you ask, where, where is
that self in the sky and does it rhyme with idiom, does it
give its notions like spare alms that nonetheless are
always there: well: let you tell them, as you,
as you:
you tell them, assured of it, that you are a specimen, see
yourself like a test subject to be broken down to crummy
crumbs only come to crumble, ruin, each piece observed,
hamlet-haunted by the stir and contumely all
those blessed divisive spirits
in you contort and frame as suddenly as a painting, around,
around the need for unfinished business:
a wretch to be observed, you by you or you by self,
but not self by you for then youd know all the
puppet masters wishes that might have sprouted
you, bathed in the first connivance light suggests
in being blinding, a growth in some kind of ludicrous
environment, fresh from the petri dish a
runt, a squirt of light
ramming through to display on mountains of the rotten
overlooked things your head emits as the climate-proper
for this conversation: the light is blinding: here is to begin,


begin what saith one who knows his wrongness veiled

all over the place about him, covering him, you, me,
in languid comments in some bulged eyes mannerism,
strained through impassive lips: does this make you feel
so-and-so: well shant I grow anymore out of the petri dish,
be fertile, you know, like the shit at the bottom of an unwashed
coffee container of some kind? you still to this day-adhesive
remain beautifully wedded; your drops of rain unwed the glue
and left you so long apart to the point of derangement, so
long detached to the point of embranglement, within the
studded teachingz of nevermind, fuck it, who cares, viewing
all along the aping of projects with real work done to change
you: but do we all just borrow shit from other people and
make it a staid, chopped-heavy version in ourselves, the
person we observed it in chiding us in imagining him or
herself as the thing is done by us in our own heads, as if
we couldnt control it: thats terrible, and is what she said
once, to me: and she said: dont think in words, I really dont
think in words: well: thats darwinism for the aye-left
obscurants and shabby evidences of the dawn of some
terrible future to picket and decline a night out to truly
destroy: behind that most ironic of all veils, the web:
but anyway: I split into so many pieces I dont know
when a certain piece was important or not, and then,
everything is unimportant, and the WORLD a big old
shadow, feasting on the peripatetic mural the sky undoes
via wind: to blow away the clouds and tumble down the
idiomatic self we each of us destroy to nurture, recreate
to burn, find to lose: the beauty of negations just a spare
swell thing about it, what it is: the look of eyes that
give a shit: about you, not the rain:


I am upon my cup of coffee despondently
Eclipsed by myself is the silhouette of another
She makes herself felt in that dark tar.
And the broken muscle ebbs to life again
As I encounter of whom is long deceased
But for me in moody poems I drudge to life
And cornered by these absolute, long days
Emit myself, as thunder pound my ears
Nigh senseless
And the caf awning flaps unfabulously,
And rain douses the backs of my moody ears
And behind those ears her following phantom.
Well I am here in my indigestible
Panoply. Join me.
You, famished, dry the little on your tongue
Through your resistance. Here have some
Water. A multitude of reasons had endeavored
To sprain your hungry
Heel, hell, beyond that, after all. Not just me. What
All us plunder from sacred memory who live, go and
Re-write the era with, and fall apart within,
Speak, maybe, or mutter at; demand with
A listless wishingness it just go.
The massive hole in the middle of my face
I speak out of is run with pause, run like
An old stocking. I am
A rip of doubting or
Of a doubting tooth; or was not,
At least, till writing this disorderly nexus
Of somewhat a poem, a poem not worried
With times qualities, who was
Where, when: but with why! In
All its tonality: I am
Too much, too much. So there: again,
Everything is married where, says the bird,
The leaves are full of Eliots blind


Children. One as they say it is a new one is

By some loss, after all; you know, one
Or two, at least, between life and death.
I have been in a struggle to fuse what is between with what
Is now, imploring understanding from friends, whom greet that
In their own way. But alone most of all and by my faith in sanctity,
My head its compass and I on a path to my sanctity, stored up with
My odd truths I wandered far, fine.
Deluded I was I thought till succeeding I echoed
My cranial loot in looming booms,
Booming as if I
Were in anampitheatre, wonder-dome, pleasure
Cruise or upon a place of growths where great big
Rife holly-acres were plentifully, following
The wisdom of the climate of
The land, in being most where
The trenches of the rain collect the most.
I wanted: a last lasting thing, before somehow
It goes. Just once to catch it before
The regular tribunal, follow its cycle round
This side of the minds planet, and then Ill go seen
AsHarlequin, by all, once again. O prophetic fate!
And yet this just as easily predictable.
By a sea rendered by me reflecting the progressing day,
To represent these last lastings, made of these last
Lastings, could we walk, together
As two blas instances of life, just that,
As seaweed come ashore, as
Much wedded to those marks of life
As to unseen coral, and not lose
Though you are just as lost, I, and
So then you: as I, never knowing where the assumptions
Clash, make this in a sort of righteousness,
With wants a sorrow
Too unsettling to be clear: wanting, wishing fierce
To wrangle fundamentals, new ones, new
Originatings, new clerical
Prescriptions. O officious guy: beneficiaries of
A few wild hacks-for-revenue arent enough,

Just to gnarl the public a tad, and

Then master over seeminglike a job as done

As fast as I get liquid over someones hands on
Me, she says, whoever and however
She might be: and I the one left, however
As accomplished, in that the mission
Were only recently seen as mission, that is, to live,
Not as a commune, not connectedly, no, not bothbut as if
Certainty did not change, were not that is
A way of playing GOD. I promised you I would get
To Some Big Greatness, like a life does, tends to want.
And so then, I folly myself somehow out of blurry blues
And grown regrets as vegetative as
Black tubers, tendrils, or just tentacles
That ravel sword, as a guard before the bitch-prince,
And scuttle obsequious away,
Pardoning delay, and itching knots in
Me, more knots to go into
The chest, where masquerade and truth begin
As one. Get this away from proper-people!, rich
Water-wasters if I ever saw.
So then upon all problems is I
Making abeyance their most
Tender of organic, flash-conceits, concealed: you felt
Betrayed sometime before you died as though an alloy had-Been trumped in us, the fortified condition
Eluded for so long by us till it was gone
From any getting anyway, and a sensitive
Sting now: that perchance to you
Felt like a nausea. And still we did launch us
Upon any fiend and fiend back then, searching for hell,
For the blessing of hell that is one for being futile
While those of an anonymous they looked on
At our cantankerous, fragile life together;
Bemused, and nitwit anger swelled their limits out
Of a fashionable narcissism, and
The monstrous enmity again was perquisite
To a change of status quo from lugging impermanence,


So as at least and I have seen this wryly

The percentage of an infinite resource in they
Do not become a thing,
We have our own meaninglessness,
Chartered by our hate to hurt, thrown frivol grunts at us
As if we had lost, when we have not, just are so sad
To placatesouls of theywith force from bitterness.
So then and only, permanence
Might change again, though in many forms it is
Love, acceptance, making better worlds within,
Within personage and planet, and without. And
Them then, to grapple
Without aid for this
Honorific, created us but in a cold class
Of human,
Or we created
Us despite a call for not a name to call
To anyone, baiting the silence in case
It created itself for want of action.
They dirtied up the point with
Caws to make us cowed before them: yet
We were not and arent as we hurtle through
These rough ideas, separately together.
A foul spate then, a curse is left us twain,
As disagreeing widows like they are walk away to pray against
The other of their dislike, somewhere absent in the heart,
For what the world, not us, hath taken from them. It
Is all brainless, anyway. All brainless, and we bore the brunt.
What could this be but reason in a purty gland
Twitching maybe, and by the lank vein
Diminished soon, and then the spate forgot.
I wonder at my lot and soon at nothing,
Forget the process of forgetting, going through
Its maim;
I leave this for a painting to give name
With more an image than the words allow
To speak uneasy tundra;
The locomotive answer, the soul-brood result
And lay anchor for the inspirations place


To draw in colors not for mind to taste

But a human lot like mine to feel,
Caesura gruffly, limiting more than cramped
Descriptiveness to chance breathe lithic ruins
Special fact,bold as
Careworn narrative, thus
Trims the action to decisive instances, wherein
Space collects enough numerous void to make
Wracks of pluralities and natures. Numinous
Changes trail a seed, just one, back
To before this pome began; durable, magic,
Plain as peach, dramatic
To the point of its own solstice, reaping a big
Handful of all this scarce a chore, really;
A natural pursuit and not perusal
Of fidelity; a pursuit
Because for it, for the sake of it or, in seeing it
Just ahead. A scamper to its footprint-reflection,
In penultimate watery sands. The discovery,
Tho an antecedent
One, makes me want more of that
As all this drifts like smoke and I huddle around myself.
I escape through examining, I whet the blade
To quicken death, but make no cut.
I just wish martyrs
Were scorned, hypocrites never remembered
And that in all epileptic siege and
Meant of words
One gathered context but in the soul
Within, this time, as some ripe measure, chord
Or symphony,
Or maybe something after all the doubts.
Reality are stones on the beach.
I can hear ocean. Somewhere I
Feel, this is something. Like bid
Me well, you know; Ive got better
Matters to break to


Heaven. Much as it stands, continually

The simper cloys, the stubborn boy is muling for lollies.
Dapper creatures skive off,
To answer calls.
But I cant answer for you. Reality typifies these
Shifting figures at only
The hand of my pen. The simpler if I list
Those nightly visits, to some
Lawn or place unwelcome, filled
With crickets, for then
The more the mess of life contracts
Into a pluming radiance: a
Roil of lachrymose waves that make sense
Eventually, and then die on the shore,
Creep back like something sheepish, as if
Afraid of an amplified nuance too
Pugnacious to
Suggest as anything but as random as the mind,
With a thing or two to tell St. Peter
And the everlasting. First, my
Heart hurts; I collect
Words like twigs in a nest in a tree
Nearest the fine sky. These all, they are
Existences, and like words ultimatum.
All. And if in definitiveness,
My born self is not locked away but here,
In tired words unkempt, sustained
In night, as wonders-o-the-world beneath
The surface of temporal surf as
Massive idols with
Longevities to match the sky itself,
O brine and deep space: well so then that closet
Is mine. The one or other is
Loathed in me, soggy
And mine. The other is all about his wishes
To apparel me in new frames
Of mind these days, and us
Squawking out our motives, territories
And listings in the yellow pages,

To whoever listens. Look, we say,

Im mad as thumbs too long in mercury

Would lighten loads of mind from sane to rackets
Of pianos, demonstrating fields of notes,
But ten pianos and all
Different notes. The mind
Plays itself. It does it. Just, not very well. It is like
A bunch of people
Pooling blood to save up for when
Only you run out. But
Youre born with blood of a passion that you will have,
Lose, have again. But never any more is gained orally.
Silly. Perhaps feelings, differently abled,
Cannot pass much saying if given a
Test, that is, of time; but sole
Immutable remnants seem
Emotionally, less a dream, less
A dream. Even though the maestro wiggles
Passionately at podium,
The orchestra has not hard won every note
As Ive with words, obsession and obsession
But. This entitled practice, bonkers,
Drives me bonkers.
Little is anything but the feet I seem
To here on the stairs,
Somewhere in the house, there, as I stand
Impassive on the lawn Ive come to visit, loaning
A sharp eye to the husband with a
I stand for guilt there,
Keep speaking to the blades of grass.
Whatever renders. Kiss uh
My eyes. Theyve spoken mutilated, as
Like the banging of pianokeys have,
Or a storage of monkeys in cages readying themselves
For their latest public works, missing home in Africa.
In time, time demands a range;
A cast of characters !!
A polluted strange the real must deal in as
A part of: not reject it, for to

Reject it would make uh

What is real a human, in the night, standing,

Looking scaryMurderous Clown !!
He almost dares sit in
On my flock of stuff: bubbling risingly
To the surface:
Of the suburban tub, an ocean
Of silly labels: for the captivating skipper,
Off work, has a kernel for a head
A casanova right up till the end.
All moral harbingers thereafter can
Pretend he mattered only-For the scum
Of dilapidated waters. He donned
Swoon, faked a glut of character for the
Tipping of wine, not the waitress;
So then, fine time it
Might beit isto guess, to seriously
Take a guess at what lies
Foreign, strange behind me, in the night.
It is her.
Is it myself I wedge out of bed
To find, my lonely arsenal in hand, ready for
A masochist to choke and bind,
Or what ??
Sometimes you just got to uh
Take it from the gut . . .
Alive in the green grass I am,
Drowned. Meek. Grab letter opener
And strew each fault with cuts
Along a stretch of green field. Matter
Seems to drop to the
Center of the planet, and lopes
Provocatively away, master of its own cubs
That prickle teeth, like briars to strangers
Who conclude them death
And deathly, lasso the integer
And charge it


Itself with anything but mollifying, a velleity!,

No juice, no, nothing but an endless grain of
Paraphrase and sore notion from
A trip cross-country.
This field is a diamond. This field
Presents anew what had not even been around
Long enough to need freshening up.
It is like that in the field I guess.
With the letter opener, all is confetti till,
At the center of the planet
A smoke, a hint, a big bluff of reason come
When all that need be down is me
Who might just lay, and lay
Alone, outside deriders and derision
To be at least with my own derision alone,
And amen to the chance to stay there
And not return where you left. For it is
So musical while
The green grass blows, here, for a time,
And the maddening distance of the sky a held memento,
Catcher of spite and all else we dream
Spitefully of being.
While I am vacant I can focus
On her crafted, bogus, upturned shadow,
A looming pain, shot pastthrough the gut and
Upstart through the ventricle, so blent
Until the thoughts of here no longer drown in
Thoughts of other things, but
Maintain no difference, and galaxy the ground.
These tracks led at first into what
I saw a forest, then a blanketed cirrhosis
Made grey, enclosed what before had been
More natural, and, rifting
Through plenitudes and choices on my path
Made little dedicated way. For now is this decay.
I have followed them each, and back, and none
Have been to places but where is a thrust
Horizon, yet not sun, nor light at all is there.
The walls engender caves, and banks
Of water can be heard a-drip
With same cadence as patter of breath.


When is it, and is it really to where what

Couldnt multiply stayed, and there to rot ??
Ill never know. I disavow
Any particular scholastic shard
Of poetic impotence
Or particular glance, at the subtleties
Beneath my mind, in traveling
More cramped, past dusk another dusk . . .
The gyration of wings
Unsettling all over the place
Settling never
The arms giant stalks
The centripetal force
Fangs in the wind
An opening of the speech of movement

a mob of feathers

Clutching to surrounding
Left Wing Right Wing
These feathers are falling to the floor
They are a long ways from home
The anger of the robes
Lifting kickingly
Bare pure feet speaking in steps
Curl of skeletal wings
Barely able to forego movement
Flapping multiplying feathers
That shell off
To the planet a floor below
Drowned in water across its surface
Like something
Some beauty a skein
Collection of feathers for millions
The thing here too much
Too the summary of all pure things
To give moniker or label
To define what is to us here clueless
Would be arresting wings
Wider and broader
Than constellations.


We are the very clues to liminal in we.

Realer than a planet
But for now to say we
Will be shed of
This brief humanity. You
Would be deprecating to the
Idea of splendor,
I think to myself: a music seen in movement :
Is this, and
To see it less
Than exactly the strike to rift the air
Into degraded pieces of lightning
Would be to reduce
Angel to vulture,
Skinny riddances
From a place entirely liquid.
The feathers are a crusted skein
They fall as water on the roof as rain . . .
Give me my nature. I am tired
Of its being away. Make as if my voice
Was met with who I am. Yet drunk ??
Is he who I will be the barflys best, thinking
An actual perdition but barely there,
Yet just unpardonable, and I suffering
Through these, stoppering undue
Synapse like a wicked, blinding wind devotedly
Through lost, slack objects, tree-branch:
Vascular root no place to stay, for I
Am rootless: ruthless!: I am the rhetorical feelings
Based in never to allay never to be opposed
Because thatd be
Suppressed. They would unfold
As killers of the right at once. This, my defense,
Is all I have. I keep hanging on for not
Else, but that Id corrupt those pangs, the
Stronger with an ill essence:
A branding of raw fortitude to
Continue tarnished, and to tarnishing.


Am I yet upon my blasted fucking music;

Well, what will blast it about ??
Much more Id have if I had broken silence
With a nod, not transitory shuffling,
Broken gesture, feeble, assertive growths
My shoulder
Reveals. Let me die and be dead. Follow my heart ??
Ah. What is that ?? So the dialogue starts
Again, only
To make imprint of a struggle very real,
And only to spread havoc to my bones,
An ill display, a palsy,
These rhetorical feelings; but they are.
The are felt so deeply feeling
Cannot express them.
The long to be expressed as coming
From the isolating din
Of penumbra universe uncontrolled;
They travel there to me so I can
Express not me,
But them bold. What to see
But odd indifference to the power here ??
Even if I knew it it
Is not exactly what I fear to suffer
Thru again, but tears I long to feed,
And eyes: to quench the fire they feed,
These things; and
These are things, they are,
They do calypso with a vibration
And certify my inaccurate intention even
I come
From shyer places than a
Load of jobs upon a blinking audience. I am all over:
How feelingless to blind myself to you:
So quickly heaving off the property that
Day I said I would stay and did not
Even without all my luggage. How fortuitous,
Some unknown reason speaking to me then


Gave reason to delusions that I'd fly from earth

Like the way wispy tells of ink in water or the
Way a flagging visibility of late evening might
Touch the sensibility with reenacting scenes
In your head, mine of ones of her, instances of sadness,
Monotonous sadness, o I spiraling away into solitude out
Of what? Must prescriptive lords of impulse up in the
Stars comment and contrive to end a mortal
Clay with massive hands that always need to
Break something; or harm mentality with
Poor sequences of memories hanging like
Bait? To stir me, then to rig into my cheek
And tear me to the surface of my realizing
Inside the matter we press hands together,
Look within us to find, you half-there yonder,
Standing in the driveway: losing me exactly
The way I never wanted: some people just
Leave, but could I have not shattered you
To believe heroin;
What inky twirling has inspired ambushing
Us, me, with this information dwelled in me
Of you looking everywhere for your betrayer? I am,
Am stunned of a sight of you, ironic, telling me you
Are gone; asking, if late evening ensconces, of what
Warmth is left. What left could I deserve, what liken
To an enemy besides myself, o printless one?
Netherworlds inflicted my brain of course on,
On the drive to Pennsylvania I barely
Remember, nor do I remember anything much
At the moment outside you: lemme jus take off
These kidgloves. Let me relate this to you:

But with a whiplash I suppress at first I
Discover this: all this flaunt and insincerity
Behind the wealth of tears I only have now;
They are only what I have now of you to
Bless this memorial repulsed by universal
Concentrations of petty stars acting as if
I did them harm, when angels hate that angle
Of belief. They prepare me to imbibe, water
By water, atom by impervious atom, a think of emblemnothingness beyond what is impervious, a think of doubts
Colluded, together starving into moot twinkling supernova.
In finding out this fact and yearning for tears
I am like a chump with his dramatics woven
In half, the fabric of this pain impaired like a
Chump diseased to lax an eye in bitter seeing
For the lag of forsythe of the face, clothed
And beginning me henceforth as half, a waste
And unharmonic wastrel wasting his reserve
And, when prompted to mend the facial paralysis
That is another, bigger topic of a truth a sort,
Did not: who took his time to make a drama be
Nothing but an attempted flight, a performance
From six stories; hers a needle in her arm.
How I did mar your life in so suddenly
Firing you out of mine, asshole contender
Of mere failing where you did succeed,
I left to hang upon a wall as if I was proud
Nothing but more wry eternity fixed and so
Then human, with an end, and lately not
Informative, no sign of meaning troubling
To dilute the angels of the world with this,


A thing that takes to arms the very clouds
Of ecstatic con-tent, wrapped in soothing
Buds of good humor and enacted waves
Of pain between: so sorry for this grief for
I have only myself as evidence to hold
Against a death my own, now that her own
Is done.
Of anything but blank wryness intact, as I
Still live, and mortify my own steely values
With doubts aplenty, harvesting contempt
Boweled deep inside a wretch failing to
Undo his own hideous impulses
As floats my head to entrances unreal
Life made for me to deserve, as if I did
In just surviving, enough to stanch regret
As, head behind my head, I floored you
Out of history.
As electricity fades fabling as if it mattered
Anyway, as if this three inch tall, hunched,
Uncontrollable, trainee jailer of each of the burrowed
Fears here I drop mightless into meaning something
That trails throughout the heart, there on the bed.
Throughout a heart as fragile and contorted,
Perverted by neglect, and not my own.
Without a look back at the ruination. Ha. This,
Emblematic of the staunchest perch breaking
Beneath the bird, and hands of wind betrayed
By sinking temperature: I hath lost my friend
And nothing matters: I am of the windy weightless
Brood my tears dissolve, dissipate into: into
Grooves of acidic loss, my recommending gut
A dogs empty bark, and I a scarecrows face,



Forgotten scarecrow with his drawn, impious rips

Of fabric unglued by time. In front of me I wager
And wager, deliver like a man about his deed, like,
Really about it, but improving only his nasty literature
Of a spat tongue, only at his inner Bartleby, saying, She
Is not like as you are who almost were not anymore


Being invited back to our stay in the body, finally
We savages had, withal our complaints, ring, ring, the
Last time we were here, regarding an abluting this
And that but not
Ourselves, but sure, the carpet, needing to be done!,
Ringing about something every four hours, withal all
The stress of the
Registrar of Pain or
Inner Concierge, had been given a mute room,
Insulated in flesh without regard for beauty. A
Better room for hiding in our sore hermitage.
Now: we are plumb out of risks, to distract an able tongue
From this. So, we caught all the people who alighted from
Their bodies at this first mention of evil in their brains.
We gave them there: the moral bevy, the cheapening morass,
That place: thinking, we done good: that's how we did it:
The keepers hostile only to the unlevel dread of a ringing
Bell: flies in the stomachs of some, and

In some stomachs, an

Impressive, soulless kindling: these spoils

Of shed self to make a racket of, a giving
In to neighbors and giving our neighbors
Our sad poems about happiness, and dragging in
Our antipodal add of esquire, declaring to usurp
The Earl of Candor, if even there
Is one, and place in place an unnamed,
Frugal delegate I swear in, his very hand
Upon whatever book works best: at the time the
Best delegate was squared like something 'right'
That meanings of the poor of spirit need,
It was a necessity, something needed at
A time when, up there, they at the flippant gates
Who perilously mine for some recourse to expel
Us at each turn of Rimbaud's head, expelled us
After we had given in to what was
Thought to be bestial carnage, again
Only fury knows, fury that comes in burly throes, comes
When we say, we would not balance ourselves on any
Single connective node, nor,
Despite our hypocrisy, give in to one fancy
Price for living that a thing not us might well
Have bespoke, defending
With ornate circuitousness, while the very snail
Of explanation; while the wind blowed anciently on
The emergent flowers, who spoke with their pollen
Nits, fluttering. Inventing atmosphere from rocketed
Spite: the spite that rocketed from eye to eye
Of these ludicrous, underhanding pencilnecks
Conceived for our vast play at spooky fictions


Lording in that tree, over there; in attempts

To make a poem natural, yet not of any
Spookiness too hard, dig into the teeth of
Nature, find dearness in the inkling of regret
All objects have and that correspond to eyes
That unify each crass mistake, as gains
The pulse to an effective murmuring,
Slit beat, intoning things of the heart
That notice not the pollen of the age,
Faded, christened on the random spill
Of rocks, with blood, a line between
Yourself and obtuse neighbors that want
Too much of those imperious selves of squares.
Lock the heart to the hand, and all physical dirt
Makes of slumber a paralysis, but paralysis in which
We tread our random life through obligatory woods
In spite of lifes ebbing use. Our oblique finery is barely
Suited, much less often compared to entrances of soil
As similarly simply such, these days, an avuncular man
For the daughters of dualism, or
An emptier partaking than before
Of sweetmeats like as you have never seen,
Beyond the green of life; beyond yet in their
Nature, still, and in
What hastening away to mark the tabloids
With real occurance, says we are: artfully
Immune from shocking tidings, because of
Curlyhaired, young boys, as always, who be
On their way to school, be every day. Better
Than the grimmest dead philosopher. This is
A bowl of flowers of hiddenness


In the same way thee erect decor, devotion's

Mister, and implacably chase
The foundling: ransom him for the
Action of you writing out a check,
A bilk of money
For your extra years. Gears
Turn, but, of course, not for long,
And soon the song is over: my adjacent
Obsession, a book of tradingcards, is key
To marrying any spite with any fight, for,
Tradingcards we lose to folly, bad gambles
That get you transcendently angry about
Everything else. The logic on your person
You haggle, to go back on this trade of ages.
Logic is love. Any seepages of the needed complexities
We milk and milk to pithy dregs with nervous speed
Are the casual waves of a scepter of a mere king
Or many kings, reigning absolute over what does not
Matter and that everybody thinks about, and that as all
Turmoil, all crisis, all unbelievable scheme-spearing,
Fortifying the breast with some literate enchantment
With an esoteric swagger, just to intimidate ephebes
With forcible terms, are strategies, barely requiting
This hangnail world with what makes sense of it.
Hang on the mention
Of certain phrases that would make no sense
To amplified keepers, but are like them, whether
Of bees or motels, and whom tell the shut-in a
Story of emulated dolor and disease, for doing
This, to stop so he can go outside. Of course,
It is refined, the squeeze of beauty into


The picture, and a hermetic

Dilution of the picture thus:
I should have made a popular opinion before, uh,
Before all the fuss, yet then where would we be?
Atop a unicorn and breeding malevolent sighs
Like fated children, to return to dirt
Despite their sincerest
Offerings to a planet begging for the mirth
To never end. What harmful sendup miracle flatters
Us tonight? Have you a tight,
Boned clip of expression,
Ambrosia, or the rigor of some loom
Hung above a fury of growing disorder
Of emphatic reasons why in life the birth of
Something is its insufferable go-to? Am I
Just another refusal
Of blue?, whether of sky or mentality;
I fear irony; I am examples,
An enabled camera to take fickle
Pictures of duress, make it simple,
So see then, I do not impress the great reality
Upon me like a lover, but more ducktaped grins
That meddle with the sins of
Educated men, already done with, and who think they
Know better, waiting for an egg
Of info to replace response:
Well then, create a creature to ensconce


With odors, like yours, of the true perdition

Each manifold garland swings, whistling away
Sans wind, its own implored
Device unto the mixtures of the word
With evolutionary ice, and sneezes of the dream.
.. . .

The detachment is this:

Apply verbal simplicity to big concepts
Shuffling subject matter like a deck of cards
It's irrational,
It is beauty for it is irrational,
And all the ire of our distended points
Makes marshal will in just to tame the madness
But not refute that silent singularity, lingering
In the angsty halls, blessing in early tunes, too,
Too early, and then, is a fabulist handkerchief
To provide to you, and for the giant sneeze
All old men chuff. Come upon this dollar,
You willness, whether from wellness or not;
It has its name imprinted on the one world,
But many worlds are colors, are like
Tragic delays of an incompetent speech that
Ranges for nothing, but across a godly riddance,
Goes for nothing, but this
Correct as much as listening to their home
Would give speech imagoes of that runtish
Grove, to salivate about and place in their heads
Some whispered luckiness, conniption honed.
Belated scripture, daunting scripture sold here.
In a house made of decisions about the lawn,
The bleak lawn: and in sudden laughing turmoil


We attend to heated missives back to froth a forth

Or whisper at the face of the magnolia perhaps
Or terse umbrella, emulating description
But this is not description. There is not rest,
No sir, for all the vomitous contumely
Pure wretched switches provide to tame that ass,
As the ass becomes a bitter bitch of later sequences
That make an adipose of this heated batch of air
Because I say so, because the careful loser says,
Like leavening bread, correctly from the oven;
And run in sync with merry rounds of cards.
Attend the likelihood of the subject
Of all reported junctures, to the journal
Of their owner, caught crimped
In magnetic bliss
And make thick air this felony we kiss
Here, and there. The motley, broken stages
Life and life's partner namelessness descry,
Like eyes upon a picture blunt and bare,
Are an enemy in the wind, with the habit
Of harboring the souls of sentiment
That choir as the wind falls down
Of it falling down, and making up
Therefore, at 10 in the morning sharp,
For spring chill with an apritif of sun
And the heat of the sun, suffering its idea
Through fields of spry change, unto ends
So final as to tag not a thing along,
But you eat them, I say, all as a payment
For providing them their freezing gutterhomes
In which the choirpeople peopling your gusty


Glumness, sleep rugged through

Their enigmatic dreams that swallow them
In blockage and fatigue, or a listless phrase
That amps the time it takes to think of, up into
The ultimatum of an endless trance where
Beckoning perditions wave their arms
And say they are not there.
At life's untuned strokes. We die and I die. Know
That. If not for felons taking blame for nonsense,
No bird would cross the window of the office
Of the therapist. Our nays as one yell one quip
At the dancing storm that strums and strums
A story about the spirit I have waited for today
To tell. And I am not undone! I find no bearings
Left me, leaping from my disarray, but rather
An obliging conscience
Meanwhile, understands a stellar stop.
In time new lineage will broil and pop


CAN ARRIVE PROPERLY [mr. man himself]
Reenact what I tell you that I havent yet with words of seizing and that artfully seize,
Only beholden to you, but like some anaesthetic to displace the pain of voltage, when
Put under. O rid me this discomfort at the throne of panic: plunder it to roughness till
It remains no more. O the self. Tough and chewy like overcooked meat. I am but her:
She, in you as anyone: ok glad I spoke that; it already was spoken kind of, from without,
She says. I suddenly am fated by impromptu hands to stand legs gangly atop this mountain
Of a rigorous proofing of papers, spilled from where they belong in the filecabinet to that
Place that needs them. If only I were robbed my sad power, sadness unconscionable to others,
Unconscionable, as if it were a brutal crime, a test of moral volition I failed, I think to myself

To put one under for example for electroconvulsive therapy so they might quench the
Self out of its insatiable pondering that mandates and mandates:
Suffering shall not be the trade, instability shall not be the trade
For some everlasting insanity, boringly withheld, as in, why would
We want that option: I want to know why anyone would choose
Insanity over pain: pretty please: an answer thus would
Release the cosmic solution
Withheld for no ultimate, shy, grand reason,
But to make an otherness mad, leaving an
Ill-equipped lone ranger to amble towards the white lights he thinks either express his
Ignorance or tame it out of imagining: I am she who is to start with at the beginning of

Everything as if en medias res, to loosen up locations for a res notorious for its being
Endlessly tweaked, forgetting its where, priming new ones as old ones rest as litter on
Some teeming ground. If you can, be along with it, as beautifully questionable a one;
Not wait on whatever gets visible through the settling dust, a variety of hexing banes,
Presences: ignored but made of a soul of a familiar mediocrity: an unsettling mirroring
The states of your furtherance, or statements I tell to confuse you and that get a kick
Out of razing us down to aching diminishments, we particles we never admit we are;
Hassling flames like a mocking burning. It is busy with burning laughter at a sluggish
Evolutions path to road; tricking us into aping its own criticism, which we sense: we
We think are ones of skillful consciousness, as long as one makes of everyone what
Is judged of them and nothing else: the while nathless remaining merely infant slaves
Of comparison: and unsheathed prolepsis: for to defend the ruptured hides of sense
That whisper, violently, of yet undefeated insignificance our heavens of unbreathable,
Lecturing winds try and verb to steam, never outdoing the insulation of skull: o truthy
Cant and o pithy prophecy! Attach one to herself and fix the carrot likewise to crown:
Be held in the placeless realm of what is before her hanging by the deplorable string:
Magus or traveler to come here, as to travel would do: unless, by the turns of mission,
Defeated, never knowing we insensate druids of sheer stone yet for our heaviness no


Forging thing for paths anew or GODs salvaged from the desirous burning out an ego
To acknowledge: it is our turn for a pathway out swampy semblance: kindred magus:
By the way it always was and without fail is kindred and is clarity for us really a clarity
For the tendency. Go us from the outer berths, go us telling a thing holding some ideal
Miscellany, far away, almost past the planets, us not knowing of the befallen collateral,
You, about in your meanwhile of a soft human business, going out to be alone with the
Evening, out, like lightbulbs aware of themselves by slow dint of any punctual natures
Imprinting like any pattern does, but as eyes upon some bizarre, deep, inanimate node
The object waking to see would then search beyond, how to own a gesture of a hand,
For pleasing events that make itself be pleased. Go ahead, grab whatever handkerchief
For the weepy awkward GODs behind a sentience of the lamp you abuse too often for
It to not take pleasure in finding this conscious portal, a chance to switch from a tool
And silent status, made for use and only use, to certain poltergeist: or would you not
Be what you were denied to you without permission? You, to have been called a clay,
A shaping to be shaped, a body welcome to handle: by you or someone else. You get
It with luck: it is as much you were of no hands as of no reality; in freeing whatever
Limitation it was you milked out the galactic sinusthud, you, a famed offbeat of the
Heart, all grown already, eyes black as pitch sorting through a clutter of office paper
And paradox, tend to your dreamed tidy widespread airless blend, then; finally usher
In the vast curse, uncivil and fat, a rivaling, antebellum curse thrown fatly at the advent,
Some fetal reality, particles that lessen a limited deity to sparest borders the universe
Expands into to own further, sucks freaky helium out GODs nameless balloon. O poor
Wizard atmosphere. An automatic space but no physicality, extant stillness. You notice
MR MAN himself. Stunt it with your own growth, till the oddity is undone untragically
To very aether, a lingering hearsay of space, alone perhaps; becomes itself a stunt
Or spookstory: calls to everybodys excavating self, as if!, wishing no global rejection
By what amount to a populace of trained gophers doing their gopher thing, hungering
For dirt ounce by ounce; as though it were no better to be stuck in the teeth of animals,
Faithfully eager for a fellow into some darkness, beckoning with seeming to be, just like
A cliffhanging pest that wants your descent into the weird logical caves


Fashioned with stalagmite, stalactite. And talking pools of a darkness
Eons ornamenting drips into a type of what it is, unseen and not once
Explored for it is too spun with bats, the way too wormy. Unfortunate.
It dwells in its own unseeable mess, it is angling out, is leavening a sort
Of schoolyard power understood and ignored anyway by the universe:
A source of fury to me as I think it, who rode the rays of light to their dim finish
And that time slows for: the light of stars, to keep them alive, from the view of
This marble wracked with garbled tribes filled with those who wink at GOD.
They who do not recognize they are a sunder of their place, and yet treat it
A home, enough, at least for their environmental discharge; or is it us,
The reek and rile of cultural pollution of that soul we cradle in chests?
This is quiet chaos like a dream about riding your bike with no hands.
To revenge with power is to see the seed and plant it in the same dirt,
Wedging into it like into the electrical debris you find behind a television: that
Genre is atheistic huff: a universe of pesticide upon unhappy looms that scare
Up various resentments of a birth a virtual death or for the death of
Itself a use. A faulty form by universe that made it for no sake, at all
But to distract impaired atoms on some blue, fecund ball, unspooling itself and
With a brief perfuming magnetism scented by our thoughtful beings and noses
Towards its limited mystery for to stun humans, to a bunch of frivolous nowhere:
A fulfilling of apocalypse after so long trusting lore about it made it enough. By dint
Of looking lost and witless and material, find yourself, broad organism on a mental
Curb of sidewalk on a rainy day, drops
Dropping to the pith of your own waxing
Skeleton, find a way to relieve yourself of these troublesome,
Intimidating questions: this or that first cause, fickle
Source. The clime where answers tremble, the masonjar on that top
Shelf, is not like source and if it went like a source would be treason


Against an eternity hesitating loudly at our infected fruits of learning,

Knowledge a chained fire, arranging combustions unto the threat of
Passion, raided by passion, taken stock of by the misery of passion;
Reenact them like famous battles: where humans once mutilated one
Another, shoot, end up with endless blurs of nothing like the music of a reactive infinite
Startling opinion into a gut feeling, then feeble complaint, then serious disappearance,
But if found that barely. Elemental compared with the prior circuitry,
Unrecognizable from the usual purple height where once a formal
Powwow made of humankind her own tools of the trade, like pride

Now as much there as the flagging symbols one heeds barely or just does not
When they daydream while reading a book. They relieve the pilot making to
Hark out of a pride their own. A shakedown on the insomniac still asleep at
4:00 p.m. and his pet brilliance in a place where they live and where the fuzz
Came by to question, holding a ziplock of blurs. Frustrating this image to life:
What was obviously an organic translucence that began and began again, Go,
Git!, you know the blurs, these famous battles, and how they work, like battling
The back of your mind, a sin for the simplicities of fact one as who is chastised
By ones least bodylanguage, would assumedly contrive her be aware of;
They will to and how, ironically, in forms to crystalize, regarding epidemic
Spheres of atom, spanning like wildflower on the magnificent fence,
From the place they are supposed to stay put and profligate in tangles, all to,
To be, act by the art, where the fence topples aground: onto the usurping fields
Browned and dying of a sun too seldom on them. To survive alongside my debris,
Feel it a sort of handsome honor, I go peppering my convincing state across
Us, who step humanely in the feces of it: of a carnage, and which is all we are.
Hm. Something wildly oracular, someone describing herself through wilderness: some
Faint tintinnabulation, sound of birds, and she, another you, chasing to impossibly nab
Ruckus from that unseen paradisal flock. Or will you gather humble grackles as stir on
The pavements scary question about its flesh? The grid betrays all this longing and



Mourning and stuff: the concrete street makes a wrap of its relation to the ashen folk;
The street, trying to hate itself, and through that, not exist. March down that long face!
Were all this more than some sort of marring of the facts, I would not crystalize what is
At present the entire observable Soul, and count to mine own imprudent number, call it
That and all over, but would make stones of my regret and wheat of sighing emptiness.
I do not even now know what I say just that it is humane and forgiving. I want you
To always be the repeatedly humane surprise of feeling, always being but so perfect
A fragment all the stock of universe reclines on out of reach so out of hand. This is to
Be regained, as it should be. The uncaught tablet of the sky a lawnchair for the lord
Which, in being given us so to observe GOD and to say yet we do not, to fold our hand
Of cards and along with that any sense of arrogance at this we might use to gamble in
The ugly bar, saloon, amp us out in the shitpit,
Pine for microscopic relevance, want to tie in with larger fording places and large scary
Bigness: after all how else to abide the thick show all day: everybody connives around
The rules of shadow, being and being not. Garbage. All blurs blur; become, fathom by
Fathom, a dateless locomotion, travelled long to get to the beginning: in fact it was got
All blurry to begin with. Woven thorough then too dizzying, they go fast
Alive and multiply out of your catching them, your hands clapping over
Truculent air and a trailing liquid, pissy collateral, fun ruin: over
It, done. You try to go and get closer to that reaping, as if it had
Not happened: like of unsatisfying laurels but just for you
That surround your meager contribution, or seen as this.
Getting high is, the harder the drug, a chase to get high on
A schedule. You are anointed a first time, then blessed with
That never again. But that you chase. But it is burned right into you
And is a very season to feed a curious remembrance, any, outside
The realistic high, the blurs incomplete blurs,
Leaving parts of recollection a perfect window,


Turning sides to floor and roof, compelling its

Own mischance to the seeable fore. You just
Like your father says an acquaintance upstairs
Who has not met your family: friend only with himself, the
Squad of other people he met drift off like sleep away into
Dastardly revels: or gunning a fifth till the last chokeslam of
Alcoholism trades their regrets for moderate, completely made
Up gains, artistic gains, business gains, sense of self gains.
People who feel a sort of excitable, relative entirety busting out,
Solemn about the need of superego to remain with its diffusions.
These freaks run the gamut, either accepting fragmentariness as a part
Of their tale as much as the suburbs would gum up sadness into hiding;
Or it is as suasion of a larger customary, unfair force inclining us upward, some not,
Losing control that is imagery positioned somewhere, beholden to a fake poem of fake
Life. To be left the filth and mire of the intestinal halls your local gaol has: however,
Some hearty ones get to mate with their careers, and, sometimes, fuck with
Their tuneful success, a lark as ruptured into chords
Aligned like the seven bickering Chakras, sometimes.
Like really expensive orchids crossbreeding, making
Ornate a remote sidling of it fringing new petals of surpassing yourself
And taking all otherness with you to the beauty, metaphysical gardener.
That you ruin and leave that way all of the souls in their blessed
Synecdoche is a crime done exactly because you cant exactly,
Exactly figure out what you did wrong: so think others flowers:
Hanker for the same justification for wrong being. Or are these,
The funny gems of quick and painless life what failure looks for
Just to justify itself;


Is memory a similar doing? The classy caparisond saddle

The final touch, fixed proudly on your anticipatory steed?
So what followed the wake was what was working in on your illegitimate brain, you
Imagining the melodrama of the confession, increased because of the awful timing.
A brained guilt an inferno to make a dent on it on top of everything else, transpierce
What is your head: it is run by some anticipated imago, anticipated for so long,
For forever: you dont know it gets off on tightening your throat, if it haunts you,
If it haunts your days with supposing itself to you of some great import, a battle,
Or perhaps it was long ago; not the picture in your head of what cancer looks
Like or feels like. These stubborn imagoes. You are better off to shrug off what
You presumed emotional currency: it feeds the, remains the GOD you fake out,
Turn the corner away from in the isolating, isolated rain-subject. That there is
Not enough time to feel it all nor contractual obligations for life to
Ensue happiness like chaotic somethings, or a horde of rodents
Is, and is in every case where as it treats you horribly you bow your head
For it and slip into umbilical dissolutionyour only bastion, not for the numbing effects
Regarding any biding overbite confusion has, if you are patientbut because nearly
A verified rapture is come to unzip the sky and let urinate,upon identity politics
And human kindness relievingly equally,and verifies for the folk who discover
Their own unreality in the hexing mirror a retributive reality to themselves,
Outside of the conditional compassion from ones alien captor: these are not really
Compassions but the lording over your wilderness to tame it for an official display
Behind official glass. You bounce you off your vision; waylaid though connected
Are these, are a stop for gas, stooping in the cold before a trip to the middle of the
Celerity one improves for oneself, or rather from the bottom of, who knows but I,
Who tease all this apart to compromising details of person,
However honorary a member I
Am of the Club For Caves I forgot
About entirely

Antipodal to that: forget the tense clarity


Shooting as like maniacally an evil effort

At youhence the squared feelings, the
Emotional tangents and aborted choices
That make nothing of this resilient fetus
Of subject, the core of the subject an alarum
Maybe showing brash in brash light
On the fragile wrist of a priestess. Can you
Entirely dupe those longer angels of time, or
Do those amount to subconscious filler? OR
Is it, the empathy, that is, I have for searching
So long for the truth and finding only a lack
Of lies, frail, fragile, as cotton, really an attempt
To impress the void with
Itself, using itself to ban itself from synchronicity, if only
The difficult Tesseract imply a dimensional scandal more?
Well: the branches are intelligent claws upon the air,
I see them like the matter for my intrusive subject, rather, like the real
Like the real things
They are. Their twiggy mirth is nearly a tune for me, but not the one
Matured to stun these welldressed bougies with aninclementjustice,
As if a job for the weather: frisson itself whallopped, ran them ragged,
Until the bottom of my coat could find its place to cover my asscrack
Properly. O this wagered
Tapestry. I find I am new, and new committed
And sorely wagered, stuck with all my potential
Like the portent blowing: to the wings of object!
A realness intones, glides, mocking impossibility,
But gliding as if over water, free as the unseemly
Tread of the metaphorical shopping cart with the
Bad wheel I ride in
Over gravel, but not really. Fucking elope you
With that turbulence below the wheels.


Find fear an empire of different difficulty

Than this, which is reacting to your past,
And dune by dune feathering off sands:
I do not have time to tie it together: besides
To say they mean a kind of eroding place
Where if you are stuck in will suffer and die in,
Among the ruins of the POME that once this
Was. Say then I lay undone, like GOD: I am
Then the delicate wreck, worship personified, that is, of the
Ample thing, Big Thing, or bang, or whatever it is it is not; or
What with my hunger I presumed ample. Worth seems pale
With its own beyond: today got to me, to we who see with miniscule
Eyes a fiction and a grand thing that we run out of a crowdcluttered
Elevator for, to free ones chickenshit self from the disease muling
Around him; this spending out of oneself, social interaction, first off.
To clue us in to this, to seeing this, without ruining anything,
The way one defers from mentioning the ending of a movie.

But there it is: the trope of loving flaws: let me gorge on that
And supplement a reason for anxiety with a defense against
It, oh, the rhetorical jail of everything withal a proper nothing,
despite the raucous angel-tramps are afire to 'split' from wherever
they sleep in my lamenting brain, and be themselves, whom
yet I freeze to keep alive, in fact: these soul-runts a-wheel in stasis,
all together, hapless but extant . . .
in silent revolt of wherever I said to poke, poke
and reveal more intellectually yielding portions
of an awareness of what is really a spectacle; said
I was what made prey
of them, and unto the eaten sides of meaning, that movement wanted them, or had in it
motive dastardly: well, despite, I get them not pivot ankle nor release breath but linger
in their seeming like peerless paintings, yet without an elemental beauty the force of this
a quantity of convulsions, produces, but likewise just to ease me by their inverse like to


say, It is not this, you think we are convinced, when you give us something else,
hell, you so release us in your hatred of our possible impairment from the ornery,
ordinary tableaux all literature licks up the scraps of, wanting more: well, like hail
to ground dissolves, I make a go at song, I mention
'beauty' not to mar it dead but to meet my distended,
dreaming uvula with it in screams that yell incentives:
imprecision triumphs, sure, but does cold spang at an
appointed place from before, between oneself and
one's agreer to him and his ways, however
messy they are, thoughtful
hand to his, myself happily questionable,
extraneous to song, the song is especially
forbidden: o my ruses of my egomaniac
somewhere twanging the gut-strings of
my gut I stake as centrifugal to that humming core of mine
moralities make of self, and build of a self that I can stake
I think, yet it is only when to my health and plain benefit
of bones, that I or anyone might give
the ego to a belonging maybe ruse, or,
perhaps the notion it is ruse is the ruse,
and this, as in, 'belonging to themselves'
meanwhile someone makes to aside
the praise of self: so wickedly a dose
of sudden evil: unto this lollygagging:
as if I strayed because I did not know
its universe. He gets like a stronger
leg, to favor one side over another,
and whines for criticism to dissect
his fall to nothing, respiring to feel
it, though. We're supposed to deprecate
each other, fall when meeting with rhythm
and stating falls, like politics of the flower,


deepening into its sunny 'However's the power

of things disappears into; like the mangled clown
with his silly self, created above the reaches of his
own frown of anxiety: a misled horse to inundate
the whole with pervy creatures' reaching more than
mystery pervades, more than consciousness heads
tales of, mostly fictions of the dunce whom likes our
wishing to be him, and hell, but for certain empirical
solitudes of choice and where it laith body-by-body
we would: where the thinking putters out I put
my weird pendentives round the dispiritous
ship to funny islands where all merge with
virile universe, prying forth into signals
parent of dust, of dust and difference, if I
just make it so, and christen each experience
as wild, as telling of another World, I would,
in spite of sampling of the drink of doubt,
with all the pain of refusal too. Maybe I was
a missile unto scores of centuries, at least unto
a glum and clownish smile, decreed in
paradise the poison behind my sighing at
the abyss, entering me and my lame
confusions into the declarative World,
pockmarked throughout with Cartesian
doubt of things: that if despite I live I do
not cram myself with living, if one part of
it is doubtful by regress of emblem-truths
that hang out on the line to dry, a ruddy
scansion, dwelt with pockmarked earfuls, then
the rest of the poem asides to me as if it were


deaf to the things that beauty are, that must

intrude upon designs of poverty the people
make of their aloneness, raspy voice, sense
of struggling, a vicious rhapsody yon mourn
and put to rest because of ghostly oneness
lost somewhere into my fecund wilderness,
my time is up, I go by my own stiff grandness
like a trembling triumph, biblical and a wave,
darkening over the starry plow of thoughts
that almost, ever are, that almost listen and
learn, leaning to a friend with some phrase
about living nothing to do with this, this role
of love and loneliness come from out of naught,
then forgot, simmering meanwhile in the oven
of intrepid thoughts that want to come out to
the place they have they need, to be their bout
of listening, scored with petals of the flower all
alone in some beauty graceful, some ion empty
whistling things create as indestructible silence
wages all upon them with its feelings and face
of burning whelming up and down the ocean of
forgetting the world a moment for the foolishness
we fuss about to harass our jewels of ecstatic
care: that make us, yes, want to face a GOD of
absence proving our immortal distanting creep
towards rightnesses of asiding wheeling phrase,
shivering effigies upwards clomb to white pillars
like a dream of something you have built besides,
when all the meaning of this still imperiously resides
in mocking it, in making place a place I wish for,
cannot go, without the critic in me in the cave, yelling

awesomely: an echo tuning round the rocky walls
of spite, and at the mouth of meaning,
barely echoing this: There
Is the king of the place, and whom is place as
Right as rain as much as lives outside the remnant
Of this endlessly placating reality we are given,
Like something always riven we sense riven, torn from its
Whole socket, spoken more the lack to us, and the desperation
Of the sadness of all knowledge, hissing always to end itself
Yet budding a new tail for the metaphoric snake. It is bruised
With offense, a dull unknowingness fed up with wreaking its
Irony. Cloaked in misunderstandings that shrink to a digestible
Bolus. We as the people who doubt, we have our simultaneous
King, of place and materializing as the place itself, like numbers
Out of order with their name that still mean 2 + 2 = 5 as validly
With a faked connective element, like wires training
Down from heaven's doorstep to this one's, this Earth
Well driven on its own without the shreds of meaning.
As such. The king is one of weathered thoughts, uprisings
In colloquial attachments, the downy familiar made hard
From a long time roughing it in the brain, clustered in a
Look as shamed then made of them the few true diamonds
Of madness left awash as spittle of baying speaking. This will
Wrench us from the clumsy clues of being, while a lot inside
Wrenches back as if to give back speech to the unnamable
Clue to let us in who deserve to aged speak, will look at speak
And in their strangeness fend for more clues, more ransom
The tones of it, the conglomerate about the shitty fire, then
Smack dab, lose their need to wander more, when leaping
Into spacious need, these ulterior psychologists of the mind
Report their findings from the place without a king anymore



To gallop from the cracked ends of today, and as if to flee

Then turn about and slam the ruined psychologists of me,
The ones invading for the voraciousness,
Telling the sparrow he has sounded much,
When in this place birdsong elapse as much
As songs of people ruddying up their happiness
With clothing over it, to bring it to the level from
Which its breath first went, then out into forever,
Then, an episode wherein the king, sheeted in
Gold, made the Bronze Lord smash himself into
Nothing, made the captious littleness of moments
Lose their choir of a continuum to a marring or a
Dismay as beautiful as that which thoroughly kept
Itself another feeling thought, sensational, how ridden
Is this, how written is this thing?,
That dormant monsters wake up to sing
And then retort away all argument, tossed
As if in sea, through, into a collection sieved together,
Swallowing the debt to purity I have in my wallows
Hushed for awhile to microcosmic speech which
Because it cannot be it
Denounces bigness, as thus a Lordly returning Bronze:
Here's to the fate of Lackluster Lucretius searching for
An atom's happiness, his mind soon sere
From some love potion his wife betokened drink
And saying to herself, he will love me, bartered
His freedom for her wretched cell,
Made of his insanity

The figure says I will not fuel your state again
like how you like it; my actions intend louder
masochism, sure, but rather regarding
the always quiescent layer beneath that
layer you have found to suit your misery:
is a boiling of that fallout: to its least and pitiful
nuance, until the subatomic declaration, though
not disappeared, is not to be heard a phrase of: negativity
in their hellish hell of weakling decimals: as opposed to
any elated calling of your name upon this, which would
loudly stomp out the last communicative miseries
to their final ember: a call to hold your hand, and by
those who cannot be without the heart they love, booting
out the black. You are a piece of shit, ramshackle at this
point, like a strange shed of self that needs renewal
of its cluttered space. She says: slowly, in a grace
almost, by some deceiving slowness, You rake in
horribleness, gleefully, like a pot in poker, whether
of Earth or you. She says: you take your cares and
yet make them gambols of a Yorick as much, while
a breeze is love, and common all this is the commonplace:
you suffer, and forever will, if you hail it with the necessity
of a cab down a street of other rising hands, from crowds
of those evil, who want evil in their breakfast food, so at least its
form retains a milder, wilder norm. Excellent sufferer, my esoteric
husband, clustered in theories of the cause,


and what seeds of self, moldered by the end
of seasons: and the trends of possibility:
no help to replenish a banking soul away and quickly
to his safe place, where the ignorant dusk of his spirit,
hobo of the sun, stinking, walks the length of the railroad
with his jaunty click of the things in his pack, indulges
as he wanders, well, that that was what he always was,
implacable and betrothed yet to the tossing acids of
mysterious things that had nothing to do with him, these
and more led him to the maddening equations for why sold
his this or that, betrayed his that and grieved his this, these
tangents missing tangents, forfeiting all rights to the veins
that throb and gladly open themselves, to empty into
this bed, hearing, funny, huh, as the last sense that remained
drew off, in the resting thickets in the backyard, a last trance
by the wiling crickets, singing ceremonious for motherland
to his own feelings. The figure says, my answer is
you cannot waste my errand with your fleeting hopes
of suicide, for you shall not run out in vain, outside, to
meet a wherewithal aced beyond the galactic toys of your
galactic will, poor soul, and ensign, unto the remedies
and plagues of truth. You sit in plain view of these things,
proving pale and wizened the petty schedules of reality,
a failure at changing oneself: the flourish of her gown to
tempt the nihilism of men, and most of all a taboo subject
at the table, a significance for others that in being so
betrays their insignificance; or an apocalypse kept under
wraps by the government until it is already too apparent
to the public. You must make things, shape your situation,
still a reality in itself mutable only if you live through it,
In terms of success that is; if cut short now, awaits a cool
failure, and not even these very words change that


repercussion. She says: you have more in you to do,

the noble pallor of your true face retreats beneath
the rumors shadowing your neck with youth and
activity: ideas you forgive leaving before
they even come. For the time being the face
you see in the dim fugue-places of your
psyche frees you not even a little. This species
of lament distracts you into reprisals of need
not given, an avoidance as diligent as a tombstone;
allows no reciprocal funk of endorphins, no not a
forking in the road to some power-proper,
like Hallam to Tennyson: and to say enough
would not be enough displaces but a gram
of the folly. Cloaked in angsty wistfulness
the air is sucked from the tops of trees
and an airless, trembling wind works itself
inside your trembling brain, the figure says. She was drenched
in white, that time, was housed in me and all my bias of self-preservation
whom wearying me
tells not her ruin ever
but in these uncredited daydreams from somewhere
else. My hands craft silence, not this. An acme, really
i need to represent my front in full example
of its bad nature that relenting to the seems
and ifs of spoiled philosophies makes its
inarticulate rounds, the frequenter with
the disparaged frequenters' own call for rounds
of beer; of cold eyes and untrod land of who
she was I speak. Give me Christs of epoch,
water needed, then, for the band


controlling this universe. I need yon mother
differently, inspects myself, expecting trivial
and stoned thinking it was that fraught
my own withering insides, quaffed need for an aside
kept secret to myself, without a bearer but myself, not
these wrenches thrown into my throat, filled with illtimed goodbye-words. Lift parable in your
hands and I will come still, shy she says:
the figure begged me, this time, lost
too much in desperation to undo
the pallor of a dead face marching in to sight
of my inevitable consciousness, a strange
figure, this, but not her, whom is not here,
yet in remnants emptying me like as I could see
the lifted world before my eyes as real, littered by Devils,
marking my truth of enchantedness that turns like a glass
of milk outside: no not my mentioned bricks of content,
self-aware jackassery: no not the most commemorative
rose upon my sight unsightly, lost of any hue, fried nabob
out just like a lightbulb of some different crashing sense
worsening more with age. I will kill myself
and make that that.
I will kill myself and monitor from above the
wretch I was , consider how
he that is myself goes wrecking the angels after his last fall.
inter me, yes, and I will love the mourning
with all my selfish self, honestly, and I
will sink into the deepest couch of rapturous heaven, going mad with
the goody goodies, all of us lengthening across the span of time, and
yet, I see not you, not muse, anyone; so then would realize my hell,
or worse, would
realize nothing after all. Gee



Yeah one is a story and each caught
itself before eventually making sense
thank God. I space out my finicky worlds of reason, weltering
their curious way towards a farthest inmate of the truth, but
for the truth, for I, trapped in my thinking prisons,
leaving only as time grows old
and tracks in the snow disappear
with come spring, metaphorically.
so try, try to call Herr Muse to the fore, make me more
then soldiering clouds I dip out of, evade, sneer at
like someone obsessed with the conceit of being
a seer, polemicist for all humanity, and for the sake
of little tears I fathom that fly down inmate cheeks.
I stifling them to ingratiate unto the public conduct.
The lame imago of an answer wordlessly that
treads into its own missing nature I do not
repel but pride on, as if this proved me able
conduit for the dead, that is. My thoughts
wrapped in neuron-murals, caftans, dreams of art
hosted somewhere on the surfing highway
of all this mixed feeling. That, we
drive off somewhere to find, do not.
The face of joy wreaking its beautiful
havoc, mutilating surprises
to the caste of burns, low castes of hurt,
pains, and antidotes, ghosts of antidotes
that undermine our dotage unto baby
Christ make us a thorny child; spent dins


infecting heads,
losses compounded by
warfare engaged with the common cold.
Bite me. Holler to the mess
upstairs. It scares
me just to think of anyone bothering
his temperamental ass. Call me,
I won't be there. Will be but focused
on the leaves of withering,
some perfection of hurt in them, unto
fierce running, permanent types
you joke about in high
school but who oar past all the pleached
rivers that confuse life's aim to nothing, that
I see despite red flags and warning signs;
those who carry on to their post
in the broken dark of afternoon,
which can be done, if lungs
came to breaths already there: quickly fading
assimilations of humanity, each word,
a blame to give the circle of life.
Talk about tonality
the quivering monster says, to pretty boys
holding ak 47s for the camera. This is mine to make
a sickness of, so Ill just trade the day for night
but keep the time the same, not have it process
all the Suns favoring our freeze of organ, brain,
at this conceptualizing of the impossible. I am
locked together in with my gods and romanticize
my decent-enough farewells of the most high
waving a kerchief from a car of the steam engine

and repeating my toodleoo. Fret this enough,
its meaning, that is, and you might have a blue
guitar: to keep your own attention like a thing you
cherish, complete not as if you compete with such
feints and things subtle, evasive as the eaves above
lit with torches of change. Well, this could be that;
the aleatoric mustard is a mollusk-daemon of it until
the sense is siftingly made, then fresh and
bright at first sighs of the coughing cockerel.
Vivid the light at such a witching hour. Man,
I could just snap and do this forever, you think,
while the commodity focus is drifts back into aging,
morose blurriness but like the way wine gets better
with age: it is like and so then not like at all a note
hastily written from your doctor saying you can
overlap apotheosis, take a leave of absence from
schooling platitudes awhile, just to fortify your
truth and test your vision. I make meteors to dust;
the planet of myself, old, the dinosaur of dreams,
of secure observation of a posteriori riggings. Humanity is drunk
with millions of gifts besides my own. But nothing lights the way.
I continue to make plans on my deathbed, while
the sovereign menace of mortality convinces me not
to get up for food, nor to piss, so then, I starve, and
soil myself at that last hour. But, look, Herr Muse, there are
wrinkles in the soiled sheets of a dear sleeping one; the feet
hang over the bed whiffing an intimate stink hanging out inbetween whiffs of countryside perfume. Man, we
really must be intolerably ponderous, Herr Muse;
must ruin ourselves one by one on the metronome
of content like humanity does. Each oscillation bears
the weight I want for myself: is an end, the heaviness


of swinging rhythms acutely telling me two sides
of this black eyed universe: sees me figurative, of matter
and the matter. Meanwhile the fat of chance nearly rearing
into fate from the other side of the universe, over and over
again. Fear painfully squires to me, its limpid
master, limping along hunched, making toward
the jaws of the joke this is, and all of life. The joke is
by no fearing region of doubt manipulated, I figure,
but the setting sun seizes wisdom away like it had
the deed to it by big, nasty bosses of the realm, thick,
naughty hands, somehow just the right size
to dominate my ardor in a single gesturing
grab. And so sew into sense habituations
of we particles in my head, or rays, or what have
you. If at all we really were then all we are is but
for the grace of the past. The spark of no light but
genius darkness lives, rather, genuine and afraid,
because the blessing is all the victuals I take,
to health and unhealth of my child-neurons. The
invocatory mezzo of the milky way lent me some
abstract human soul once, as a favor. Like the music,
buzzing I was with myriad Yellowjackets
feeding on the absence of my flesh, I was in
the stupor of variability, my mind already
swollen with anticipation, thriving like the old
tracks of a train with weed and reed: stupor, that is, what
is the mark, or rather a kiss of change too changingly
to be from one source, one pair of muted lips, gleefully
swinging states into a run of that state, like stockings, until
the understood is but a retinue of negations: the result of



such irresponsible behavior. I go sewing braids for the

Church in me, stirring up the promises my own dogma
clears the way to break, like an aircraft getting dizzy on
the strip and falling, after all that work. I go betting on
thrones made of oneself, argue to keep the truth to oneself;
for nobody listens anyway unless it makes a drumming sound
or scares up a depth that is both a solitude and a planetary
impetus, the silence the size of planets, the planets in one
who is a self. The lips
are ironically loose, as it starts to rain, and so I figure out a,
a prowling man, for no reason: a man of catty thought
and scamming motive, who
turns up his yard of lapel to the
zaftig winds of argument
about the thing this is: that proves itself
by the intact dawn; itself, least there, if
not completely absent. Jot me down as
being there, despite all the laughing matters, all
of it, really; but all not for naught. Just a posture
helpful to take as it starts to flash and rain.
The voice is thunders clarity, and more than mine:
lit up I the taste of raspiness in words, I do, I do that,
just to rove to different proofs for things that holler
reality in various epiphanies of person, graphic,
storied systems of the within:
bashful wonders: I wonder at the shock they find: and
they the stillness anyway of originating, whirring bolts
from the place you ran from to get here.
Here is your lunch bag for noon. Dwell your conceits
somewhere, just not here; maybe give it to the kids sans
faces pulling your shoelaces


under the table and breathing

mortar, somehow, just because I say children are
dragons, sleek, armored dragons, filled with fire;
while I am stitched unbeautifully out of silly holes
that adequately bind, uniting thing and substance,
yes, but as if they were not pictured as the same.
You and I are bad friends of the universe: we feel in the
dark for one last chiming handle on ourselves, you object
and I subject: end up flushing the toilet. But I only am attached,
unlike humanity's elsewhere in the embattling rain, to attic hands,
hands that work best in the shifty darkness
to rebuild the ruins I hath shored at dawn: mute
the very hell, which if soundless coigns it paradise,
if only for a little while. Be of purity, is my advice:
advice which is nowhere and has no certain dial to
helm, left or right. Despite monkeying with retrograde,
winks Mars at the moon anyway, just to show the futile
people that the theoretical is fun, is fun with fullness
and entropic amplitude that denies itself:
meanwhile it rains with stuff of the someone
anyone says, before a statue in the park makes like
a place to go for forging oneself out of the religious
nature of obsession. Perhaps I see it a righteous
circumstance, was paying for some excitement
squeezed before a dip in whirlwind, to come out
and make like a clown for your kids birthday party.
Still you pray: before it, the statue: you prey on me with
your distinctions, o intuitive otherness: like whats not
a prophet you pray, not are prayed to, but
a believer in whatever that is if nothing else,


the impotence humanity

refuses to receive with equal love
into metaphoric arms that wait
for some better thing to hug they dont deserve,
and anyway would not be so beautiful as frailty.
You know the secrets haunting
my laughter, living love, love living,
and at the precipice of experience
take hold my strength,
in droplets of anemone quills,
or serving grass, to fill the rills
of talk with water on stone floors.
Surely your intention in looking
at my inflection, is to respond:
say, life is an acquaintance, then a close friend.
Remove your shields, and farthing by farthing,
our tensions will eliminate: and depth gives to depth,
while chapter by chapter yours and mine
do rediscover us, and laugh,
and in my humor, as you
have seen me wont to do,
I piss on feeding vines outside,
looking out for neighbors
affronting he snugness of our sanctuary, filled
with lamplight in the night, and then
let us watch fits of weather from
the safety of our home. Let us
drive ourselves mad in circles

of inferential import, my own.
My very special one. I cannot regret, nor few
and far between but not at all wander different
futures through my head, nor alter the behavior
of the moon on that cranial surface.
I am in surfeit
of terrestrial materials, and make no behest or blame,
uncorrupt the marmoreal sledge into deeper marring,
with ordeals, and any blame for death to hand to you,
dear eternity, especial character;
and often with visit of the truth. A sense of new
reams of lines of thoughts about everything,
from the source of tiny connections mastering their wigwam,
magnifying breadth: no: I will send that total thing away in
micturating on the lovely, lovely weeds. Dont they look
so lovely, scented along with the moist, brown, lovely air?
as big and brown as your eyes, the only materials that organize
my patterns into something out of habit: a landslide agreement
without speech, of ones love for another, is as brown as that;
properly the sempiturnal transparency of truth
of you, I do not waste on these elementary hours, for I see
another fecund man in me nod a way: for a have and a have
not: for a prospering thought: for you held for a moment like
the anxious breath between scorn and redemption,
between the nigh and fay far, and feign and creation
of what must be feigned, to exaggerate accomplishment,
like appreciation of a shitty meal; and like the indecision
of a million decisions on the list,
by a glance and glance, that make


their way, do I pretend to be the last say on the said.
I place my faith in acreages of ravel, out of swoon of
the light through trees. The laugh
and sauntering away of that ordeal of confidence, you
know, that confidential thing, it inspires, makes a myth
of sundered boughs by thunder with flits against the
fall sere, as if the drifting leaves were mirrors for the
thunder that make me in seeing you, recognize,
for an instant, the face of you always.
Not here in the corner of my iris,
but there, living and growing
and fiddling with a piece of lint.
Attempting new territory is difficult; to make new territory
of my lopsided ravine I already have. So I build a silly fire
with wood I gather before the snow can make it useless.
I believe, if I don't
come and beg to you,
what sheet of nascent music
for you to remove upon company, could I boast
of and bear my soul to hear, and so others hear
you hammer away? To supercede al intravenous
doubt and to comply with my beheld esthetic
irruption in a room of strangers, mousy
and begging for harmony? No thanks.
irruption or rashly: I am facetious and expend
energies on a bike to the store for cigarettes
just to spur your joke of silence with blown
smoke: I am dearly placeless,
am almost forgotten, am the future


merely in manner, derisively expounding myself, or propounding
its ownership of silliness, a piece of cake in a field of other pastries,
and operated on by tragedy enough to almost make me beastly,
almost stir my chest to grope without hands, to pull the needle
from my heart, or what heart I descry: well: unclamp my ass and
clench tight my square confidence of a square, a dork of meaning,
a motley or something of ambivalence
banished, like embarrassments galore
felt at a party you repeat and prove again
to the people who were there for your bad choices before,
bearing ringing witness they to you catapults of fault, spat
primal in everybody's face: emit no more of these things, if
sweat you must stink of: and murder this aping of social
stakes dashed in the moment mistakes make one gulp to
face the faceless reasonless. What would I do without you,
dawning day? of my pet newness? I correct yet into a flaw.
But shut up I say, conversing to myself and my anxiety like
a mediator. All the while from my high place I give a thumbs up,
to my therapeutic distance in the nosebleeds. Picking their way
on me are 'they' who want one be like them with them, but piles
of dirt I am, up there stowed in the vanishing brink of the very sky.
so let me get to throve: let me instantly line up all massiveness
of ego, to have it shot, by a fatuous organizer, with compliance
in mind, however; oh reader of brows, bold me up.
I will not be concealed, by bush or walls, building anything
of the soul. Away into an ocean trying to make up for itself
I stretch, to aid my knees, and respect my climactic origins
that wait too long for saying to indulge,
and the audience to level with the end perceived . . .
what do I look like I am made of money moans
the father from his armchair. I dont care. At least
the streets have taught me well. I jeopardize others'


pardons by needing to stump people with my procuring my

own sense of sorry in being as fed up with myself I see through
the peep-hole, as the repercussions of myself destroy myself,
in all its there-ness, all its unwieldy darned reality. I am sorry I am.

This is way thick woods, man, I dont think I can array my thoughts:
I live on the outskirts. Move very far especially when a bump in the night
Creeps me out: it seemed so far away when it happened, so craned my
Neck to see where it was coming from. Delight my flabby scorn felt for
You, I dont care whether you cheers me or not, or read at the table finally
Without a single regard to my feelings: I was walking down the street
Made entirely of bumps in the night: I was collapsing my era unto the if
Of someone elses silence, my entire collection of years of surrender in
The oasis-searching and rebellion in the greed for pain. My own rules
Will be these rules. I dip my sunglasses and crane my speck of dust, I do
Not have an amount of meaning that would relegate all beauties of random
Dust to their ermine delusion flooding bumps into the night like big blood,
Rue. Fuel for entire rapscallions putting the car into drive and driving
To get milk at the store: what a bore is the guy who tells his creepy story,
Hes never an oops-cloud: you mistake, sure: but then what: naked,
The surroundings are green surroundings: you pump the music so as to
Plumb a meaning suddenly totally relevant to everything Ive said thus far,
Even though really this is entirely, evilly, evilly droning to the place where is
New thing after new thing totally solitude, this total solitude: ruin it: go ahead:
I dont care. Im just going to bump the night myself, its the only thing on
My side that has not given itself up yet to the poignant fakery inhabiting
All and everything that is the WORLD now and the strings that pluck casing
Off the skins nameless riotous blues: Im just really sad and it scares me:
Is it a thing for me to say something like, I am a weird hipster, so like me, I
Know, youre just a guy with some disease of the mind, he might say, to
Me, but, I just say, shut up, and forget the time and encapsulate the moment
Like it were a bump in the night with its own rules for twined flesh together
In a lumpy softened briar-year: this all amounts to trying very hard to like
You know, confess to a bunch of shit: I am solitude sitting on this three-legged
Chair in the corner, facing you like an answer to be, waiting to be told to see
Enough of splashy squashes to remind disgusting uses of language to embalm
Themselves like corpses, later dramatically turned somehow like the hands
Of a clock, to delicious, wrong pie: like seriously wrong: I am hungry for human
Flesh: dont trump that. Dont try. Theres nothing less sleepy than myself to


Myself, so mistake the clouds for random patterns of moment: the moment
Is all one: to me. Well, delirious thou, get thee to your spoken school of skin
And greet the light of answered questions. Clarity, finally. But for what huh??
For the woods to make this shitty with incorrigible encapsulating reflexes, eh
Whatever: I thought and thought until it meant something tomorrow for us: