Monsieur Fryynta

Lunch and freckles

Lunch and freckles
neckless munchkin heckles
punch you for a shekel
reckless.

Sheffield-colored maize
and bleu cheese (solid)
all the buffalo on the ranch
say moo.

Cows so emo
short on emotions, but big
on emoticons.

For once

1.
Failed, pale, carved-out canvas of a man that relents, and in so relenting, does not suppress what he ought to--

...& the intellectuals said--Hey son, look down, look up, look around--but they never spoke. They weren't close. That isn't love!

Love by what I mean by words I mean
love, a thing like a lantern in the dark, drake
that mourns the moonlight fading, an arc
of being discovered once discovered again
something you'll call a cliche
a niche a mismatch a clan a calm breeze
a canal, a mode of mysticism
a way of matching like with like
a way of being
a way of living.
You already know.

2.
That isn't what I meant. I know the answer I know
how to live. Sometimes. I know
the way of the arrow, how it flies
and in so flying does. It hasn't been
sent by anybody. Which is the same as saying
it has been. Shot thus, landing here. What
a way of putting words together, you'll
say. What a way of siphoning sand. I had
hands and I lost them, by way of the sleeve,
by way of the bands of color that stripe
my dusty dark forehead my
time for lingering my time
for hungering the minute
is now.

Come closer. He isn't here yet.
You are listening to yourself.

Wasted sweetness

I am surrounded by nothing on all sides.
I am running toward the fire.
The fire runs from me.
Mountains beyond mountains.

Please cut the lights.
Somebody's god is untamed.
Please somebody... explain yourself.
Why you are here, for example,
or maybe something like: Why am
I here? But that becomes trite, becomes a hold full of water,
and all the good and the bad that entails.
On the one hand: water something like fresh.
On the other: possible disease.
Between my hands there is air
between my hands there is sweat
between my hands there is sweet.

NOLY (Like holy but with an N)

If there's one thing I want to say to the Microsoft Corp., it's definitely this:
Side-by-side windows
are chill to the point of whiskerless.
(That is, as chill as being whiskerless
is in the cat community.)

Feels like I have to get out
all my weird shit now, not
"before it's too late," but more like
"before I quit being so afraid to
get down to the stolid business
of living responsibly and applying
myself."

Then again, I can still write really weird
(newly adverbed) things once I get
used to really being serious about my
present life. The point is
maybe this unloading kind of helps
somebody. I guess it's okay if it
only helps me. But I hope it (or
some of it) can one day help somebody
else. That's my gay little goal. 

Blowhard foolish prose

It's kind of sad to say, I think, but everything you have ever done has become allergic. Becoming your own reflection. It's called, for example, "having to take down the mirror on the vanity you are using as a desk," or whatever. What I'm saying is that I'm into symbolism. Yesterday I met this guy at the cinema. Somebody is looking at somebody else. What I'm reading might as well be Latin. My mind is a soupcon of coy meaning. There we go again. Somebody goofing. Somebody Googling the goofster next door. You know I really hate this new internet thing. Everybody has to fucking go on there every day. So many sites. So little time. So many pilgrims. Too much wine.

]] Whati'msayingisthatWhati'msayingisthatWhati'msayingisthatWhat
i'msayingisthatWhati'msayingisthatWhati'msayingisthat [[

[inscribed prose] ::::that space driveway
:::::the most kooked out uncanniness

;;;;;uncanned bliss like pumpernickle
sandwiches, Jews and glances;;;;;

:::::give way::::::

to the ethnic spellathon
over here over here we can't
even use these words anymore we
are assumed to be weird here we
are just so cautious (rear)
we just came so close (spear)
it just came, this snow!
it just came, this year!

Where's the lectern? (Hipster Ed.)

High at night; high as a flashlight
on the top shelf in the closet.

Voluminous as the quantity a whale breathes
let's say a Wright one. This is how much high.

Big as the Lenscrafters' tab for The Eyes of
Dr. T. J. Eckleburg.

As amazing as, per se, something worth
mentioning.

intelligence

I open the door for three--now four!--men
and Maybe I stay for a while.

Open the door for the strays
and Maybe I stray that way...
unsick beggars in the backalley
await your reconnaissance. It is not
as romantic as you believed. But you
never really could, not with a heart,
mind you? Not with a heart, that says,
(IF YOU ARE LISTENING) the life lived
in secret clay meadows from one
burned ionized distance to the past
the gray isotopes of sweet longing
fading and fading and fading...
[You know what I mean!]
Is  clearly not worth living.

Your mother could have told you that.