Earth-Tone Grove

Somebody noticed an unusual preponderance of red in the office today, which is especially quizzical since said members of the diaspora don't usually wear red (said a woman co-worker). "I don't usually wear red either," I said, in so many words, cloaked in a brick button down (a monumental effort just to don ::: a rotting albatross ::: this unreal pain). "I'm usually Earth-Tone City," I actually said.

They got the gist. "That doesn't fit," though, my boss said (a solid dude, in a former-life likely a flint-knapper). "It should be Earth-Tone Grove or something." I agreed.

As I sit here

on Yom Kippur
I feel a sharp hunger for more than food.
I'm wondering what it's like to be full of purpose,
and wondering what exactly I should be atoning for.

Racist jokes. General insensitivity to the plight of others.
I'm sure I have neglected some of my more distant family.
I have probably made my mom sad at times,
just by not doing as much as I could.
I could go on. But I won't. At least not on paper.

Laziness is not a virtue - it's not ladylike.
But it's not like me to create fire, or fuel it.
Just trying to emanate warmth through compassion,
love and positive energy whenever possible.
I strive for happiness and a peaceful, humble existence. Seriously.
I just want my friends to be safe. And I don't want to get cancer. Is that too much to ask?
Probably.

I really like talking to older people, they have seen more of this life and this world than me.
But young people are more exciting, more impressionable.
And at this point I am old enough to impart at least some wisdom.

Truly, family and friends really are what's important.
It's too real to be a cliche.

We don't live alone. Life is symbiotic, symbolic.
Too short to be robotic. Too awesome and exotic.
I don't want the internet on my phone, for example.
I crave only what is natural. Here's a sample:
What I crave is caveman life
back to the roots and berries
tubers and twigs, figs.
And I admit, cities are exhausting.
Tired of treading through cars emitting exhaust
amidst people who are lost
and looking just for something to look for.

One day I have a cold.
The next day my right calf is sore.
So I can't play sports for a while.
This is a disaster in my book - cuts me to the core -
though it doesn't warrant a whole chapter.
My book's called "Life is Often Good"
I haven't written it yet, it's just part of the book I'm writing now
"The Great Book of Great Book Ideas"

I teach a graduate course
called Introduction to Introspection
It encourages reflection. Usually rhyming and silliness in the last couple stanzas distills what I'm trying to get across.
Not this time.

In sum: Life is great. God is good.
I accidentally gave money to a very Jesus-y group the other day.
A black woman came up to my car while I was at a red light.
And I gave her a dollar coin before reading the brochure she gave me.
But she told me God bless you, and Amen. And it made me feel good.

No moral here, or message.
I think Yom Kippur is a great holiday, and it really represents what I appreciate about being Jewish. If you don't allow religion to take over your life and dictate your actions entirely, it can be incredibly illuminating. Maybe psilocybin helps, but openness goes a long way on its own.

Don't take anything for granted.

I could write a blug

See? As long as it's not for a grade
I'm a believer in Shiva.
And I trust you'll keep reading
since we're friends.

Everything's a curtain
imagined dairy - nothing is certain.
making yogurt pertinent again

My shirt is too big
Picture of an aphid
and the Star of David
Biggest religious expression since the Sistine Chapel

Favorite ninja turtle, since D'Angelo
who painted the ceiling purple
you're either an impressionist or expressionless
I have an ocean of emotions

There's a potion for that.

Here's yer goddam Doha journal

Motorola (patent pending) & minaret. As in, Hello globalism,
I shrined a mosque today. Tapestry boulevard with the hoodlums,
late morning Fresca on email. Not women but buttons, buttons,
my chief concern now; Maintain cogent garments. [Shortage of
sewing equipment here. --Doha.] Business trip to the Solomon
Isles before--how lovely. Even marmalade at tea & those double-
jointed Incan twins from Fandango. Boy, their product is tight. I-
PO. Mailbox in the morning; mild trouble with drug users. Rest of
stay--superb. Now a minor wrinkle: a taste of rain, removed from
the memory, in the desert. This is a miracle or portent of doom.

Barely articulate sentences about a "blog plan"

I'm sick of text edit. I need to install Microsoft word. A microcosm of the Baby-Boomer sell-out: I don't like Microsoft and don't want to give them my money, but I want a nicer computer program.

My roommate said to me: "I was always convinced that if I started taking Adderall, I'd be Under Secretary of the Navy now." That's when I reminded him he WAS the Under Secretary for the Navy. [This is where I consider taking the joke too far, looking up who the Under Secretary is (which I should probably know anyway) and making a joke about my roommate actually being that real person. But instead of making this kind of weird joke that would be too specific to follow without raising your eyebrows/gizzards--going one step further than would likely be funny--I just look up who the person is because it's an important position and I'm on a mission, albeit an extremely small and specific one.]

Mission Completed: Rob Work. A real "piece of work,"who actually went to the U of I. Kewl.

Ideas:
1) Blog about culture wars, somehow involving science.
A main character would be a hyper-honest postgrad liberal who could examine some of the more disturbing aspects of his/our legacy.
I.e. NOBODY understand something as commonly talked about as dark energy.
As far as I know, the whole thing could be an unmitigated, foaming-at-the-mouth lie. And to perhaps put more of my cards on the table than is comfortable, I do think it is basically bullshit. How could we possibly know there's a thing called dark matter and dark energy, and furthermore that the universe is accelerating? I readily admit I don't know the advanced math that they have used to get to this point. But knowing some math, and having as logical a brain as possible at this moment in time, it smells, you know. Dark energy? Give me a fucking break.

Another character could be like CK, ranting & raving about conspiracies, elites, the intelligence community, tha Rockafellas, Rothschildz, Kissinger, Z-Big, Soros, multiple-linear regression, the Butcher of Belgrade, etc.

<>
Annie Alabaster and Fred Filibuster

<>
DR: Das Racist, Duane Reade and the D-R; doctor.
If you give me a test I'm obvi tha Proctor

Dog

Fire will consume all things &

I become a wolf, then shed:

a naked unimpeachable canine 

wild without reason or coat. 

I fly between walls remodeled

in ash & bone, my jerky tongue 

the only reminder of my flesh 

save ragged ligaments 

like fragile sentences composed. 

Across dead cinemas I vault, o'er

teakwood carriages & children's last

goodbyes. Their eyes are glass now, 

eyes of blackened doles. Their eyes

are black now; eyes of hardened wine. 

some::::done

A black cherry in a black oven busts
open with black currant tones exposed
like the bulldozer's dragon-smoke nose
some carnage (our ilk) already done.

Wolves & women

1.
I said it had to be you & you said
it had to be medicine it had to be me
it had to be fair; it had to be great; it
needed to be everything

2.
The washrooms of the bristling continent are alive with post coital youngsters, cleaning up their messy joy. The banisters of America, with forgotten spritzers, are alive, enlivened, erotic youth going at it seamstresses weaving scarves to wear about on a chilly evening at Columbia. Door ways, stairwells--it's all brimming over with secrets, dull, desultory secrets. The kind you barely see except in tinted glass at 2:30 a.m. on a Tuesday when you're walking home nursing a cold & chlamydia.

& you couldn't say anyway what it is that you saw. But oh, the glory. 

Wolves & Fog

I miss wolves of various stripes
tufts / & paws / & thru the woods /
here the trumpets of brass become
springs of combative neuroses
the campbell's camp bell ringing,
incessantly, *you know* [] [] []
door pipes in their brawned out
horn rims... blowing like visions
stolen between the night's rain &
the dawn's grave brave morn fog.

I Miss Everything

And everyone.
I would be remiss if I didn't leave some mystery
as to what exactly I'm talking about.
But sometimes shit is just forlorn.

Forlorn and twenty years ago
I was six. Age is relative.
I revel in relevance.
Merely scraping surfaces
so as not to drown in thought.

I know how to be good. Make love, not war.
Being kind. Forgiveness. Friendship.
They will take you far, figuratively
Luckily I'm not trying to get anywhere
at least not literally or actively.

I'm mostly figurative.
And altogether too passive
as if you couldn't tell by my voice.
Too proud to be pensive
too humble to be eating pie.

Freestyle # Eleven$

This is absurdist
observe it.
What the word is?
Hint: it's in Kurdish
(or cornish) game hen
we're gay men.
Not homophobic like Kobe
or Tim Hardaway,
and oh by the way.
he's a slapdick.
Slash that movie slapshot that movie is dope
hockey sucks though, ice skates and pucks, bro
that shit sucks yo.
Stab you with my skate
first person ever to do that
so that's something
why don't you write home about it
on your phony ass macintosh

Am I Memorable?

Have you ever had the feeling you wanted to do something profound, write something profound?
But it doesn't work like that.
But maybe it should.

Ubiquitous equity

This is ambitious.
You're a piece of frost
I'm a piece of toast

Delicious.
you were born to butter bread
and I was born to eat it

This is advice.
Heed it.

This is virtuous.
Patience is a searchthrough
frozen time with a dash of vanullah.

Yogurt, you go girl.
Baby don't be sad
low-fat.

You're so that
I'm so this
I'm swiss.

Like from Swaziland
Totally switzy, man
totes fuckin swiss.

Swedenland is bliss.

incense & opium

there are pipes of grass
made by the elephant

bowls of wood, specks
of amethyst; you know --

your actions speak louder
than the woodlute, but not

the piper. your bathtub,
etched in copper, we found
out back in the woodlot ;

i cannot explain how beautiful
you are, a morning jog, i can't

show you the grace of a moment
or if i can, my flag flags, you know...
a droopy sedimentary chevron.

nobody rallies around a column
of simple wood, unless indeed
the intent is to murder
or, more likely, bake.

Conversation (imagined)

Guy: "Darling, you are truly my most prized possession"
Girl: "Possession? You don't own me!"
Guy: "Ah, I should rephrase. You are the most important thing in my life."
Girl: "Thing?"
Guy: "Listen, fuck you. I'm trying to express a deep emotional attachment to you."
Girl: "Oh. Thanks. Lovely."
Guy: "Well?"
Girl: "Well, what?"
Guy: "Don't you feel the same way?"
Girl: "Oh yes. Of course I do. You're like, awesome."

fat man, on bus (AMERICAN FINANCE)

from the gills of the heart
to the folds of the flesh,
a fat man, falling inward (& yet
you wouldn't know), is a size
too big, too big to flourish, but
too big to fail (naturally) -- i.e.
small enough yet to function
to jettison himself outward; smiling,
this morning, with largesse enough
even for cancer (why not? smoking
kills too, baby) he's just a post-coitus

bleary-eyed stranger with rations
for himself and his neighbors, is
immaculate. a fat man, gotten lucky,
on a bus. smiling all the way home.

My Body is a Temple

A temple of doom.
Indiana jones' arch nemeses are Ohio Smith and Illinois Anderson
I re-opened a wound on my leg, now surely a scar
bleeding builds character
Sweating does the opposite
August blows
Breezes are nice
clouds move swishersweet
chimney sweep, chimchimcharoo
chimmichurri kangaroos
always all hopped up
all ways are highways

Socks

Must her socks -- darned if
every a pair were -- rise so
high? My --oh!-- my bright
Puritan eyes cannot squiggle
when her thighs meet her
hands meet her plans
meet her laundry and coin-glasses,
we aren't people here. Just change
for detergent and a machine's
less-than-silent rumble.

This ground is land-y

Come on - it's almost sand! Let's get to the beach.
Can't wait to feel my feet again
It's been too long
It always is.

"Remember not to get one foot ahead of the other
even if that's how you're used to walking
the water will always be there."
Old Man Smoker used to say.

No shit. Like a lake. where would it go?
There for life
over
and over
and over
I say four-leaf you say clover
four-leaf
clover
four-leaf
clover

water won't leave
it's there like air
blustering
drink it in, sand
clustering
hoping I land
near an archipelago
mustering
courage but that's not the only thing I muster

Palmetto Gulch

The almost sand of Dan's ridge became
very quiet late at night. These things--grains--
have a way of coming back & haunting you,
or so I've heard. Have you? I think these
larks are faster than sharks & I (please do
not believe this) shudder now at her shadow,
the girl we've been discussing all along.

She's still there, you know, she has
been there all along. One of us, a
frightened hawk-moth shuddering
with dusty, palmed brilliance.
The other, again, the lark who's lost her way.

Sentence 2

To herself.

Sentence 1

My gardens grow gray
with the approach of afternoon's
bed, whose hand--outstretched--reaches
for your field glasses.

Excalibur.

There might be words
about which I have spoken
you might want to resolve
not to repeat, unless heaven
opens her gates to you, makes
you fearful--oh of herself &
others, the slim man feared
his burden getting restless
a can of worms is a canker
sore issuing disaster--issuing
a promise for something diseased
instead of the genuine article.
i know what i mean to speak to-
ward; as if knowing it wasn't
enough already. It's about
believing in yourself. It's
about getting the rindy whole-
some flesh out of life. Yeah,
yeah, baby. We want fires and
fires & fires & fires
& fires (by the wayside)
the way the words used to just
slide out, you know, slide
out--like a movie of a kid
(a real crank-yanker) not
this time observing--spouting
some gibberish about Ohm's
law and intercontinental bliss
or a visitor's cash bonus card.
Excalibur.

Jesus ate pasta

and lots of it. But even he wouldn't eat brown rice.
Healthy?
Yes. But also awful. Like papaya, and arugula.
Arugula is spanish for bad spinach

Vegetables are alive, if barely.
Arbor Day is the only good day of the year.
Stay true to your roots
and you'll grow a plant

A tree if you're lucky
a shrub or tomato if you have no idea what you're doing
my garden grows gray
your garden grows great

Your garden grows wheat - neat.
My garden grows hay.

i'M gHOsTInG

Not boasting
the first person to write in first person
since Jesus
bible belt
holding up his carpenter jeans
too big for his britches, even as a baby.

The only Jew to celebrate christmas
first and last
a testament to posterity
and by all accounts
Jesus had good posture
Jesus ate pasta.

Moving

blows. And I'm not just saying that.
Also not saying I'd rather be inert.
It's just that any major change really freaks me out.

It's dusty in the apartment - bits of parchment
Developing story: I just found some actual photographs
and hey, my super nintendo is officially ancient

so is original xbox, so I will be soon.
unless the wires on the controllers get twisted up somehow
and I stop aging

Alas, I digress about regress at the expense of progress.
Progress which I am scared of in a more subtle way
Feeling pretty subtle these days.

Back at prom

but less coked up
dreamweaver.
Slow dancing is easy.

mugs of beer
frothsville
got her phone number

What is a barista?
Are you one?
What is a barrister

what are you running for?
who are you running from?
whither are you running towards?

You're running out of tine.
This turned into quite a long yarn
we're running out of twine

At the end of our rope
still hanging by a thread.
strung along, sungalong

billabong singalong
chinese ping pong
my phone go *ring rong, ring rong*
you hear? It ring wrong.

Basket Poem

1. A force is felt

I made a basket for you.
I make it well; I weave the reeds soundly
without a sound, in the kitchen,
I cake for you a bake
a baked plot of hard clay (land, land)
this land, our non-intuitive landing pad
a green glassland of neighbor's and shores
nearly too sweet to fuck
to pluck out of, to be afraid
of. In this bone, and out of it,
license is greatness. Truth
is its own revenge. Salida,
a town in Colorado (adventure
incorporated, come the youth
proud) or Spanish for EXIT. Recalling
THIS IS NOT one, you know, not a place
for leaving. In other words, perversely,
or its opposite--naturally--a path
without a purpose. Fucked willingly
and without passion, white knuckles,
fear still tingeing the air with breath
and yet in the moment, a little death,
a little birth, an awakening, a dying,
a heartbeat jumping out of one's chest,
one's breadbasket, a sampling of only
the finest loaf. "Here, darling," we'd
like to say. "I've prepared a stove
for you." Somewhere to relax, something
to look toward--a process happening. Progress
with a capital P for pecuniary--something
that can be consumed. If you don't know now you never
will, but then again, life is asunder.
Torn thus, belittled, become April, become May,
become December, that's how a year ends. In
sloughs and buckets and jumps and contusions
maybe made accidentally with out speeches.
I slapped a girl early Saturday on the cheek,
softly. She was still surprised. A southerner,
exotic-like, a girl from the mud of the deep
south. Louisiana. Where my heart wanders when
it isn't always somewhere else. Never been there,
never will be, perhaps. I don't want to count idioms
before they hatch. Count on them recurring. Count on
me demurring--and in so doing, even with rebellion,
maybe I'm no better. A force is still a force if its
resisted and the action is maybe the same internally.
Felt. A force is felt regardless.

2. Out of all this comes

Out of all this comes the preparation
in so doing it, putting down words,
one word less always better--camps in the mind
perhaps throttling themselves & saying: well then, here's
another land mine to toss on your camera, here's
another wave about to crash at sea; here's a third
opinion on that matter we had discussed. You know,
Sally, I've been dreaming about you for some time now
and I'd like to know how you afford your retainer,
you know, the retainer ad hominem cum harbinger of
doom, this dirty little expression meaning / [a slash
mark, English's most violent banal punctuation.] Are
you listening? I'm the mark of a spark at midnight in the dark
of West Hollywood glistening like "Ohhhhhhhhhh..." cannabis
just coming a-blaze, a computer humming on, no nautical
parks this year, just another President to preside over
our ground master plan thus deranged thus ordinary thus
hope swollen thus swelled thus become derogatory and deregulated
like all good things, all greedy things: markets, bedrooms,
sex parties, and the like. They're all the same in the end,
green spun out lasses with axes to grind swinging at one
another, potions a-blur in the nightlight booming faults
like faulty magic imaginary geraniums and night-glow
corning cloning about borrowed holes from burrowing animals
and Hannibal just pooped again in the bathroom, I got my
goop to prove it, got this groove to arrange it and smooth it
and five forked words later I'll tell you how to spell the word
F-U-C-K and you won't like it.
As it has been arranged.

A lost child, Absurdists

Absurdists is a lost child. A boss
of hosts inglorious. Absurdists is a
treasure chest; don't look too close
at her vest--bulletproof; besides, (&
to the point) her mescaline buds are
sprouting.

Further the argument
is not what
we here do. Father.
Farther.

I do not want to replace
but I only a place to replace
ordinary reflections with real boys,
with real ones, real iron words
that strike at the heart of enemies,
make them cowards, then maybe,
make them friends.

Love transcends. How can we otherwise
explain? Anything?

Much of it I agree is bad, a waste of time.
Some of it is good. But isn't that just life?
Powders 22A-33C on faces of people we don't know
are forgotten, right? But the 9,875th girl you meet--
maybe she's the right one. The numbers game
is absurd--it means the best shall appear but when
it is given time. There cannot be too much censorship
or maybe any
if the best is to bloom. The numbers game. Maybe one in five
is worthwhile. Maybe 1/10. Maybe 1/20. Still worth it. The
real crime is the not sharing of it, if it is to be shared. If it is
worthwhile. What is this? Are we in a hole debating the nature
of the soil granules? Maybe. I just want to share
weird thoughts. I have given no effort to make Absurdists
a thing that fits in, that has traction. Is that its beauty?
Is that its angst? Its fetid irrelevant glory? Its fetid
irrelevant waste? Worthless?
Growth.

Recap: Caper

Just read through all Absurdists posts
since inception, more than 3 years ago.
Jones is noticeably missing, recently.

My reaction: There is an inordinate amount of good, some brilliance that transcends.
There are also many misfires, mostly on my part.
Absurdists, Inc. is a holography.

I laughed out loud several times, some more hearty than others (duh).
I didn't cry, that would be fucking weird.
I did try to psychoanalyze some of the recorded poetry, more so than the inane prose.
But quickly lost interest/realized that we are not all that deep.

Usually. There are meaningful posts on this blog. And I don't want to take away from that.

But most are frivolous, humorous. The best are both.
( e.g.: "The Holocaust is that holiday, right? 8 crazy nights?" Response: "Um, you might not want to repeat that.")

Not to say that the Holocaust is frivolous. I automatically hate all Germans solely because of it. But today I say Auf Wiedersehn to xenophobia. Not really.

That entirely imagined exchange above (in parentheses) and following clarification send no real message. They provide us with no moral. In this case, there isn't even any wordplay. "Pathetic," an outsider might say regarding the posts I've made over the years on this blog, "Shitty way to spend your time, despite the clever wordplay" Well, if you don't like it don't read it. Probably nobody else does. I have no interest in scratching anyone's back but my own, seriously. Even that is not something I like to do. Maybe Absurdists is just one of those hard-to-reach places and we haven't even scratched the surface. But I'd like to think this sort of shallow, crass memorandum on the state of affairs is representative of what the blog stands for: mescaline.

The jig is up

tell your boys
Emblazoned francophone
Christmas light
eve/day

"I'm not crazy!"
said the crazy man.

I would do terrible things for a Klondike Bar

I think I might be daft
too much looking through the looking glass
stained windows
churchy

Sorry, Charlie, the chocolate factory belongs to me now.
You can tell Wonka to suck an egg.

I received a message last night

it read "Just smkoed (sic) a blunt with Andy Dick"
"Awesome/Gross." I replied. "Lurid."

"I heard he caught typhosis
drinking water out of a disco ball
somewhere in the Ganges.
Is that a mountain or a desert?
Research indicates that it is a river.
Heavily polluted, hence the typhosis."

Somehow I never know if a disease is real until I get it.
I always make the same mistake twice.
(A firm believer in "if you find a good mistake, stick with it;
get sick with it.")

Molly's exegesis

misery enshrouds the loom like dawn
everything awake from buds
ground from under above arise (grubs!)
feudal as an enterprise; righteous as church;
i want you catechized, baptismal
taken at the fount of this boy's awakening
christening, gold & precious metals
claims on timber, or Molly's
exegesis in the attic with string theory
and wet fetid fingers, lurid.

KING COAL; I've found them

KING COAL
is as gluttonous as GOD
RIVETING swiffering sniffeling swivelling
gunslinging or so we heard it--bird by birds
swelling over the horizon SNOW
Zap or NOW, this behemoth is upon is
NOW, NOW like orange flowers like paintbrush
Indian amazing  blue spilling out of
sunflower factory hello, (the blue sunflower
spectacular, blue sunflower smokestack, blue
billows of unwashed favors, her sunflower miasma)
headlight the glade of the thrush; the blade's
bush (she says flushing): hunt no more, sly
fox, she seems to pray, in a gay drawl:
like pay yer parking meters, deter
others, grasp electric iron wine fences
& snicker, Snickers, electric dayglo
hense past over slept Cooper (::Union::)
umbilical cowboy Snookie crabs
on the shore pants left away washed
herenow, here-they-are, I've found them.

Terrible Arable

"the land/time continuum just ruptured again,"
said the wax man, seemingly unpurturbed.
"I think it's time we defibrillated the globometer."

"Ahrr, cobblestone flock garble. Garlic," replied his half-sister, Sahra.
After her accident with the gobstopper machine, Sahra had become a veritable Frankenstein.
"Sluck, sluckotash. Fifffty burgle-urgle," she continued.

Waximus Waxman the Third ("wax man") was at wit's end.
He decided that if anyone was going to therapose the fluid for the globometer it was he. The main obstacle was going to be distracting Sahra while the omnipresent, omniotic fluid was outside of its container.

The two began a rousing game of Xenotag, as Arthur Frapparelli watched intently from the balcister.

To be c◌̂ntinued...

Or ripe later

I see my religion
in damp spots on the pavement.
Hear my lamplight -- SHWIGGG
out every lightpost.

I believe in my fever
scalding hotter into the night
and never allowing
something small and lovely
to enter the picture.

Pain
is the new color of light
fresh at dawn, or ripe later.

Not my kin

There are things 

you haven't said. []

There are words

we haven't used. []

Every 

day, the cinema's portholes expand,

a sea selling more widely -- a 

ship elongating imaginably.

Sure, 

If I wanted your pussy, I could say

that's it, right there, oh yeah, 

baby. 

Maybe 

it's time to admit that I've never been

more than a little bit impressed, 

meaning -- hey now, please don't 

believe me further than advisable --

it all comes down to a working man's 

pay. I have no interest 

in luxuries like you; 

they aren't 

my kin. 

Alive together

There are things that move
with certainty of darkness
under cover, under grime &
betrodden in bowels of cold
war water, grieved out pines
& the demarcation of what is
right & what couldn't be acc-
urately seen to be felt.
Yes, I have thought about the
rest of the world before and
I know that I will never be
a king. That's okay--I'm al-
ready a Main, all I ever need
is right here in my veins, &
we are here, alive together.

The Dirty Park / The First Boy

In the dirt park the boys would be at war with one another. In the mornings they'd awake and make each other lunch; usually tadpoles followed whatever could be dug out of the mud; perhaps cuttlefish.

Late-morning found them at the cinema, where they'd tug each other's heart strings and ask toward each other questions that were never -- and never will be -- answered.

At any rate, Raul was petrified. The evening meeting with the lizard was most unexpected; he wondered if he had done something wrong in the factory. Everything had been going so well! He had produced his alotted amount of sand this month; He was looking forward to attending the Aragon concert with his spider friends. Afterward he was to brunch at Charlie's (the castle, naturally).

When there weren't pebbles, there were unicorns; but only once in a while, as with the moon-melt, did the goblins begin their restive screeds. "Acorns aren't for eating," one would read, in the corner, angrily, but all the passers-by did not listen. They did not hear. They could not speak. There are no words for beginning. Anew.

Slits like spiders (think silk-road, Jack!)
are aghast bright-orange
& trumpets or containers of field
like the more rapaport
the morose apathetic crystal wear
sleeves of now-forgotten buzzers
and Kanamycin resistant bactoids
factoids and igneous white languid hues
Langston Hughes, revisited.

What are all these containers for?
I have already abandoned my feldspar
for something more sporting: a cleanly
knit wool garment that reminds me of
a sallow sloped out coroner, eating pasta
in his lower east side tenement.

Let's have a fuck party. I will bring the white teeth,
you the wine, her the cinema. CINEMA.

The cinema thieves

||| ---BRIGHT WHITE |||
   half-molested, cinema
thieves drabbled together like cobbled up
{mixed} where-do

HAIRS bright olfactory carpetting removed
like O-where do you fly, sprywar jackets or
day-glo limpid snooks. The black clackity
cracked bright cackles of jackals
and messed-out whitened stalefish.

The messed-out whitened stalefish
of that November eve
is what she remembered, what she remembered,
what she is a part of---------so like the snow
gloves she donned in handling her poor sparrow's
fetid remains.