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.
25 August 2009
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.
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.
22 August 2009
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.”
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.
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.
19 August 2009
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?
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?
07 August 2009
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.
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.
03 August 2009
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.
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.
02 August 2009
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!!!
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