Ampersand Capital

Sometimes, as they say, Things happen. 
Meaning, I suppose, whatever you want it to mean.

I have several theses:

I. Pray

A pause encumbered
is a pause remembered.

Look at the funeral parlor. When Tommy couldn't think of anything to say--Heck! We couldn't even move on!--& so forth.

The point being:
I'm just the stub
on the pint (sporty)

like a goddam melon or a goddess
pretending to elicit nothing
from these Iowan Railroad bribes...

II. Transfer

The illegal motion
of blind women.

III. Hark

A herald angel
sings,
whatever She wants to
understand? She does
the polka, does the drugs,
the cocaine, the
party favors.

As if we didn't need the article.
As if we didn't need the needle
to thread the spot
between two wrong places
& the right one.

That's it--there. A cool lotion
breeze like a naked Brazilian removing
her top. Yes, in fact, writing can be
erotic. Like esoteric facts or
suns bents out of shape:
MAYBE YOU ARE NOT SO SPECIAL
after all, said the sun enthusiast,
bored (not bored) but jealous for once (as usuallly
he is)

spouting like Champagne flutes
in the town of Champaign
hub of internment camps &
poor (meaning excellent) water quality.

It's just another half-assed ending
of the type from a man (man? Manila?)
who drinks more than Peter Gabriel
may have disliked Phil Collins.

That's fucking right. Emphasize the profanity.

& so on.

About The Forest

About The Forest
by Austin Ames Cather

I’m lunging through the forest, grabbing at leaves and conifer-wind. There’s nobody chasing me and yet I run like a stray hound. Winding through the woods, I catch glimpses of marsupials and cheerleaders baying in the near distance. What are they doing? I cannot be sure. They seem to be surrounding themselves with strings of lights, shimmering like Christmas trees until they approach an utmost brilliance, near flame, and they immediately dismount into fields of bright solitude.

Eyes of the Word

The eyes of the word
are staring right at me
as if to ask the poisoned mouse:
what have I done that you wouldn't?

Let me out of your sleeve, I say,
if that's what you want from me.
A card trick. A shark doing the splits
on camera, for the first time.

Sometimes, there's nothing left to say besides
sometimes, there's nothing left.

That's a game I've played before.

Chickory, spun boys on parade. I won't
snow on your parade, snaggle-tooth in
your party. Looking like a little lady more than ever
these days. I'm not hungover but I'm probably
hung. I could be at least.

Eyes of the world

I took out my contacts
Don't take it out of context
I just don't like glasses
Especially not your ugly mug

Battlefield (Misnomer)

Of the living things around us, green,
algae, lichen, dreams: in the end
they all become us, they all become
coal. Bituminous despoils deep
underground, waiting to become
booty, the soiled trout of some
pirates quest for mid-Earth medicine.

Hello Sirs, they'll say, we've got us
some fuel here, Burn 'em up!

Coal deposits, you know.

Stuff what's left into a stocking,
over years it will become old.
And over the years it'll become
collectible, like a trashcan in Paris
imagine how many things have been
there; imagine you are your own helicopter
parent; i am hovering; waiting around;
wondering what books
will be able to describe us.
Someday you'll see, I'm no cannibal.
I just eat the hearts of children
and tell the Government about how best to do it
so as to not spoil anybody else's fun.

I guess it's pretty obvious this is a little dark
for Christmas. But then again sometimes the
mariner's rime doesn't match itself; it doesn't
understand where or when to place dublooms;
i have many friends at sea but few who have
seen the light shining at the end of the world
where pirates sink to the bottom and the whole
world doesn't seem to mind.

Plagiarism

Twas actually the night before Christmas Eve,
that's why there wasn't much action.
Friends, eat your heart out.
I'm gonna eat your hearts.

Smart children taste better than morons -
they are called gifted for a reason.
I unwrap the paper, cut out some
hearts (real ones), and dig in.

Stuff what's left into a stocking,
over years it will become coal.

Someday you'll see, I'm no cannibal.
I just eat hearts of children, babies.

Overpopulation is a real problem.
I'm the real Santa, motherfuckers.

Christmas Beginning

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

Scorpion Exchange

Inside of the house is a bottle.
Inside the bottle--a scorpion.
With an idea: scorpion rebellion,
on a massive scale. Oh, hark!
The year of the scorpion is upon us.
All who bear witness to the Joshua Tree
flout reindeer with their hearts. &
so it is without fail--we all eat our
friends in the end.

Dishpan stars

Don't leave me, I think, or possibly
don't let me go. But in truth we do
because leaving is something that happens.

We are travelers.
We carry our belongings on our person
in the out-about wonder of an airport
people smile and carry arms
whom?
where's?

mom and dad are forgotten, but not forgotten,
these are new people here, blue and ready.

soldiers stink/slink between cities,
going home, chasing adventure, bold-
ness, as it arrives, shivers

like sharing snow-globes with each other
peppers or a bit of remorse or tears
i'm really crying here, she said,
i have remorse.

but the pills don't blow us up
and the sex didn't kill us so homebody
somebody take me or leave me. Leave me.

Post-robotic revolution.
Cyborgs on drugs. The acid people
skate on monkey-leaves and throngs of food
surround us when we want. We gather
together here, like this.

I made you something, I said,
trying to hand it to you. But it's a complicated
thing. A sail unfurling itself. Maybe it's
not even a sail. Maybe it's a setting
or a Kanamycin parade. Maybe somewhere
somebody is hurting, please.
So do not play with my camera, boy,
or look here when I'm talking to you,

i've just been to Jupiter and I must talk about
the moon, it's alleys, how the dust spoils
the (just-now) atmosphere already,
we are travelers.

I always wanted to be glad to have you,
which was true. And I was:
glad, at least, happy to have done that
which I am least able to imagine living without:
human touch, the myth of fingerprints,
love shared or love sold or love for sale.
Sharing without humbling ourselves. Lovers
are the eaves of tents,
milking it for all it's worth,
hiding in the dispatcher's booth
in a rainstorm; the morning's kettle;
the dishpan in the rain.

Not The White Man's Smoke

The plaid boy from Khartoum was anything but oblique in his praise of parsimony. "I'm a patron of it--partridges, that is. I'm a lover."

A lover or a leaver,
what's your favorite feather? I say
this white ink (fjiord) ain't for me
but then 'gain, how bout rain?
My favorite fever is desire,
my favorite cookbook is about despair
or noodles, probably the latter,
and the adder goose-flesh
or the reason we don't eat rodents.

No more
the white man's smoke for me. I want to
be the red parade on your street
the blue festival in your valley
trumpets of bright yellow journeyman trumpetting "Savage!"
tapes spinning and unspun, deadhand.

Another post called Murder

"No medium in history has ever survived the indifference of 25-year-olds."
— Web guru Clay Shirky, on the inevitable demise of print products.

Patty Lowell

A note to critics

To my critics--Lloyd,
most of all, always helpful with his sunscreen
and his glinting mane--
I appreciate your thoughts.

To Ivan: you're incredible.

To The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
I stole you from the apartment
of somebody in Sig Ep, I think.
Although I think thievery is wrong,
I'm not sorry.

Cellar-Dwellers
live in dank sub-bottom areas
I want to be near you, oh tangled
Bangalore bodies blue and knelt
between betwixt these are our hobbies
God himself like a lung inhaling
full of life, love, the pursuit of
perusal, halls long, expect everything,
expect Hockey Heroes and bitches and balls

Balls the elegant trappings of society
I mean a high-dining bunch with the finest
snint, misery, smint, made up words
Spent money negro ain't no PC word no more
no more a whore a pimped out lottery shag
Plottery Pots Inc what I named by lamp dog
hambone ramp shined as sheeny as the seamy
underbelly underwhelming helm the ship swims
sank - wins - worked - sawed
hewn - owned - grown - bait
the small bait, the little guys,
the flickering notion of the moment
which is thought: I think
that in this moment, oh in the incomplete second
next time, just me
a flea like a Nerf Gun shot but not hurt

Sharon's Couch

Sharon's coach was redoubt.
Her couch to the moment her heart
slumping & slumping & slumping
of the oh-in-grown joy and hammers thrown
we are our feathers or our father's thrones
remember remember: the lakes are forever ours
or our brother's friends
who have delivered their instruments
and look forward to fighting.

Not Worth Sharing

There are mechinal ducks outside
and I have to admit: I'm scared
scared of the birth and scared of the beginning and scared
of everything, thoroughly. I thoroughly
await my brains like a man
eating sledges and sledges of cake barrels,
laughing or laughing without laughing.

I'm Maybe High?

Hi, I'm Maybe
High. Maybe High
here, going to high school.
Who's metaphysical?
Scott eats forests and
Elizabeth smokes trees or
Michelle brandishes monikers.

Candle, Caviar, Heartbreak

1.
The candle is finally light. Over there.
In a place where
without our hearts
I could have said
“begone”

but you (where you instead) said: nothing.
Consciousness instead
like somebody’s lip-plug
who goes about snogging for pepper and grass
wondering why his fingers move this way.
Look, the longer you’re collecting material,
the better. It just keeps coming out
like this. Green balls of fire turn into
red balls of wire erecting
(erecting) walls sudden like splinters
(everybody’s Amanda winter).

2.
Mary’s sly negligence
is easiness. Easy smooth sunny
waters like flatlands a-breeze.
Hello, sunshine. Dig this broadcast:
we open stingers like inspectors,
looking for venom. We don’t
know what we haven’t looked for—
we only know the truth is out there.
hello sturgeon. tell me about your
life. you are old. dying now about
every year just to foist this lot
of caviar upon you.

falling awake

the world is falling awake
with every sleeping honk of its horn
mermaids and mesmerized camelots
eager harlots and harlots lost
come from between the miniature reindeer
fountain
to come upon some relief.

let's be honest with each other:
nobody suspects themselves. it's assumed
we wouldn't allow these things to happen.
you cannot mention what you haven't felt
or summertime, pretend it's cold.
it isn't.

& in these moments wait
the close, cropped feeling of being alone
a cold on the rise; the nose fills
with floods of unknown women. these
are areas alone; we haven't deserted
you; and yet, we haven't met.

Free Lance

I bought mushrooms from a man named Elaine.
They were oysters - now what the fuck do I do with those?
I only eat fungus if I'm sure it's going to send me on
an emotional rollercoaster, 4 to 8 hours long

I bought nutmeg from a guy named Meg.
I cooked it, made whatever you make with nutmeg.
Oatmeal? Cinnamon rolls?
I honestly have no idea.

I bought my car from this dude, Carla.
Where do I meet these androgynous fucks?
At a bar called The Vortex, great tater tots
but it's really dark inside.

I spent the summer on the Jersey Shore
Never again
got punched in the face
by a girl named Bo

My uncle's name is Celery
bet he got a lot of shit for that

I'm not high

We'll see how this goes.

Nice to be able to write recreationally

Finally examining my final exams

Double the papers, double the space

(I use parentheses too much) -

hyphens too, for that matter.

Punctuating at the right time

I am the punctilio of punctuality

(should there have been a comma there?)

Don't say there

Jesus, maybe I am high

this is turning out weird

Don't judge me

I have the right to a jury.

amegachurch

Suddenly America
isn't America
anymore. Suddenly
America is
what we
want it
to be:
a megachurch.

--Gabriel Horsen,
devout Mormon
(devoted douchebag)

Getting Weirder Every Year

I was waiting outside The Lemont waiting for Elaine to sell me some mushrooms, when a sparrow-like mother of (probably) 40 strode right up and occupied the phone booth right next to the place I was standing.

Looked at another way, I stood next to the telephone booth. I was thinking, "Man, I can't wait to get me some mushrooms from Elaine." Then this woman walked over. In any case, she began to talk.

"Yessir, getting weirder every year now. Last year it was all the crabs and moonshine parties out on the harbor with the porpoises and the drugs. I remember yesterday, just the day before this one, when we didn't let our little swimmers out into the moonshine until they got their paws wet for once! Know what I mean? ..."

It was probably the worst conversation I had ever heard. Later than day, I successfully robbed a bank and died from a cocaine overdose while celebrating afterward.

& Snow Globe: Paramour

the absurd wet calipers of the word
embryo
the spiders loom large
eggs of pillowy etchy gladstone mystery
a bag full of minnows
crabs & sparrows
Curel (implicated in Cruel & Unusual punishment
... ahem; )
blow globs backward
toward whom refrain
& snow globe:
Grover Cleveland.

Obvious Sun Tan / Obscure Pale / Sex Trees

stripped down past the bark,
our parents trees said to one another:

"do you want to have children with me?"

or maybe now they just think they did.
because us saplings are more likely to
leak sap like asking: here? now? us?

fine sculpted little sex addicts.
our true colors as green as
our dreams: sex? in your condo? apartment.
lip gloss. winter's orgasm.
Ashley's expression at sundown.
Heather's whipple bod.
Everything (sometimes) turns
like the autumn
(us inside out).

It's all to obvious to be interesting.

A conversation that will never happen

"Let's have children

with each other,"

I said. She was illuminated on literature.

"You didn't need the second stanza,"
she replied.

"It wasn't a stanza."

"This poem ain't a conversation?" (Her: coy smile)

(Him: touchdown smile) "Gimme some sugar mommy."

"Not tonight, darling." (A lie)

Next time (secret memo)

Dad city. Over here.
Less than five people
were involved. Pentagonal
cribs insured. Everybody
clearly insane, thanks! & a
mustard on your courtisan, like everybody's court,
everybody's coma, look like looking glass ass,
that's some good shit, tell Drake.

Green Dads

Green-blue flashes
from the deep
lechery of becoming up-
turned. An upward seahorse
immobile, because--let's face it--we
are all seahouses, our horses before us
villas stretching to the horizon
eyes wide / lashed / open

to the mantlepiece candelabra flash
expense traded to the flintdash
camera trained on me becoming me;
my life began before the internet
and it will end after it all
falls down / frame dope fish
open hope dish.

Promiscuous Hangers

on, such easy hangmen. A human is like a hen
trying to lay one true egg.

Posted like a blunt on the moon. What I do
well, it's pretty dangerous, think rare
Asiatic crustacean, pink shell poised & moist

for the kill. Secrets rest under heavy heads.
She's at the bar, call her Rosalita, the pink

lipstick's a dead giveaway. Peacock
is so in these days, so think that too, flash greenblue,
etc. Your life will end on camera.

Fishermen We Haven't Met Yet

I have a whale of a tale of you,
involving dinosaurs perhaps, let's just
say erotic luminescent underbelly fish,
electric nite-nodes flashing spastic
technology blasts in the ocean dark.
Grapefruit pink jellyfish play FIFA.

Salamander Leash

Orgasms in a stadium. Ogreisms diagnosis.
Let's air it out. If you could envision a war
over art. Everyone is native, so cheers

to our intertwined bloodlines, the crust
lines the pan like school girls line
the yard, browning. Yeah, brownies.

Mouth of the Bull

Arrives on the scene, nervous as a buffalo.
He sheds a wintry layer off his knotty strands
in the dank ass jungle of costa rica but not

really, it's in panama. Es la pata del diablo.
You can't kill a single living thing there.

Lonely little love dogs, bocas del toro. Archipelago
is pretty reckless of Ovechkin, at the same
time, I have a fireplace, I'm not afraid to use it, etc.

Yacht Rock

Come next Saturday to the Yacht Rock Party.
The strong lock, art motif. Your daddy did
dusty springfield under milk wood. Would

you rather? I'd gather rocks like an heiress,
a planet named Paris. I like my countries
neopolitan, I like turtle-green countrysides

in the fawn eyes of December. It was blue
lace on a black vase, I'm giving you winter,
mom. Next Saturday I'm going to Yacht Rock.

Stephen's Certain Speedboat

Nothing is brave. I'm so friggin' sick of all these goddam mutes
coming in here like it's a minotaur party. Hey! We aren't here!
More nuggets; more threads of flea bait. I simply do not want
to write about myself. Can you ask anything else? Why do I
like journalism? Tell us about yourself. Nothing sexual, or too
personal, or off-topic. Your favorite color probably doesn't matter.
Of course you have to play this game. Everybody does.
And everybody is full of it. Absolutely full of it. What can I tell you
in 750 goddam words that you couldn't make up?

"Born in Rotterdam, head full of drugs. Love cooking.
Never spent more than $3 on headache medicine.
Fell in love once--ended in murder. Decided on a
career in vaccine studies. Didn't get too far--disease
and mercury poisoining. Really tragic.

Anyway, I have three penises. Totally sexual deviant.
Likes: all kinds of chocolate, especially white.
Dislikes: counting things, and clocks.

First word: Trans-fat. I'm deeply concerned about my diet
and diabetics everywhere. If you have a heart,
free me from this prison, or I will firebomb
every Kinko's in America.

Please consider my application... I'll kiss your ass
all sort of ways if that's what it takes. But don't make
me write one more word of this shit. Please." 

Infomercial X

Eurasia
is where cats live.

Blastocythe
is not a word.

Combed-over
Were-the-hedge-rows
In-front-of-my-castle.

And there she goes.
A cat grooming is
a cat cleaned.

Lechery is spreading;
Catch the disease.

I am alliterate

I can't read or write
without poetic devices
luckily, limerick is a catch-all

A cow's currency
is cud. Chewy Chips Ahoy.
Get off of me, cow.

Hi, Ku, whats your last name?
And don't say Blaikhan.
Just tell the truth

Its easier to be modestly honest
than honestly modest. For instance,
"My wife is a model."

While true, it's not the whole story,
nor is it particularly modest.
Nor honest. She's actually a stripper.

But we can't all lead modest lives
with models for wives.
I strive for modesty.

I yearn for it - I would kill for it
I would do great and terrible things,
and only talk about the terrible ones.

Cold Ground

Cold ground.
Unmoving;
impossible.

Curving up into the
(but never quite reaching)
middle.

Squat asparagus sprout
of seed emerging;

the sun rides up the middle
like a little legged scorpion

everybody’s fingers a-waggling
saying “I’m not a teacher,
I’m a winner!”

schoolyard thirsts
portrayed by violent hand gestures
and boys running about rudely
through the bilge and gloom
that made up much of their daily lives.

Violets sprouting in every manner
of feeling; of tenderness;

frozen stream upends it all
coy camouflage of the bitter cold
heart (within you)

a stream of bumpers and chewed up papers looks like
Scattegories done at midnight by idiots or
rambling about ideas you wanted to remember
or the health care crisis or
the account billable digits…

no fear.
only internal
failure or a release valve
or something akin to a nightmare.

I like this place. the leaves smell
like pirates blessing their swords.

the knaves seem like
pointless people; they don’t
aim at anything but merely
points their guns.

here, there.
there, here.
& so on.

Psychic Cattle

Psychic hobknob or
weirdo crypt / door
cattle know the future
& tend to the poor.

Written by a gay entomologist

Girls at the bar tonight
each one like a little woman
mmm, a little hummin
sick lil bod there, [digits please
command sent tiger where did
everybody go? slow sense of not
imbibing listen to the sound of
grow up or somebody'll kill ya probly
the gangsta tech talk and all that
stuff.]

Each a-hummin'
like oooh that's right Hymenoptera
skin-wing family of the ants
and bees & wasps

I'm so into
ento-
mology.

Little Johnny

Join my cause
said the Panda
locked in a trumpet box
little Johnny stole from
the pet store.

Later the vanilla
spilled all over the car. It was
hard to clean. Momma had a fit.

Goddam nilla
gettin all over da place
she said, sweating like a
Lycra-covered tiger
in an oven
pulled over coals
on a firey rickshaw.

Oh yeah, Firey Rickshaw,
said the man,
That's my name,
and I'll have a Budweiser.

The Mercer Kingpin

Dave “Mercy” Elliot: A real kingpin in the healthcare game, hailing from Mercer, Ind. ("God's home").

Fittingly Dave had no mercy for anybody except himself and knew next to nothing about health care. However since he was “next to” nothing, and not occupying the same space as nothing, he determined (“somewhat logically”) that he didn’t know “nothing,” and therefore might as well know everything.

“Way I look at it is, hell, John,” he said, gesticulating toward the congressmen, “I been around, seen a lot of people in this here country, and I know a thing or two about brass tax. (Roars of laughter from the Brass Conglomerate crowd)

"Point is, we need everybody on the same page, everybody to pull together. Let's fuck up this bill! Down with universal health care!"

All the scarecrows cheered and Republican whip John D. Sternum stood and clapped and even cried a single tear.

The Fish We Never Met

The point is boogaloo
the electric night fish
donning his nightvision googles
(sponsored by NyQuil)
sees the robots in the forest
approaching, thus evading
contact.

Assured, it's Incorporeal

I ate a turnip in Europe
and I turned up in Asia
your Asia is my Europe
Eurasia is both.

Words, playing
with cord, or quarters
lonely corridors, books
bound by Borders

Hoarders, collectors,
swords of spectres,
bored inspectors
reading dirty looks

In a library I sip coffee
its against the rules.
When did it become noble
to drink in barns?

When did I become hopeful
I could spin yarns?
I'm not weathered, or grisled.
I can't knit or sew

So what's the point?

Alpha Kats

That evening we were a wolfpack,
unmistakably. There was a time when ladies went
gaga in the rubbed-his-shaft-at-the-bar-over his-levi's
way, that tickle-me-elmo perpetuity.

We had made a color spectrum (whatever was left
of 'em) or had spectrovision; let's just say the light
sprinkled our faces like cloud glaze, in a wow way,
yes we were irrigated like hydroponics. Crankshaft...

Hookd on kronic werks fer me. So we're in this scene
together: the bar and just hours to go. Someone beautiful
is calling baby. Impossible germany, eventually geometry
is a turnip call to the still bulbs, turn up, turn up, you're up.

Orange you glad I didn't say Boogaloo?

Its a nightmare don't fight it
MLK had a dream, so can you
mind your wandering through
the house, there's stairs.

Falling like Phoenix
dreaming is believing
seeing is relieving
it means you aren't blind

But does not preclude you
from still being asleep.
God, what a nightmare.
Could this get any worse?

Hint: never ask that.
"At least I'm not naked in class-
Oh wait, yes I am. Fuck"
Brain: this is not believable enough

Switch to a daily social interaction
much like the one you had today
with the nice girl you knew in high school,
though you haven't seen her since.

So how's she doing? Well, but not as well
as the guy standing next to her
He's wearing a cape.
You start to get scared.

Time To Show Up

We're going down in her grandma's black
cadillac, everytime we become branches.
We are becoming dangerous already

like a rhino, not easily offended.
We were the lost crayfish, the fruit
of dark magic earth in our gills.

The youth on drugs. Deeper and deeper
partners, it smells like opportunity, in the pelican,
pale stork of the moment. Our only major fail

that trip was when we went to the pharmacy.
She answered someone's personal ad with gepetto's
oath: wood is bondz. Tasty smoketreats, delicious anniversaries.

Band Names Part 37

Black Flak and the Nightmare Fighters
The Yeah Rights
Orange Boogaloo
Electric Liquorfish
Falconboy Ponderous
Ships Made For Sails
Born to Hike
The Oh Yeah Tights
Daddy Shortcakes
Los Monos
The Great Threats
The Baskets
The Stormy Knights

Vessel

I let the cord out on my boat too far.
Dragonflies were live; this was once a planet
in the making. We grew up really fucking

fast. Pretty girls look back, wear their hand
on their head, this is now. Distance is always
something you can see. I wish this was graphite.

Bad Ciphers

I wore chocolate slippers to the dinner party. Everyone kept trying to eat my clothes!

Choco-dipper
calico cats = girls
boys r supah
Erasmus

Paying For Attention (Pt 1)

That amphetamine scourge
of my first job – Adderall
(spelled “A-D-D – Er, All…”)
returned last week
in the form of five
20-milligram pills, and only one-half
tablet is left;

I took the rest.
& I may now finish the task.

Well, what do you have to say for yourself?
Nothing.

That empty, astonished, brilliant
comb of the old years – instant brain prep;
irradiant mental focus – has been exposed
for what it was: a distraction

robbing the mind of some fuel
to go on.

(Isn’t it a joy,
a tilting, lilting, scarified horror
to know that I don’t need this stuff?
Yes.)

Brain pumped in so many directions
by innumerable medicines
of infant craze.

(And my father's animus says:
Study the books you care to. Study the people
you barely know & surely grow
into what you’ve become
never knowing
you got there on your own. You made this bed
and the other things just got in the way. You
consulted the mess instead of the messiness;
consulted the cabinet instead of the shoe closet
wherein you’ll find some soles to strap on
to be out & about, where you belong.)

Toffee vs. Taffy

strippers can be rappers
snickers candy wrappers
yeah it happens, who are you
anyway, Captain Caramel?

Charmed, I'm sure.
Are you? Cause you don't seem sure.
You're sure you're charmed?
Yes, I'm sure.

Then, Esquire, we are ready to do battle.

Capt. Caramel:
I don't need rap and I don't need you
I hate third grade and I hate all of you
my rhymes are fantastic too
as is my motherfucking flow dawg
my flow dawg

I am so hot,
I'm like the planet Sun
Barely break a sweat
before I bust another one

Esquire (interjects, microphone in hand):
Well I loved third grade and I love all of you
I loved it so much I took it times two
eating on tables, multiplication on the side
catch my drift bitch this is how I ride

1 times 1 times 1 is 1 boo
bitch fuck the sun - too hot
to plan it, I'm orbiting the Earth
with a bitch named Janet

Capt. Caramel:
Yo, yo yo yo
She drops it like it's hotter
than a polaroid picture
hotter than a bagel, cousin
straight out the toaster oven

I seriously struggle sometimes
in front of crowds
the audience is loud.
and I lose my flow, dawg
my fucking flow dawg.

Esquire:
That shit was wack
everybody knows it
Call me devil's advocate
cause I oppose it

I'm the judge, you're the jury
the Shake and the Mcflurry
everybody hurry - I bring them to the yard
and then I drink your milkshake
I drink it up

I think this up
I flow like a fountain
like an avalanche,
my mountain is steep
I stopped countin sheep
when I was five - now I just sleep

At This Hour

The last hornet nest on the moon
was very quiet, all considered. Usually
the hive was a-bustle at this hour. 

Etymology: Air Guitar

Here's your etymology lesson for the day: air guitar.

(A Verb)

1. intr. To mime the action of playing a guitar, esp. to a recording or performance of rock music.

This now epic verb was first coined in the now infamous 1983 tome "Complete Air Guitar Handbook," by the trusty J. MCKENNA & M. MOFFITT. You might be surprised to learn that Neil Young, of all people, is the first human being to have been recorded air-riffing (at least according to the Oxford English Dictionary).

2. trans. To mime the action of playing (music) on a guitar.

The OED actually cites an episode of Sopranos: 1999 J. CAHILL Guy walks into Psychiatrist's Office in Sopranos (television shooting script). "He drums the wheel, air-guitars the heavy riffs"

DERIVATIVES
As McKenna and Moffit wrote in 1983, "We feel the only pants to wear for heavy-duty air guitaring are jeans." No doubt. 

AQUA-CAT

Call it "Aqua-Cat"; you -- meaning, I -- hope it will make 'em laugh.
"Aqua-Cat and the trash bandits erect revolutionary 'green' recycling center,"
will say the fake headlines. The New Pornographers,
zheez-new-conformistssss, Batdorft would hiss,
all this new fiction appearing like a stark
usher appearing and saying
"I am Doug Main's favorite
death metaphor," the stark usher, a park plusher
than your quarters, containing row after row of
well? --pointless wordplay, (not you, Tal, an impersonal
fiction) for these men and their new cigarettes.

That's right! I contain multitudes, would say Norman
Mailer, that Brooklyn-Jew-Harvard-Army kid who
not enough people read, what a piece of work, just like
me? right, just like me, just like you.

Which comes to the harder part -- the brick-laying,
the deeper art, the Aqua-Cat we can't get rid of.

The whole Point here being that I saw a promising
young co-ed, whose sweatshirt said something like
"Aqua-Cat," but it wasn't quite that -- it even more
obscure, but not as absurd -- the absurd being the
bend in the rake that makes it useful for something.
Not Nihilism or waste: The appreciation, the appreciation
of shoals and heart and dynamite and the written word
and everything that involves herbal medicine and spacecraft.

Absurd: absurdist. Learn to live with it
or die without
loving
it.

Stanzas are
for a reason.

So am I: Soma, body, blind luncheons.
Is the food better? I don't know. Ask the
sightless. I'd be interested. Probably the taste would
(lacking sight -- that 20th century sense)
prove more intense. Like sex w/ studded or ultra-sweet
condoms designed for all sorts of enhanced
pleasure. You know this new technology, right?
I can't keep my eyes off it.

How bout some Splenda?

Batdorf asked. It was his chance to confuse lil Ginny.
"No thanks, dove," she answered, and promptly
punched him in the stomach, and batted the gun out
of his hand. It landed in a (heretofore unknown)

cat's milk bowl. "Ahhhhhhh...." Said Batdorf.
He crumpled to the floor and reached for the gun.
But Ginny was too fast. She stepped on his canard-
like hand, a real gander of a fishy, mallard thing,
his hand being like a goose's neck and twice as
strong.

"Gotcha," said Ginny. "No use crying over spilt milk."

Would you like some milk?

"No thanks, sugar. I don't drink milk
in my tea, I'm not a child."
"Take it easy" replied Kroger, "or I'll
beat the shit out of you like the last time."

Batdorf had had enough.
"That was the last time, Kroger"
He pulled out his pistol, brandishing it
unnecessarily, somewhat carelessly.

"Please, don't shoot! I love him!"
cried whatever-her-name-is.
"Yeah right," replied Batdorf.
He coolly shot Kroger between the eyes
once, then again.

Batdorf: "I'll take the teapot, You grab the milk."
"One step ahead of you," she replied, reaching
into the fridge. "That was a short party.
Shall we take it back to my place?"

Batdorf saw through this ruse. She
clearly wanted the tea for herself, probably
the milk too, no matter what she said.
"I'd better kill her while I have the chance."

Would the tea even be hot by the time
they got to her place? He doubted it.
That meant that she planned to kill him right there,
right now. Somebody had to make the first move.
Pot, meet kettle. He swung for the fences.

It's a Luncheon, Part 3

It's a three-part tea party
thrice the crumpets, thrice the fun
An isolated case of closure
the crime was already solved

With intensive care to his
badly injured left knee,
Batdorf made his way through
the alley, to the tea party

Drunk on a whim
from some gin,
Ginny stopped, puked,
then walked upstairs

Apartment 11.
She knocked.
Batdorf limped up the stairs.
Kroger answered the door

To be continued...

Band Names pt Three(ve)

Ira's Luncheon
Snow & Glass
The Wine Boy's Malaise
Bald Osprey (actually that's just a bird species)
The Night of the Frail Hero
The Big Pun
The Big Purse From Daddyo's
Natalie's Celestial Crown
Troy's Decadence
Nobody Owns Us
Frigid Hogs Skate Upon The Tiny Ice Pond
HOWARD
Drake's Ledger
The Eager Egrets (another type of bird)
PANDA
Nobody Came
The Nobodys (actually a decent name)
The Broadsleeve Crooks
Club Bakesale
Iron Pony Brigade
Mike's AV Hoes
Horace and the Thirsty Wenches
Trebled Bass
Troubled Basset Hounds
The GLARE District
37 Nugs
Tha Glo-Boyz
The Longball Gentlemen (actually a perfect name for an IM softball team)

Band Names pt II

Quasi-Killers
Triplefuck
The Comatose Whores
Your dad is a munson
The Chocolate
Duncan 127
The Balding Wizards
Mike's band
Ponies in the Sky
The Broadleaf Convention
Minivan Morrison
Boners, Hugs and Harmony
Two Sweaty Joggers
Travon and the Bigdick Five
Gray Carpet

Band Names pt 1

Possible troupe titles:
--Sky Pony
--The Broadleaf Indecision
--Gordon's Precision Incisions
--Eric's Band
--Saurus
--The Pew Ponies
--SIFT
--Jew Wanna Party

Fish and Wildlife

Pony race
I got 10 bucks on Secretariat
of the Interior
if I win I'll decorate my hat
like a veteran
and not the Aryan kind that heals
I've got a dog
but it's not the kind that heels
it pretty much just does its own thing.

A black lab
pitch dark except for the uranium -
probaby should turn a light on, bro
wouldn't want to burn your bunsen
or God forbid knock over a beaker.
your eyesight isn't that good
to begin with

And to end with, carrots don't
really help with that problem.
I think it's a myth, and not even
one the Greeks and Romans believe.
That doesn't bode well for any myth,
but apparently you can't see that.
Get some glasses, you blind fuck.

That was overly harsh - we can't
all have perfect vision. Just get
surgery. An incision, maybe two
and you'll be seeing rainbows and
snowflakes in no time. You can stare
at the moon but not at the sun.

Cray / Baked Goods

That's right, buddy, them
crawdaddies are all the same
(the Cray's short for
crayonpony,
roach of the
cock-a-doodle sea).

& milksteak with the fox?
surrender epithets about stockings
if your foxhole is for finding;
The hunt was glorious.

And the verses:
ah, well, let me be terse
in saying that sprockets cause
more problems than we give them due.

I too am averse to
verse after verse of petty
rhymes, puns and wordplay. Which is
why I strangely don't rhyme but let butter
run from one rum concoction to the next
and set my sights on the prize:
baked goods. We aren't that
thirsty after all.

Time & Time Again

Still, its
frightening to the
falcon down the road

Or should I say
falcon-groan
like an animal
(or a boy)
issuing his call.

Yeah call, not
time, not twine.
I telephone him time
& again. Guess that's
it. Green everywhere.

Time
& time again,
everybody getting high. Time
& time
and time again.

Latrell is Dead

I've tried to tell them time and time again. Latrell... is... dead. He is not alive anymore.

Everybody I told about Latrell was star-bound, like, "Wow. Latrell."

( Bursts from the furnace north
a few fires short of a hearth )

A million idioms
eaten up by the moment. Latrell is dead no joke,
she said, like, this whole thing about dying isn't funny
because we don't believe in it
why else our Modern Medicine?

Though Latrell is dead it doesn't change the fact that
America does not believe in death
and is therefore doomed to
discover it, one day;

Witness Latrell.

Guns and Guns

Pepperspray deodorant
it burns like a rug
Simon says
shut the fuck up

in a nice way,
of course. Still, its
frightening to the
falcon-boy next door

Or should I say
falcon-buoy
like an ant
out of tine.

Yeah tine, not
time, not twine,
I could spin yarns
but i won't

I could till soil too,
but I won't. I don't
grow motherfucking beans
and I don't sharecrop.

I don't sell drugs
at least I don't now.
I sell rugs, but not
for a living.

Crayfish

Crawfish? Crawdads?
They're all the same?
Why??? Crayfish is short
for crayonponyfish - truly
the cockaroach of the sea.

The milksteak, best believe
I get it with raw jellybeans
and white wine, in a box. Drinking
with a fox, her knee-high socks
pulled up altogether too high.

Why can I never flow from
verse to verse? I'm not averse
to trying, but I am averse to
verse after verse of petty
rhymes, puns and wordplay.

Fuck it, fuck trying
A motto to live by

Clay #2

This clay--portraiture. Clay filings in the mop closet.
Rush the locks. Let them turn. Illumine
the drugs on youth. Their pasttime. Their lurking
essence, evervesence. Youth on drugs. That
sweet ocean of pot, sweeter than sugar and
sharp like burnt grass or lust become sadness,
murky. That's why you should open a window
more often. Fresh air is wonder &
cold--

Clay #1

shine! --the snow glass;
pepper; freedom; Lance?
The Lancet, the man, grabbings
in the cafeteria. Working out. Grunting.
Who hasn't been pet?
The children
(child's child's child, mind you)

oh Greg
St. Stanislaus
oh reverie
sunbeam

proceed

was snow less white
without her purchase?

every prevarication prevail
in deciding, when drunk,
to get a public massage in Memphis

sequestered in Alleghany
subpoenaed upon Allerton
Tip-Top-Tap goes the Water Tower
& all her memories of tomorrow

oh dear the pelican,
pale stork of the moment
look out empty on the grass
and cry with a frail beak:
'Proceed.'

Drake Monsoon's Diary Entry #1

:::::Her legs
were like features
of an ancient rainbow sun-place
someplace below where it oughta be
spelling it out, bees and rainbows

(your stems were
features of a desert landscape)

regard a man
replete with youth, all his cards in his hands,
splayed out like so, with a girl, receiving fellatio.

He has the sweet vine of the world.
God’s redolent head rains down on him
pure sunshine of the oceanic dream
and everything was chloroformed
a neat tremendous nightmare
nobody remembers

regard a man
sitting on his couch
feeling groovy,
wearing a fedora

<>
Julia’s trite poem: “The Hat. The old hat / was very sad. / It held his head / like a box of lead.”

<>
Scrawled genius
glorious corollary empties whole jars of coal:
everybody believes everything you’ve ever said.:::::

Amerika Kandy-Flake Shotgun

i don't want to get caught up
on this image

of a buxom teen
wielding a shotgun

but let's be honest
America arouses

even the prudest
police boyscout

the poisonwood duty cauliflower
his exquistive existence

programs him
to follow without pretense.

And then there was everything else.

Before Thursday, After Thursday

I live without you
like a Jew inhabiting
somebody else’s corner
your aura: Kosher
like a dill wonder world
awoke on Sunday morning to see everything in its right place
garden here, furniture over there
like an overt pumpkin or an orchard of a television movie
about learning how to hope in
causes worthy.

People, therein
on the lawn and inbetween
covert conversations, mooring pathways
from her ship of life to his
tree-house

mists of ephemeral
yesterdays
like stale oatmeal on Monday
becomes deeper and better partners
without anybody knowing...

Expeditions

“We were meant to be / We were supposed to be / But we lost it…”

Avril Lavigne, ‘My Happy Ending’

Outside it's raining and -- I'm sure it's been noted before -- it reminds me of tears. Of course it's raining somewhere in the world. Of course somebody's crying. And, of course, I might just too, what the hell?

You ring around the rosie so many times you end up like this: a lost ruffian, just lost, fucking about in the woods (such is the judgment of outside observers) but at least enjoying it along the way, yessir.

That is one step forward. At the end of the Purdue days, nothing was very good. Douglas got tired of being the only man in the fountain. And the fountain had stopped flowing. Not much but cracked cement and spraying water, but not the celebratory kind -- rather the excretory, the mistaken, unexpected spurts and children shrieking in mock horror (or real, who knows the difference?).

It was, so. Whaddaya gonna do about it

that's what Paul Simon would like to know

So I sit here, resolved to write more prosaically than usual, because most don't seem to understand poetry, and the dank diffidence it allows to bloom, but--here, soldier, you may be on to something. All I'm gonna do RIGHT NOW is sit down on my couch and write and there's not a goddam thing in the world you can do to change that. To change me. I cannot be changed I am the self-seeking goddess womb of the Earth. Mother Mary and Brother Douglas all rolled in to one.

There is, of course, one minor detail I'd like to get out of the way. So from at least August 8th until late September, a solid six weeks or so, I didn't smoke pot. Thought it would help clear the air, allow me to be less "depressed," get my "shit together" and get going and feel good, or at least better.

I started up again last week.

My initial conclusion is that: damn, the stuff really ain't that bad for you. In fact if I look at my level of writing and artistic output it's definitely higher this past week than general… certainly way above or almost possibly shortly equaling in size all that I “accomplished” during my weed-free experiment. I thought the weed was contributing to sleeping way too much but once again, this habit showed no signs of getting better and may have even gotten worse, actually significantly worse, during the time without it. I cannot explain this but feel justified in smoking again at least for the time being. Marijuana consists of unpollinated flowers, used by humans for thousands and thousands of years. It's more than you can say for Prozac, Xanax, and all these other synthetic neurotransmitter-altering drugs we take without flinching, actually thinking it's good for us. Both my parents for example have strongly encouraged me to take antidepressants, in fact, because in truth they think it's the best for me. Part of me has thought: well, maybe they're right. Certainly there is something deeply real, troubling depression thing. It has had me by the feet and I don't even want to explain where I am now, just the small nascent bits of insight I seemed to have accumulated in these pasts years and months.

I'm a 25-year-old gorilla. Who will now, for the sake of science, smoke a bowl of cannabis and see how that changes things. I doubt it will but I felt it important to get out these few trenchant thoughts while I was "sober," though sobriety offers little calm to a person whose troubles have not been solved in a sober state. It's really irrelevant--the point is seeing the results, producing the results. And here it goes:

Pack a bowl of good quality cannabis. The unsmoked smell of the plant is quite remarkable and sagacious; redolent and pleasing. Before getting high I can tell you it smells like opportunity, wild promise, and reminiscent of walking into a bank, deep underground, though somehow still lit by bright sunshine, shimmying to get a piece of this holy place’s currency, fruit of the dark magic Earth.  

It smells like approaching rain or distant skunk. But it doesn't want us to get away... no, the cannabis plant long ago learned that we like her delicate redolence, the slightly-bewildering magic and a million generations of re-birth, flowers and buds and hippies and high school kids and punk rockers and actresses and waiters and midnight lovers in the park, all passing around and surviving on the glory of this punk magic weed, marijuana.

Now I'll start smoking.

So i've done it. The magic spring whispers of the plant become impregnant women (meaning impractical teen's out shopping pregnant). Magic lantern slides. Like I was saying earlier, the past few days have been like a re-purposing, a re-branding: Do I Really Want To Go To Law School more than I'd like to do anything else?

I don't think so.

So that perhaps helps explain all the sleeping and the crass boredom and fake tears and real misery that I just keep kidding and hiding myself away from.

Look Main, we got it. You're miserable already. Nothing is right and you're never happy. You don't want to go running or take the initiative to join athletic leagues and do much to seek out new friends. As much as you're improving you still are moving slowly.

And at the same time, reign in the sly motive, that entity entitled "fake anger." It's not the real kind of angry that actually makes you get up to do something drastic; it's the feeling -- he or she -- which says, "I could theoretically pick up that TV and break it, would what good would it do?" Or more simply: yes, I'm angry enough to get out there and run a marathon just like that, fix it all with one big punch.

Okay, okay, so he doesn't like running. This isn't the goddam runner's club already. And we know it cannot all be done so quickly. He knows he prefers basketball. But there always minor obstacles which seem like marjor obstacles. He has to call up people, or oh, get an overpriced pass to the student gymnasium only to be constantly reminded YOU ARE NOT A STUDENT HERE, or anywhere, BRO.

That's all part of it, goddam it. Part.

My words speak for themselves,

but what of it

Hammond & His Purchase

The man below this sentence,

just bought a new cellular phone.

Disclaimer, Yo

Here's an important disclaimer I gotta share with y'all in real prose for once: read this crazy shit at your own risk. Cause this stuff right here, this shit is crazy! You know what I mean when I say dat? Cra-Zayyyyyyyyyyy!!! mother-lover you gotta step back before you get yo ass dusted, playa!

But seriously guys it's really potent gangster memories
(already breaking my own rule)
about things that were important
to the kind of parties only ruined by
self-impinging metaphor balls
just hopping out and horrifying everyone!!!

Eric's Freakout!

1. Before the Hospital


Here's what Eric said:

'I too had an abscess on my molar
the "doctor" solar-sore and obsessed
with excess said:
"You been riding the
bipolar express?" '



(watch me reverse standard rules!)

'So I checked in
to an Excedrin clinic
look at me look at him look at
Eric
that chill escalator all moving up on me
believing i'm a pepper worm
or somebody's effluent noxious waste.'

Geppetto's Oath or Someone's Personal Ad

You must name your dad Sycamore
or Mulberry if he acts girly.

I'm looking for a hip single gal
in her early thirties (i'm tweny five-
years-old, and swervy-curvaayyyy)

(there i go, all Mulberry)

But what I really mean to say is
I am a man who knows
how to snipe Jacktails,
and I ain't afraid of shit!

Nice slacks!

every time we lunch,
become brainiacs –
I didn’t say tongue because why say
got-‘em-back, or "Hey, nice slacks!"

(or "Shark attack!" so suck on that)

I’m outta town; I’m out of whack
when the stones look at me, they crack.

Snack on worms and pelicans. Warm me
with your "Them. It was not us but
Them."

The oldest level game
growing at your ear like something fear
some

thinking DNA has already written every
curve of every body of every religion let us fly
on into the wilderness of this crazy religion fever
flying red, flying green, every color but the color of dungaree
(blue lives those lives because of me!)

so just please believe me and let it be
we are becoming dangerous already. Please respect
the way I communicate. Please
believe in cinnamon; it is a flavor
uxorious to the point of
being the last "U" in the dictionary and a word which means
"someone like George Bush, who expresses excessive love
fer theyrrrrrrrrrrrre wiiife, Nancy!"

(what a boondoggle, dictionary friends!)

A flavor like love-me-in-specific-winter-situations way
that says: i'll bring you a Red Stripe and we'll watch
the United States Ski Team tank the other assholes
in the Winter Olympics, sponsored by CocaCola
and brought to you by
Sagittarius sex symbols
everywhere!

The Bipolar Express

I'm gonna name my kid Sycamore
or Mulberry if it's a girl.
Nectarine, if she's blonde.

I had an abscess on my molar
the "doctor" said it was
from solar excess, I replied:

You been riding the
bipolar express,? Alas
I digress - seriously,

I might name my kid Baltimore
like the Ravens, incidentally riding
the Kyle Boller express

straight to second place
in their division
which is not at all bad, I still really
like their chances for the wild card.

The Polar Express Motif Begins

Walking home was filtering through orchids. At 5 AM I left the green den. It was gloriously foggy. The city lights and buildings were straight out of Polar Express--Welcome to the North Pole. A Christmas-lidded parlor yonder, and over there, the community center, where you took pottery classes with your girlfriend, who isn't anymore your girlfriend.

Moving on, down the road, we'll ignore the Peking Garden, and go to my car. The Santa dorms in the distance are quite spacious-looking, brilliant-lit and lovely.

To be continued. 

It used to be

Swimming in the orchard;
Swimming in the rain;
Swimming in the flood!

It kicks in—so, like a
shot of vodka to the throat
I believe in somebody’s vision
of holy—it wasn’t mine

My eyes have once again proven that
your cloud, blanket and my 50 cents
are raining on your front lawn.

Carry on, until it’s gone.

It always was
after all.

Rad Ideas

1) Life is the result of unprotected sex; the result of the best feeling you can have, during the act which you cannot perform unless you want to have a child (i.e. create life)... or are for sure your girlfriend is taking birth control medication... or are a lesbian.

2) New Restaurant for Champaign, IL: "Fuck Illinois." This fine restaurant/bar would serve as the hotspot for all a manner of non-Illini fan. Possible motto: "A great place to watch your team lose to Illinois," or something like that, to compensate for the whole "This-place-is-called-'Fuck-Illinois'" thing.

3) More later.

My Dear God Pastrami

My pastrami is off the chains, young-blood,
this movie's about freed pasta, the kind that'll cost ya
because it isn't slave labor honey,
we keep our liberty about us;

like scarves or cloaks,
you'll find me in muddlin sheets
meaning swaddling clothes
sheets for the dead.
A baby arrived for adult business
parallels an
infant scoping the porn industry
and finding it wanting.

Why I'll Learn Mandarin

I should have said
"...became a diminished lake,"
which is what it all becomes
in the eyes of the old

I smelled my China-maid hat today and imagined it smelling of its home country. Myself, the hat and I had a little discussion: can I embue the hat with my essence regardless of its material? I mean, I like the hat. But there are details: Preferably I would know where the material came from... the patch of land, the grower, etc. That is the natural way of things. And fuck you if you don't agree. Also, what soul does it have? Were the plants grown in good conditions, those which gave this hat it's material? What kind? What color green are they? What type of farmers are they? Kind? Honest? Does it matter?

Of course not. Going too far there. But you see what I mean. The point is: where was the hat made? By whom? Were they pregnant? Do they hold hands on first dates there? Can you really only have one child?

All our materials
come from foreign meals
and flights of fancy
we shall never comprehend.

Oh the hat. So the point is: is the hat just an empty vessel, in which I can instill it with my essence? Eventually the hat becomes "mine." Obviously, from a financial point of view, it's mine. But spiritually--not quite yet. For one thing it doesn't probably smell like me yet. I haven't "broken it in."

Is all this just bullshit? Things I think
retain value because we give them it
ghosts of spiritual handshakes
around every corner.

More Like PolterGeist Reservoir

You'll find PolterGeist Reservoir in Indianapolis. She was birthed by underpaid immigrant laborers in 1943 by damming Fall Creek. This breezy beer pond became the second largest lake in Indiana, providing residents 7 billion gallons of water (all of it with a healthy trace of atrazine). Nobody asked the salamanders what they thought about the loss of habitat, but we hear they're... dead.

The damming also killed all a manner of veteran woodpiper and sand-creek fir, whose heavenly (and intoxicating) redolence was never sniffed again.

Clarence PolterGeist, a former owner of the Indianapolis Water Company who foresaw a deficit in Indianapolis's water supply, first envisioned PolterGeist Reservoir to preemptively address the problem. Unfortunately, a gang of cocaine-addled hydraulic workers attacked PolterGeist's mansion in Carmel. They succeeded in scaring his family and burning down his house. PolterGeist was never seen again. Some say he became... a spirit.

Geist Reservoir

Geist Reservoir is a reservoir in Indianapolis, Indiana, U.S., constructed in 1943 by damming Fall Creek to provide water for Indianapolis. Upon completion, Geist Reservoir was the second largest lake in Indiana providing approximately seven billion gallons of water.

Geist Reservoir was named after Clarence Geist, a former owner of the Indianapolis Water Company who foresaw a deficit in Indianapolis's water supply, and envisioned Geist Reservoir to preemptively address the problem – but not without a casualty. Planning for the reservoir began as early as 1913, when hydraulic engineers estimated that White River and Fall Creek would not provide enough water for the increasing needs of Indianapolis. Geist gradually bought some 5,000 acres in Fall Creek Valley in the 1920s and 1930s, including the small town of Germantown, which today lies at the bottom of the reservoir.

Although controversial, the reservoir was completed in 1943, five years after Clarence Geist's death. In the 1960s further controversy arose over plans for commercial and residential development in the area around the lake. A proposal in the 1970s to triple the size of the reservoir was defeated, and a housing boom began in the lake area. In recent years the Geist area has experienced rapid growth. The area is noted for its unique topography and the reservoir. Reservoir.

The dam which creates Geist Reservoir is located at the lake's southern end. Fed by Fall Creek on the north, the lake overflow is directed into the creek again at the south. The reservoir is mostly rather shallow (ten feet or less). The area has undergone rapid development, and many high-valued homes now line the reservoir's waterfront. Including Peyton Manning and Peyton's bi-sexual friend named Janice.

Poltergeist

Flowing like a free
style
reach for the dial

reach for the vial-
a vile concoction
of whiskey and beer

and whiskey, as well.
my relationship with vodka
is on the rocks, you see

I keel over - or, more aptly,
I try not to vomit. There are
people around.

Rightfully stifling my right to revival,
but I'm a lifer, rife with survival.
Triflers, travelers - meet my rifle.

Call me a criminal, smoothie king
I was suspended for scooting
too close to the front of the class

professors need their personal space

Scorched Unicorn

Larry, what'd you do with the hammers?
Asked Ed, who was looking like a dead-ham
dad, it's the dead hamster alert,
everybody freeze,
it's the internet speaking. Don't believe
anything you read, just some
of it, some of it's bound to be entertaining
or, hey, Ned, how 'bout a microcosm
meaning he's another steamblood
regression to the unicorn state
humbled, no blood
one horn,
magic.

Lemon Pepper

This fucking morphine drip- I don't think it's working
stir-fried muffintops, Tom Gugliotta,
maybe it's working.

Cold pony jumping jacks
I've got the waffle house blues
kayaks and canoes

slivers of jam
dam rivers
and livers.

Snubbery

I had an idea that as a prank my law school friends and I would snub someone in our group of friends. Just completely ignore them in the halls and in class, ignore phone calls, texts, gchats, the whole deal. Total alienation. I really feel like Jason – um, I mean the person we would snub – wouldn’t take long to confess to something horrible he’d done. He would take me aside after a day, maybe two of the snubbery, and say something like “dude, is this about me farting in your toaster? It was a joke!”

Mangrove Ascot, Possibly

Everybody seemed
to remember me. As if
I had some solid selection
where i'm posed like a brilliant root
to the hoi paludal, swamps emerging
out of every suggestion.

Every breath, indeed, becomes reduced
to something understandable;
imagine, for instance, that she's a new bride
a-shower in her matrimony
glaring but forgetting
for whom her glare recedes.

Animal, OK?

More than it has ever meant. There are large levers
where the people lived before, where they people the
ledgers of the brass war; the tally still mounts.
Like slowly the crows they reveal
(of/from what i hear)
they are shrewdness moreover animal
akin to none before displayed
or whosoever mount whereupon
we declaim a claim upon you!

Frail Boy In Woods

Frail boy in the cedars
talks about Michigan Wolverines
(not the animal but the football team).

Drake in the AM

Every morning, Drake Googled himself, then looked in the mirror, then went to the bathroom. First he'd make himself three to four cups of coffee. And drink a beer or two. Then he'd jog. A great, phantasmal jog, sweat profoundly effusing from his joints, his rancorous heart, his long problematic legs. They were more like chisels then legs... they were too long, they swayed to one side or the other. In short he had trouble getting not where he wanted to go, but deciding upon anything. It was if his heart were in remission, recovering from a glaring transmission of something as deadly as cancer or as innocuous as childbirth.

In other words, Drake was a maniac. After the 7 AM sweat-run, he'd take a shower and pound out an orgasm or three in the confines of his dusty apartment. He didn't believe in pornography and instead relied upon the graphic interior of his mind, all swelling and contingent upon strange continents for its fragile alignment. The jogging helped this all, of course.

Then, around 8 O'clock, he'd start talking to himself.

"Time get out of the shade of the weeds," was a common cat-call to get the morning started. "Time to pull myself out of these acrimonious suggestions of lament."

Then, he'd run down the stairs, careful to duck lest he hit his head on a jutting short part of the ceiling, and explode with laughter upon bottoming out. He routinely couldn't stop himself and tripped through the glass window. For this reason he was badly scarred and nobody could stand to look at his face, always scarlet with duress and battle.

Eventually he got up, dried off the blood, and went to Aroma, a local coffee shop hot spot amongst the sexually active and middle-aged laborers.

Touching & Reading (PG)

Change my ways.
When I’m trying to get something done, I pray
for better luck next time.

Or when I try to explain I instead rely on magic
to bely my failings: fall, the season
of the tailback

covered-up gardens and a betrayal we couldn’t stomach
astonished

we do not rely on ourselves,
but are stewards of something great:
a deeper cannon,
a stauncher true
wherein nobody is shot
but our dreams just continue into day;

Perhaps
a song somewhere will catalogue
everything I’ve ever thought
and I’d have no reason
to any longer live.

Meanwhile, the boys
are playing at the anatomy game
in the corner, can’t you see?

We believe in the colors true
which relieve us of our
doubts and shouts and strands of cord
are falling on us now.

Whoever reads this
touches a person.

Murder

There's nothing funny about murder.
But tonight, I killed a man.
I think his name was Jordan.

Not only do I not regret it,
but I will forever wish we had never met.
Which means: I have never loved.

Everything Burns

I owe no excuse to anybody

this pile of dead saplings is livid enough
alive enough, groused ruffling
those who disturb are disturbed,
you know...

so i light the pile and let the whole
goddam thing go. nobody respects
you until the blaze rends, & oh,
how they stare! when up in flames
it goes

Adam Smith's Invisible Hand

"It takes a chicken-thief to catch a
chicken-thief," said FDR
about Joe Kennedy. That's actually true,
she said...
hello.

& when you said,
"I don't know. What is it?" I know you meant,
"I don't know what it is." Meaning:
don't take me to the opera
if I don't wanna go, honey.

Talking about rats here. How culpable are
the feeder funds? That word has several meanings.
Culpable. Legal or moral?
Not illegal unless they were directly involved.
The prior court decisions said they weren't culpable.
But we know they are immoral.
They do little research and fall for the same thing
that we fall for, us non-smelling masses.

Project Jennifer

Jason's sister.
Shoulda known.
Wouldn't count. Could have grown
plants this summer but I didn't. Might've
saved some face but I didn't: YOU ARE MY
FACE, she said, in the sandy windy and exclaimed,
"You don't even need water, here!"
(She meant for bathing)

And it wasn't about Manganese nodules after all,
was it, Mr. Hersh? Not those little presents
of chemistry fresh and unsettling and intimately
slow though they grow... they are alive, as alive
as Russian submarines and Dan Marino's Id.
The bottom of the ocean, Mister Hughes.
The last place you would expect.

1. The Great How-To

I am very tired
of this ambiguous warfare
in myself. Moreso with the self
that doesn't return his gaze. Moreover
the proud glint of rural men hustling into shadows
like a long row of dirty dinosaur teeth
gleaming with crimson envy

Yes, I have entered the war
on the side of the man who is losing
but cannot lose because he has
planned it all, planned this pitched tent
and that battlefield, where the Orange
will beat the Blue
into that late summer sunset, and everything
sheds, a locust consuming herself, every
corner of the world becoming a twinge less
full of unrest and suggestions about
where-to-go or how-to-get-there.

You know, the second part--nobody
really knows, anyway. The most basic question:
How to live? How to live.

There is no How-To under the butler,
no grand map scheme or plan of plenty or
shortage of dross to re-comb

there isn't a guide here,

we are a book without an ending;

trite, but true, writing itself, where does
she want to go? who wants to be himself? wherefore
are though Romeo? Why are you Rome?

His had, her dad, our dad, looming and shrooming and
ballooning into tonics of gin and shit and herself and
crab moons on the nebula circuit, again.

I went to Circuit City to take a shit
but I couldn't find the bathroom.

Back in Block

I'm back on the block like J.Lo in 2002 so it's time to invade.

This masquerade is a phantom of the office and a fire has started.

New bookshelves can break if Chilean and transported on a small dolly.

Pardon me for the infinitejection.

Dont Fight Win.

Ampersand (Truly Insane)

Ampersand
8.22.09

Astonishingly,
nobody fits, not
anymore.

<>
In the woods
breaking bread with the undead
cantaloupe mind, rind, melon
then comes the verb.

As in, what the fuck are you looking at?

I’d like to talk about something important for once.
Owls.
You heard me.
Owls.

Are they wise? Or is it just their
wide-set eyes (over there!) that set them apart?
As if it made any difference? As if
it made any difference. We cannot
completely live if we don’t
completely rid ourselves of the belief
that we are the most important animals.

Which we are. Animal magic and the so-forth
speeches of the gods, we are all just a bunch
of alien weirdos, speech, chat, thumbnail

…and you go on like this—floating—not really knowing
what you want to say or how to say it. Nevertheless, the impetus remains. Something needs to be said, after all.

Who is that?

Nobody. Nobody’s forest or nobody’s desert or
maybe you have become too free at this writing thing,
wouldn’t be the first time, remember when
old Jackie made up a bad joke and wasted everybody’s time.
That’s right a joke, grandma.
First of all there aren’t people.
They are all just a milieu. Oh, snakebitten. Trap door arm-rest. And everything else
was
was
frightfully unjust.

But what are you gonna DO about it?
That’s what I’d like to know.

Saving face is saving grace is bundling
cans & cans & cans & cans of mace
like a factory canal
pirate turned backward
turned inward
turned hopeful, like a breezy salmon,
like a kingpin, like a dead beauty queen

who are thou Marry? Marrying whither and whom
you want, down the alley like a pile of bricks,
clunk, clunk, magic. Happening at random times like
bricks in the wall. Keep going back to this brick thing and
it’s really beginning to creep me out. And this time I didn’t
take the pill so you get the output, let’s imagine it’s like
putting our feet on the ground and fucking dragging them
at least you’re getting somewhere, and at worst you’re leaving a mark after all

after all after all
spooking at David Foster Wallace’s shadow,
where did he live,
who did he look like (me)
ransom, handsome kidney the unicorn thief
Disney
was a Nazi killed somebody didn’t he? Reagan
faking the pregnancy test arrest
military zone pregnant
cocaine, drug-test, zombie
arm-rest, again

like a spiritual without cause or direction or reason
a hope-fest, a clunker-up, a good hard fucking
where you’re mind is so dirty it’s turned into a cave
a tenement, a sordid crawfish lair,
a cobweb home

wherein everybody combs their hair
or doesn’t, or has flair,
or couldn’t, like James Cagney
in a knife-fight, skilled as a badly burned Albanian boy—
the random lamp factory of dead regrets and Kanamycin
(spelled wrong) and microbial resistance and ants and crayfish and sex
and orgasms and pornography and vaginas and cunnilingus and the clitoris
and wet wet wet heat like magic fire dark the night burning until

oh, just then, just then, oh wait…
the magic fungus awakes and it says,
“I never existed.”

&

“Goodnight.”

White Lightning (& cranes) Pt. I.

EVERY body, like white lightning illuminates a snake:
here, there, where, everywhere?
The next part, the next centimeter,
the next (alright, ...) moment
(where time becomes space)
& (of course) something changes.

It is not without fanfare. But the challenge is
acceptance.

Sure, there's James, immaculate.

You know he's read the gospels.

Believes -- God Bless Him -- In everything
ABOUT WHICH HE
was told.

And these prepositions
keep sidestepping the terminal
unknowing that
one is a fine thing
to end a sentence with.

So many fucking trials.
So many destitute
pathetic outlets.

If you were a river, you would
flow, like so, like so,
pollution, like so. The delta. Minnesota
to Iowa. To Illinois/Missouri. (Not one.)
Kentucky.
Tennessee.
Mississippi.

THE GULF!
Poor Black people would watch you
without your knowing --
you are water.

Black Boys

You cannot see
the Black boys at night,
not because of their hue but instead their size
darting in and out of the corners
of our apocalypse, a lapse of better
judgment.

The Black boys at play; is anybody listening?
I have grabbed handfuls and handfuls of snakes
in the littered dark and wondered:
Has anybody looked for me?
Is anything going to occur
if not that which I have caused?

30 Minutes, Unfiltered

The words of everybody else just swirling in my head

in my brain’s space like a brain’s pace set apace

of a mean monster rap rhyme, doing my time, getting in line

to do the tanning bed, get cancer

do arrhythmic arithmetic and so forth & so on

unto those golden lights hewn...


<>

I have known women. Beautiful, mellifluous girls. Creatures I cannot begin to describe

without confessing to lack in some large way

remiss the ability to express

how darling are they

who linger here.


<>

Fuck your GDP. More like QDP. Flipped is PDQ

Pretty Damn Quality, Pretty Damn Quick,

mind your P’s and Q’s and everything’s just cool ask Wayne

pick your poison: mind or money

the latter being the tell-all, the former the source of all

heart-attacks and joys and loves and everything felt and unfelt and heard and spoken

Absurdists INC is not so much dying as being born again. With the most absurd premise of all—perhaps the anti-premise, like the Catholic Church announcing that, well, thanks for asking but no, as a matter of fact, Jesus was not the Son of God, and thanks for all your donations and countless lives lost or devoted or prayed away or preyed upon or raped like an altar boy or mortified with the flesh-- …we hereby renounced our iron grip upon the bleeding hearts of the world, and yes, as a matter of course, our leader is not infallible, but is just a man…

In the hearts of many

are carried the hearths of Mary

Holy Mary’s, Mother of God,

the Lord is with thee; the

modest, intemperate, compassionate fate

awaiting whom she awaits where she awakes

all that dawdling virginity going by the wayside

and collecting like flotsam or rancid jelly in the wading—oh! how holy art thou

the holy lawd wading pool of old! holy!—

collecting like root beer foam in a creek

and I realize that it’s all been too much

to get across, and yet my soul is here for trying

which is the same as saying

we cannot be perfect, but we do our best?

false. not everyone. it cannot be.

even I, the Saint-of-Me, admits to

being humiliated. Being defeated.

Hiding! From it all! Not looking up!

Because: face it. It’s frightening. Bald, lapsed,

unhappened future. Oh glorious path ahead,

where will you lead me? What tender sprigs whilst thou

upspring from the loam oh My God please let me

let me into that garden, allow me to gander upon the geese

and orient my brain pulp onto the geography of the town

allow me goose down and feather beds and just one word,

any words, a single dose somewhere—some jewel—must be enough

to say this: finally, something worth being said, something

worth sweating over, something worth fighting for, something

worth being anxious about, somebody worth

making sacrifices to, in name of, FOR.

And it comes back to the wayward nature of it all,

the mystery and the backalleys and the Gnar

of these back-street, urban side-cats


grizzly, grizzly


a fresh girl,

an overcoat,

Paris. A tangle of brown hair

I remember being blond. Monica Morrison

and Nicole Sugar and

that blonde who everybody looks at—

is there any star not brightened

by us (the light shining back)? we see

exactly how the light shines—at us,

for you, to him, to her, these things are certain,

they are getting better

we DO just know some things


like lightning is a force none shall betray

For Fear of Death, and

we shall never understand its holy, shattering,

deadly, life-giving! power, oh God, let us understand

we are not alone here, You are all around,

you are in the sentences that hold us together

admitting to know immediately that nothing constrains

the ugly tenements of the human heart except silence

the ugliest science in the silence of kidney stones and heart attacks

and moreover in the stones themselves—the ones we never fully

appreciate, the ground beneath our feet! because every boy

is a fantasy fulfilled,

every day is a heaven to un-glove and hold, Good Morning wonder cat,

I believe in this gold; behold this golden glorious day masters! And mistresses!

Mistrust not each other but in God trust,

yea, in God fear, and only God, in Him, Fear,

that to Not do unto others as you would

is to not live, is to pardon yourself from the party

to the ashtray to the cylinder

gouging down the hill next door the alley, next door the picnic,

next door the rambling old shanty house down the way where

Allan and Gillespie and the Spoonerism man live

dog the lampshade bed-spray and whom he

we

where

what

all those stupid questions

leading nowhere.


a book of faces

glorious, beautiful, sad, imaginative,

porous and Horace faces staring back

inviting us into some magic we don’t understand

but hold like imagined pony-tails

of human women holding

(hopefully) our hearts in theirs

metaphorically speaking, of course.

Like An Agreement

Do you like apples?
I got her
number
how'd you like 'em
(& so forth)

number as in
more numb

i meant
is what she said
is wherein we went to bed
like an agreement.
A good one.

<>
Blockbuster summertime
dropkick bummer why
everybody strums the scribes
for anybody, nobody, herein let us be there for it
forthcoming bloodwork blood perks bold quirks
and everybody says
like them so so so big
a whole old big daddy
crape myrtle and so forth
growing around the eaves
of the sanctuary.

Gayer

It might be getting better. But that doesn't make any better the fact that this blog has lost it's central pulse; there is no reason for it to keep going. This is not a place people go to "check things out." People don't hang out here. My frown is a Rembrandt, and I am gay!!!

Daughters, Ballparks, Or Neither

Of course you probably don't wanna
fire on these, these manta rays I call
"guns." They swim until they arrive;
they swim until they're
done. You know where I'm staying, Starks?
I'll get you that platinum-laced Jersey at
the stroke of midnight, ya heard? Eesh, cameras.
Everybody hates cameras. Just look at them,
looking at you, taking your picture.

Eesh. Anyway today
I grew some words, like celerity, which means "rapidly."
Like rapid celery with celerity these celebrities wither
away with amphetamines and not eating. Tiny,
invisible hair covering their bodies like brineshrimp,
(which is One Word in my dictionary, harumph, yaaaas).
Bulimic is the new bucolic, transplanted like a houseplant
into the cemetery, cool and austere and stripped-down
and unaugmented, as well as serene, not-to-be questioned.
But with all this said it's hard to believe we will continue to
afford the dead the physical space they seem to deserve
when all the living ones keep writing petitions and retching
sweaty violence toward our daughters and
let's just keep them all apart, anyway. Separate but Equal
brand Mouthwash is good enough for me. My gums sparkle
clean and pink health and my sheath never quivers, because
I don't have one, because I don't need a protective covering
over my unit, because I'm a man, MAN, and my testes
hang out like this and my huge Andromeda straw just lays
there, gathering legend, because sperm need to just chill,
brother? Can you feel it? All that biology so thick you gotta
put on some anti-shades to see through all the layers of complexity,
so complex that no sarcasm can put us to sleep tonight; instead,
it's Pure Quality. And an understanding--
as simple as, let's say, "Lay still now for eight hours!"--
of anatomy and miracle glands.

Even Pharaohs Eat Lunch

Daddy's got it backwords, i mean backwards,
back toward the woods i bear my sideburns
meaning firearms: WANT TO FIRE ON ME?

I scuttle ships with the best of 'em, scoop
skittles like the rest of them, chest in chin,
feeling brave & thin, like a mushroom grin
on a day-glo necklace Santa--Christmastime on Mars!
Not again!

& so-forth, Mars bars, broads at the bars with
the Farmar Jersey on and I say, "Hey, nice
Jersey, what's the deal?" And she says, "Hey,
nice try kid, I'm pregnant, feel," and I say
"Great belly. Oh, a kick? Nice talking to you."

(This is needles-haystack--meaning needless--
to say: I'M IMAGINING EVERYTHING)

And her name is Cynthia and her breasts are
fucking fantastic (while we're imagining we'll picture
her topless, hotter than Megan Fox)
and this fantasy tops the list of weird things
to talk about, like cysts, or conversation with the
wife about your lurid trysts.

& I insist not to be a night-bear, not to be afraid
of the nightscare, everything is a nightwear
possibility: the rug, the furniture, Jones' hat
that was mine which was Amanda's and now:
who knows? Time moves like a globe sometimes:
Around, moving like a clown on steroids, getting
angry for no reason, quoting Danny Glover,
telling Mel not to kill himself.

But that's not the point. Another comma, another mid-
spin re-direct check-point check express-lane bypass
and I die of grass--Digress like Reader's Digest
(now online only)...

Throat clearing done. So I want to say:

I can communicate quite well. Deft language becomes me.
Or, I create it with ease. See how concise we can be?

But the usual limits bore me, I do not walk here,
ON THE SIDEWALK, rather in the grass
(maybe pulling up weeds for the fun of it, fuck you
Monsanto)

Which is why I write like this
like a child who absconds from the bus
mid-transit and gets hit by a semi

yeah, i got a semi
every time I look at pictures from semi-
formal Junior year, drinking that potion, juice
& everclear, ever clear that this year I would be
having a lot of great sex, fucking in the old train
station, but that's getting tawdry.

I mean,
The usual inexact man would say
I color outside the lines.

This is kind of true: It's accurate in the same way
that I'm a kind-of-honest person, which is something
we all attest to, but which is almost always a dangerous
lie, more dangerous than the lies we speak.

It is really this: most of us want to be truthful. We want
to be honest people.

But we fail in that. Every single day
it's like I don't recognize the person in the mirror.
"Hi, Douglas Brain here, um, sole survivor of
a recent airplane crash, um, borderline personality
syndrome (something must explain this madness),
borderline drug-addict who thinks he can write well,
well...." I've already stopped talking because it's the
truth, at least the last part,
and they aren't expecting that... but what if it's
all true? What if nothing really means anything? Such
hard work being a Nihilist, yeah right The Dude.

Let me try again:
"Ok, that was an exaggeration. But you probably
wouldn't hire me or date me. I stay up late and am
remarkably slow at ordinary tasks. I'm regularly late.
Women floor me. Drugs have abounded
in my personal life, like friends, except they aren't friends.
They're drugs.

But so am I, DROUGHT, Drugged Main, an animus
you cannot comprehend, a complex snow leopard
in an otherwise warm, canine world. I am a wolf,
a sad legend. My eyes are capable of tearing up
often. I say things I don't mean
nearly as often as I do the opposite.

I am spoiled, undisciplined, sloppy, somewhat arrogant.
But worse of all, I'm entitled, slopping about like an
over-educated busboy.

People at McDonald's probably work harder than me.
Even at 25, you've got to start somewhere.
From now on I'm taking life seriously, but don't
quit reading just yet, I feel prodigious, like a mummy
waking up, casting off the quilts of dead lunches and
a million sad sandwich stories.

Since you asked

1. Dielectric breakdown

I am a horse blinded in a thicket
shielded by everything and nothing
rambling, rambling, rambling;
completely lost.

So this is what it comes to. Angry at most everybody, and probably most of all, myself.

Live cleanly. Drink moderately. Seek adventure
only so far as it fits within a hallmark card
or your online journal
nobody reads, might as well keep it in a fucking diary
locked to the world.

Live clean. Work hard. Be effective
but recreate, give people money,
buy all sorts of things. Want love? How about
an airline ticket to the nearest lovely destination.
Low fares straightaway. Want companionship?
Well, there’s always the internet,
which we swear, says Match.com, connects
actual people. And Mark203 met Skier_hottie24
and damn if its wasn’t sex on the first date,
a spring marriage nine months later and
a rainy divorce two springs hence, with one
unhappy, mistaken child now on Our hands,
groping about like a misshapen question
or an accusation.

Be good, be normal, Do Not Be Strange,
unless you’re a character, wherein TNT welcomes
you (or is it USA?), although you have to be on TV.

Fit in, get a job, move ahead in the world
while the human race inexorably
pushes back the limits of the Earth
thereby poisoning limitless tracts of land,
rivers, lakes, oceans, air, coral-reefs, wetlands –now
practically gone – our rainforests, our heavenly
world right here on Earth the next windfall
for the goddam Gold-Diggers at Mobile Energy Inc.
who give generously at all their local houses of
Jesus, making them helluva good citizen
may God bless them for their charity,
& so forth.

Gross, Comma, Comatose Lime

Aforementioned limbs:
none, as yet.
Still working on it. It was so slippery,
she said, embroidering her daddy's glove.
"Dad will wear this in honor of me and
my great success raising honey bees,"
she said. Her name was Mathilda;
of course, she was a Mousavi supporter.
And Dr. Dre said--Nothing, you idiots!
Doctor Dread is dead! He's locked in my
spacebud! He withered, like the arm,
just now mentioned, of the T-Rex,
(what a scavenger fake!)
when we pursued engagement.
Which won't work. Of course. John Bolton
said so.

Good start then becomes weird

Please don't tell me how to
spell. I know it,
yes ma'am, I know it all.
And I feel great. Better
than the clean glass vials of country loving
in the tabernacle. My God is my judge;
no gown, no gavel. Perry Mason facin'
the barrel if he tattle: My Bod is the rage
no frills, just ballads
about his whom her what
that daddy thing daddy did it
nobody said anything
and it was fun being silent.
Gourds.

Observation on June 15th, 2009

Divine Truths:

Everybody rehearses their forehead.

Spears were unjust.
If you consider killing unjust.
Else, most natural. Sharpened saplings.
I actually independently discovered this.
At age 8.

So those were all part of the same one.

Things bled together sometimes. Like paints.
Or stains.

A potter bleeds just like the rest of us.
Unless it's Harry Potter. Then it's magic blood.
Which means that seeing him get into an accident involving blood would be like seeing the ghost of the Titanic sinking again, or a real tooth fairy up close--magical (suggestion: in both scenarios, one should not brandish weapons). But in this case, it would be magically bad--meaning the magic part of it would make it more tragic... ostensibly because magicians are rarer than muggles? But also especially because it's Harry Potter, ol' 'Arry, who is a legitimately good guy. His death and/or bloodletting would literally be tragically, magically terrible.

I usually don't use commas between adverbs. Why slow us down? A lot of verbs cannot be merely described by one. We quickly harshly find ourselves in a lonely planet, for example.

My darkness often obstructs my brighter lapels.