Skinema

Whoa, says somebody
(as somebody wears)
a grin thin a homebody

a white horse
in the field of daisies
whiter still (Kofalk)

or more moroseness
white, the whiteness
of being, white politeness
and blackness in my
morning joe, this mud pit
of staunch white cinema
staunch bright grinema
(the grinning of a can
dleabra)

What a blanket looks like (notepad, glanced)

A.
the tomb of the dinosaur codes
like magic filaments of paper dentists
imaginary salamanders folding their chairs
and clamoring off to work.

B.
"options that would involve large-scale engineering of our environment in order to combat or counteract the effects of changes in atmospheric chemistry"

C.
really neat idea (subtle and ingenious) that definitely merits further study. It's anybody's guess whether it'll prove to be feasible in practice, but well worth exploring. And the paper is really well written and well-balanced too (David is one of the most sensible and knowledgeable people in the world on these issues)

1.
"I believe in baths,"
she said. "Mostly for birds,
but also cameras. You know,
to put things in." She relaxed,
just barely, and managed to shrug
her shoulders. "What I'm saying
is there must be a way, to end
it all, without an ending."
Inhaled. "I'm really quite insane,
aren't I?"

2.
I believe in second chances
holidays in Branson (Richard, not Missouri)
and staunch NO CANDY APPLES rules
for those without teeth.

3.
October was for black flags,
flying them,
anointing them like altars,
one by one by one
or take a second look, a good
look and a shudder and a meat pie
just eat it up, hey? look into
my eyes and see that i'm just spiriting
about the room about to peruse some
fatal elemental crabshack wondering
"Are we there yet? No." But a taco
stand, halfway to the moondrake.

Freestyle part I

What's the etymology of entomology?
Willy Wallaby.
Wannabe
like a Spice Girl.
Spice World nice girl, nice
pearl necklace.
Sexist mexicans and blacks,
attack all of em,
black olive em,
I track Taliban - Osama, Obama
Tally me banana
smoothies, strawberry
Harry Belafonte - Stephon Marbury
I'm a star so bury me
Marry me, I the wed
Day of the Dead
De los Muertos
Los Puertos
The Doors are closing- Jim Morrison
mind the gap not the chorus, son
Freestyle like a Ford Taurus: done

I'm not going anywhere!

My Letter to Posterity (Though I Still Live)

Something: is fundamentally wrong with the world.
I have always felt this.
There are things that still belong.
Love, family, friends, nature,
music, love the least among these
and at once the greatest. Our
mothers and fathers are our sweetest
reminders of where we are from
a place where elkhorns weren't put
on the wall for show, or as some
capitulation to excess, they weren't
worn as a trophy of "what-i-killed,"
they were there because
they didn't need to be, because we are
all alive, after all, just across the field
is a bighorn sheep
and in the attic
is our imagination,
bordering on the riparian.

What I see in visions is electric
like God's face being shaved or
a minstrel microwaving popcorn
for the first time. Please just us,

just this once, she urged us,
legs up on the shore, toiling
as only a mermaid can: at once
sad and happy, part of the earth,
a piece of a chapel, say: not
earthly but swimmingly, you
know, marine... that's the word,

flash!...straight out of the sunbelt
some love like the sun melts,
and all around, everything's extraordinary
in its ability to be profoundly powerless
or at once it's bright opposite: a revision.
A big apple with (too many) seeds of excess.

In Love, of the River

Have I
been through
the fire
enough times
that still
it rings
my ears
hints of a bell
chords of mountains
chiming their death away
mountains unto mountains into
a bleaker beginning, itself fried
these down-low curmudgeons
can't help retreating
looking in the mirror
reacting, saying, "More, should
have done,
more!" Or something similar
slices of throats and lozenges
culls of enamored bridesmaids aloft
"Look mother! An Owl!" & so on
the kid cameras clacking on, chirping,
chiming, clicking. Everybody's alive now,
after all, half of time's ancestors,
piled about, spitting in boxes
careening down alleyways disaster on the dial
motives unscented like a scene from a movie
on breakaway, in love, of the river.

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.

FlavoursOLove (Green Energy Re-Bridge)

FlavoursOLove

c a m e r a
word -- art
flash; crave;
brilliance--;
electric DerS
piegel canvas.

Electric dimo
rphous giant;
clock ditto ho
meless man-of
-war causless
bromicide alert;
tastelesswidows
& elacstatic ra
inlikeblatterbla
cameracoldflashha
rdcoldlikeplastic

illuminedsuddenlyby
F i L a M e N t
O u s algal oil ablaze
in_the_new_age_
l-a-n-tern.

Faces etc

why are faces always beautiful? they can be
tanned creased dark graced bulbous Sino
Indoeuropean Asian greasy flanked by brown language
arranged like strange lids or Chinese
vegetables the Orient sinking in sinking
in sometimes a sink like a stink
under my skin sometimes through my nose like ahhh
choooo says the train says the whistle
says the bundle
says the white Chinatown noise the hunger
the thirst of danger this thirst for power
this hunger gradient this grand switch
these bald Lebanese women grabbing for things
(Is this something you've seen? Perhaps.)
Complete honesty. Gets inbetween the layers
of sediment in the memories of the clam bake
or the minutes spent waiting in line for fresh
vegetables on Eldridge Street, when there are other
in-every-visible-way identical vegetable stands
ones seemingly exactly the same, same
cucumbers, same mashed / un-mashed melons, same
brown skin fanning flies off the plums, same muted
rebellion or pride or something like being haunted
something like just living selling the ordinary
selling the handbag, or the curtain, the
hidden-behind-glass items for retail
in the nearby shops ... shops like people
offering
slim silver cropped doorhandles, for example.

Thoughts walking around (30 Aug 2010)

Walking through Chinatown today I had some thoughts. First of all I am a minority here. It's good to feel this way. (Of course... the goddam ubiquitous qualifier) You can take everything I say with a pinch of salt but Westerners (and those Easterners who duly dwell here (there, yonder, south, fuck these labels)) get too much sodium to begin with. The point: I'm a minority at least in Chinatown, Manhattan. Since I'm a white American of European heritage I'm usually the majority. It's good to have a break from that... identity. I really don't want to be linked to what so many people like myself have done. What do I have in common with those Europeans-of-old? Does the connection mean anything at all? Walking around here it usually doesn't feel like it. More generally in NYC people don't stare at you longer than an instant (unless they have one of the usual reasons for looking longer, like you might remind them of somebody they know, they like your looks, etc... wrestling with the unknown here). So I'm basically anonymous. And I have to be honest: I can't get enough of it, at least for now. I don't really want to be known most of the time, now. Obviously I aspire to do great things and forge great relationships with amazing people, which will make me not always anonymous. But by and large there are so many people here from such different backgrounds, they have seen a lot. And one of the only "rules" that seems to be a rule here, really just a convention is what I mean, is that it is not chill to stare or single people out. The mass is just the mass, like a river, not pointing to itself, just flowing.

One exception: at least two of the cashiers at the convenience/deli/ballsack across the street call me "Boss." I don't like it. They are of some Mid East heritage (what do I know?) and it feels like they are singling me out for being "those boss," "the man," whatever. Both times so far I have been wearing my (new) glasses, so maybe that makes me look more "professional." So really I don't think it's very much racial, but is maybe economic. Whatever. More observation is obviously needed. 

During my walk I made it halfway across the Manhattan bridge. The very cement and filaments of the living bridge shudder every time the train goes by. I believe it was built in 1901 but I could be wrong. It's old. Could not help but think what would happen if the bridge broke and fell. If I was over the water, would I be okay? Assuming nothing landed on top of me, of course. My guess is that I'd be pretty hurt, almost certainly broken bones and absurd bruising, etc... but if I landed on my feet, I'd live... once again assuming I'd be intact enough to float... or swim... to shore. Chill. 

I got a filling

tonight's not gonna be good
searching for cavities
in my cavities, my skivvies
starboard skiff
spaceman spliff

"Pliff" said the onomotapoeia
"pliff, ploff"
feeble sheep, sheepish people
keebler elves ship steeples
subtly sipping beetles

Juice of the sun
ruby red greatfruit
tropical americana

Elegant as Chinatown Garbage, maybe

1.
I have already discovered
the meltwater at edge of cave

already entered
the cave I am to call home
like lost money ringing her bank
to say, "Coming home soon!"

or a man named Nickel phoning to
get his liquor license renewed
at half past midnight
in the East teens.

2.
A.
The chaos ferry
churns on empty
she has already stuggled enough
she has already
done what matters.

B.
Welcome, they say,
to the place that matters.
You have found the spoon
inside of the baby.
Found the runt
in halls of prized gerbils.
You have already... have already...
done so many things. Have concocted
potions to tantalize the masses.

Has discovered circular pathways
in abundance
that wind downward with elegant
and symbiotic ease.
What I mean is: you've arrived.

2nd Blog In The City (Crumb)

Preamble

I have already discovered
the meltwater at edge of cave
(. . .)

1st Constitution Ave.

I have already entered
the cave I am to call home
like lost money ringing her bank
saying: Herro, I emm home! Beijing
means Northern Capitol. Jing.
Not Zhing.

& Deer ([Ampersand, misunderstood])

-- it seems overwhelming to me,
MY HAVING NO
conceptualization of schema

 -- Ultimately we need to gather
our friends and settle in a glen
near our families
a shady grove
not sketchy but well-wooded
or were it sketched, well-wrought

well-wooded, populated by extremophiles who
hide, who inhabit inscrutable depths
of wood, stone and earth;

 -- with woodpeckers friendly a-thump, snakes not vicious
but yes, dangerous (we are men, after all);
wild, out-there, your kids need to know;
& deer, the great misunderstood deer, Kissinger's
useless eaters, but not useless, even if animals
could be. (Set aside
humanity, for now). Right here in the U.S.A,
God's own city,
these deer are our own natives,
Polacks of the Great American Ruminants,
drinking firewater of polluted landscapes,
but still alive. Eating tree & bush
& grass beneath the frost. [Bison with huge necks
massively heave snow aside. Who said snow
was just white and pretty; We reside.]

(Nothing more natural than electricity,
fatigue, the quest
to not be extinguished. In some ways,
we are that fragile.)

 -- The
snakes not man, you know, men unserpentine:
surreptitious but uncoiled. blasphemy without heat.
salamanders and saddled feet.
our children must know,
forest.

 -- &
tribesmen stone creeks in the evening, gathering
piles along the banks, relieving. reliving ghost
fires, the weird swift waters. something like time
gathering, fathering. uncomfortableness sure as
mother's milk, even now developing. our greatest
mistake: not knowing how this debacle nourishes
us, forces necessity upon us like a dagger and
a dangerous but absolute mission. Failure never
was an option. That's not just an idiom, but a 
truth. It's just something that happens.
We do not try
not to love, nor
would we claim to

(intentionally)

adorn hearths with rubbish or something
unwholesome   after all   love
 is more the trumpets
than the harp; more than trumpets
and less than harp-song. Lesser and more ordinary,
simpler, but less crafty. It is here &
there; it is right here. 

 -- (intentionally)

Right beneath your wings. Call it poetic
but true-- ... ... and now, becomes 
(is) the truth redacted. Nothing less perfect,
I say, then pigeons taking wing
and defecating without awareness.
These kind of accidents
are not accidents. Ashberry was right:
these accents seem their own defense.

Aboriginal Sin

This is the first original thought I've had in years
A wholly National House of Pancakes
no syrupy foreigners allowed

I'm as French as french toast
but I know my people
and come Bastille Day,
they'll huff and they'll puff
and they'll blow NHOP down.

Pancakes are flimsy
much like my business plan
potentially a chocolate chippy enterprise
but ultimately, a big mess.

Enterprisin' ain't easy.
Mo' butter mo' problems.

If this doesn't work, I'll donate my brain to charity

"Je suis Chinois"

I told her, to prove that I could speak French.
"Je m'appelle Tal et je suis Chinois"
"Oh vraiment?" she replied, frenchly, "c'est magnifique!"
"Yeah, that was a joke," I blandly conceded, "I figured you could tell I'm not Chinese."
"Ce n'est pas sympathique." She was crying.

French people are idiots, arrogant cockatoos.
All for none and none for all.
Strippers and benzene users. Chlorophyll.
Why does she want me to be Asian?

I pressed on: "Je veux un croque-monsieur, s'il vous plait"
"What, just because I am from France you think I will cook you up a fucking croque-monsieur? Get real, Chinaman." She was angry.
You could fry an egg on her forehead, and I wanted to.
It had been hours since I last ate.

Cereal is for morning people.
Eggs, however, are for men of Jesus.
Disjointed conversations are for losers

Noble savage on boardwalk

The place I choose to slumber
is a bed of weathered boards
who awaits like heaven
my sleeping form tonight.

There aren't shadows (Riverside picnic)

There aren't shadows, oh, SNOWMASTER...
would that I could... ...FITZGIBBON ( - - - - )
a snatch a pearl a hand a grab agent
Oreano, Carlotto, there are [ you? ]
(how can I say this? you're pregnant)
oregano
i have nutmeg
i have nutmint
we will understand someday
the ways of our ancestors
in time for us to burn


there are hands
big white black brown white hands
big black white huge smallstrong
the same hands
hands of tomorrow, hands of
some distant future. hands of
the ruminant; hands of the
small, belabored, the small, the chapped,
the skin overcoming the wilt; the ham
being simmered in the kitchen. We are
all just lovers here. This is our stream.

Alert the admin (Fuck you, webmaster)

Gosh if you're
listening I hope it's
morning. My terms
are always better felt
in the succulent
a.m. At Purdue News
Service, they make babies
like news stories:
the old-fashioned way,
they snake and fuck and
crook, snakes in the grass,
woodlands in piles,
I have no business saying anything.

Yeah, baby: Designed.

I have been desired
desired in a theatre.

I have been designed,
designed in a Plexiglas
mold you snagged from that
aeronautical engineering
student you slept with.

Yeah, baby: Designed.
I've slept with less necklaces,
believe me honey.
I've slept with the less-than-freckleless.
I've tangled with barbers and felons
and all kinds of strange men.
Most importantly, I know a unicorn
when I see one.

Onward, friends. A warm bright tomorrow
beckons and everything
is bound to be just
excellent.

Bound.

Love in France (oooh! fantastique!! ahhhhh!!!! merde) [a morality play]

There is no love in France
There is no love in the Highlands
There is no love in the Lowlands
There is no love in Canberra
There is no love in Tibet
There is a prophet named Yeshua,
There is no love anymore.

Every bed you've ever / Bonfire

Every bed you have ever seen
from the eyes of the back of the door to the beginning of the sheen
on her lips the quips the quickness to her kiss the quickness shaped like this
the quickness of every hip
the tender heart attack of eternal bliss
earth like shattered furniture
on the lawn, the enemy's lawn
and the bible is on the furniture
and the bible is on the furniture

glowing like rainbow lightning HUNG
a pedestal a pinch of mesacline a hunting tin

a box of chocolates a box of shockpits
humming like lecticorn bumblebees
made up cool running ram
bumble bumble where?
bumble bumble doo,
how are yooooouuuuuuuu?
Dirty Danny, Where are
yoooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu?

Bigfin reef squid

(Sepioteuthis lessoniana)

New to Mahler

It is written. Thus noted, so told.
Believe in the less ordinary
is probably good advice.
But what do I know? I'm just a novice,
listening to Mahler for the first time.
Was a Jew, than a Fish. Opposite of me.

I swear to God I'm going to play a trumpet
louder than any man ever has.

Just as I know a man more Pegasus than me
shall one day inherit the wondrous paths to truth.
So it is written, / So I am told.

Make no mistake then, that I will burn down the gates
strip the ivy puppets to their limbs and rend asunder
all vertical, horizontal, cylindrical elements that hereby hold
me from getting to the other side

(I won't say... the promised land...)
this: the land of our fathers.

So They inherit the path. I take the plans: burned.
I make the path. I find the roots. I sow the seed.
I plow the land. It is the land of my fathers. Grandfathers.
Great grandfathers. & so forth.

Thislandismyland
thislandisyourland

said the great fountain
the lips of the teachers ordinary
praised by position extraordinary
what I mean is they were adults
and we were children.
Even the 8th graders seemed full-grown.

We aren't cephalopods, e.g.

I think it’s easy to believe
that mice kill men; it’s easier,
still, to find the converse true.

True like the wintermints, your
girlfriend, or the sly octopus,
judging the southern African lineup
(here from the the whole world coming)
to choose eight straight winners.
Incredible, really.
And to whose grave establishment,
has the party created,
a vague sense of irony,
or a corpuscle of raw iron turnip
coasting out like the murky pump of
buttresses, lunches.
That’s right world, cephalopoda
have heads too. Hearts, also, and
tentacles from here to Tuesday to tomorrow
to Monday. Again—the day of the sun.

If I had to believe in some type of man
to set the bar for others, it would be a lectitorn
a goldfinch in a Petrarchan sonnet, the kind
that fill your eyes with tears. Or used to,
at least: we haven’t all been to Bunker Hill,
but I have. I’d seen the casino there, tasted
the Indians yams and medium-cooked stripsteak.
It was all much better than Squanto could have
imagined: which is a heartless, spineless way of
admitting the unfathomable horror of the old way
of life, upon knowing ours; of the old guard hearing
our new petulant girls, pornstars faking orgiastic
sentiment, just gross poor women sluts like slots like
poker tables dirty, depressed, naked with skulls with
iron pots with dirty hayseed mannequins with liquor
cigarette potty stains,
dirty red pretty lipstick fucking until they’re sick, five minutes
at a time, time for 5, time for lunch, time for the threesome,
time for the breathmint, time for the aftershave, time for
the shower, time to eat breakfast, time to commute home,
time to review the mortgage, time to gauge the amount of
resin in the tires, resin in the pipe the only flute to tomorrow,
the only tulip for the brain the only way to stay same the only
curse fucking curse like a furnace like a cat like a kitten like a cat
revisited: a fucked up cat a golf course a wizard a dead wizard a
new man a new plan a canal Panama

a desert a whelp a kid a soccer tourney
a mother driving a mother
wiving a mother bringing her son a sandwich
when there’s already fruit rollups
it’s the dusty then the clean
the cloudy then the sheen I mean the clear
the dirty the milky the rainy the feared
men, the clasping dirty re-trained brains
the minds of many, the clans, the kooks,
the verily verb missing the man with his lantern
keeps returning being so meta being too thin
getting into drugs getting into Vogue getting into
the club getting into kids things getting pregnant getting fucked
getting new shoes getting chewed out getting cheated on getting
killed getting new getting knowledge getting dome getting head
getting gravy at the gravy store (who has heard of this?
who has heard of that? who has planted this?)

another parenthetical needed—nobody plants anything, anymore!
the real sweet moments overlooked
or turned into something “sweetheart” or “downhome” or “authentic”
the real parts turned out the real parts turned in the man in the mannequin
posing as a mannequin
the man named Quinn
the Black Man loving to rhyme again
just listen to rap and hear me grin
hear me run hear me bunch hear me yipes hear me yanks year me yet
hear me left

Hall & Song

1. Hall

There is a hall of mysteries
in the brain
more changed than main
more grain than grain
more blood / more guns / more fame.

In the blood is the sugar gone
from the flesh apparatus to the stone.

The herenow wish of tomorrow
is to never feel the same.
Look at my fetish puppets!
Look at their halls of whey!


2. (To Be Sung)

Empty the river kitchen
her halls made full of foam! (Oh!)

Empty the river kitchen
everywhere I roam. (Ho!)

Somebody Delete This (3)

1.
halfdraked corner of my life
the i's always wanting

frience blue blood inheritance
waiting on the wings

a side of beef,
a porridge for example,
that slut Virginia's gonna git stuffed.

I'm sorry to break this to you, mister, but
your daughter Kaley, the Bulldog--
she's already become an ingratiating slut;
her pussy will be well regarded in the halls
at Bowling Green. In fact I've heard

she enjoys interacting with a guy
and a girl at the same time. Says
it "gets her fucking clit off so hard,"
in other words.

2.
popular mechanics
popular antics
popular dryboard
popular screed
popular meta-animation stint
popular feet cruise

Go-Parts

<>
Go-Parts Dairy-Creme Convertibles.
I suck, at the small nibbly nub on the coin
of my opinion.

<> [THIS BULLET HAS NO TITLE]
You can be wrong when you're high. When you're blessed as such, it seems impossible. Lo -- It is not. Your comrades might set you at ease with their cannabis-as-lambent smiles, but they do not point out that you are wrong. Mistakes happen, after all.

<>
"Excuse Me, Mister Main."
"Yes."
It would appear that you have been posting on a site called "Absurdists Inc." Is that right?
Yes.
[Pause.] Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?
Yes.
[Long pause as sheriff-type slowly realizes you aren't talking.] You don't say. You know, a man of your age and complexion ought to be assshamed of hisself for writing that gollllddamn slander on that thurr website.

<> BRASS!!!
Today I put all of my money into brass. Simultaneously launching "Brass is f-cking awesome" ad-campaign.

Somebody Delete This (2)

Somebody delete this,
that is, whoever has a heart.

If you cannot read this then turn it
upside down and believe in it. This is the special
day of forest luncheons and speakeasy
hideaways. I have to tell you -- I think you are
amazing; you're almost special; you always
have been--

I squeeze together my ass at the thought of
you'm him we'm them she'm

whoom
whoom
w-hoom
who-om
men
men
danger

men
men in danger
men

men
menin
Lenin
menin
meninges
meninges
meal
meningitis

home-flog
home-flot

repetition
repetition
college
repetition
repetition
college

Somebody Delete This (1)

Every movie has a prison. Just like
every slough has a heart. In its weedy
rye innards are the calves whom slough
off their toil; they are frozen; we are here;
I am talking about a winter's marsh.

Oh look, potheads absconding with ideas
hiding them in trainplanes
cars with galactic signatures
sometimes i don't know if i'm funny or just
really funny. Erotic sinecures
aren't erotic anymore, and the word
is overused. The refreshing thing about being
off: you are going to blink on at some point
(first I said "turn" but opted out).

Eat nutmeg in small amounts, as with
turnip & parsley.

ROMBUS

"ARIGHT" -- DEFINITION -- BULLETIN
MALE PARTS
SMILES

    4. Right, on the square: cf. A-WRY. Obs.

1571 DIGGES Pantom. I. Biijb, If all the sides be equall, and no angle aright, then is it called Rombus.

 

Rombus, I tell you. 

Rombus and the busline kids. 

Green sparrow and the green adventure. 

Mellow side of 

the opium pipe 

(in a) Peshawar province. 

CNN kills every day.

Pasta?

Everybody hates my music. But who could blame me? I just ate pasta, with a heaping of bright mushrooms and zucchinis in a darkrick tomato sauce. My Nana used to grow tomatoes back in Italy. Vine-ripened. One of my neighbors always went on & on about the merits of the vine-ripened variety. "None of that store ripened crap," he'd say. This was a guy who liked to visit volcanoes around the world. A vulcanologist.

I just played basketball. Ended up 2-3. Pretty frat. Once I start saying something meaningful, it's already erased. Motley daily strikes are like rum; but they don't taste good. I swear if I ever pitch in the majors I'm only going to throw balls.

Most day are like this. Morning with the mothballs. Screwy fountains of powdery fungus balls and snakebites.

Blasted newt scorched wings; I saw two beetles die today.

Go-Bear.

1.
I want
to go there.
Go where?
Go-bear.

2.
hey, stencil.
how are we?
doing, in God
we trust.

3.
maroon

Thereby the Zeta bandloom

Bedbars and a whole tub full of Kentucky swill. I want this to hurt so much you'll never want to read again, Missy. She looked at me like I was crazy, like I had come from Paducah with a gun in my shirt and a camera up my sleeve. Listen here, I ain't no jack-rabbit! I'm a trooper

and with those words left the hotel, took a cab to the aerospace museum. I was feeling a little woozy from one too many smokeless cigarettes.

joined the bandwagon, then. all the circuitous paths had erupted like flames or men and the fix was in. they stole the gold and hid it in the pyramids.

that's what happens anyway when the mind wanders
you say you want a sandwich? well, how's about a
leaflet about a sonnet about a television show
about somebody's diamond problem
showering like leafy lopsided dublooms
cowering in a corner of melonhusk misery
the intentional cow eyes
like silence ignored.

(Just another sandwich movie.)