alibi

in a remittent blazer - protracted back half of a trailer -
priapic as a bowling pin - 
locked in a grimace - hungry and chinless -

mercy, please

opened my windows all the way, so i am theoretically outside now. still feeling stir-crazy so i will take this time to write a short essay. in the instance that it could be said that so many of these cases for argument may bear out, then initially, one might be persuaded, but it seems wiser to weigh the outcomes against future negative feedback. negative feedback is the opposite of illumined preparation, and thus the exact same, in that when preparing in an illuminated manner, one is consuming darkness, and as illumination increases, so too does darkness, and so on in infinite proportion, and increasingly microscopic increments out to the 12th overtone, at which point human beings cease to have existed. the relationship between humans and the 12th harmonic point is one of retroactive contribution, where nascency intersects normative cosmological fruition, resulting in false memories of being an ocean, for example, or more specifically, having had been created by a fingertip or having had evolved from a lightning bolt. in the instance of discovering a fossilized dinosaur skeleton, one might be dumbstruck and beholden to posterity, but this is a naive, although inevitable reaction. credence is hard got, and especially in the 21st onward to the 27th centuries, as reality continues its lifespan-like series of changes from something crude, disgusting and not unlike a diaper to something more like the repulsive things to be found under the bed of a teenager, now incorporating strong indications of "knowing"; as reality continues "learning," it becomes increasingly difficult to lie and even harder to tell the truth. soon, it is all telling. it is all exposed. by the 23rd century, there is no real database for truth or real or facts and there is only exposure. in the 22nd century, art collaborates with pornography in an attempt to expose everything. in the 23rd century, the art-porn conglomerate absorbs science as well, rendering obsolete the concept of scientific discovery and replacing it with the idea of the scientific exposure, as though the natural world were just prudent. in the 27th century, Reality's voice begins to change and hair starts coming out everywhere. whomever still clung to the notion of History and Preservation is rounded up and offed. in fact it is difficult to write of the 27th century because the language has become so tightly constructed as to be completely unuseful, no tenses, parts of speech totally interchangeable, really a higher octave of cave-scribble. but no one lives in a cave, there is no where for a cave to be. there is no where for anything to be, there is no "where" there. can you believe that?


a prima donna in a crimson toga made a mistake and got turned into sounds. it wasnt a punishment, it was an experiment, tws n xprmt. blasted like, forse-fed 8pus suckers pulled off by bigger 8puses for treason, mollusk crucifixion of certain. lesterday, miniature juniors, globbed in syrup, porous, isolate-93567, poured into mold, made frigid, kelvins=laced up, sulking. mattresses caught all the blood, which was green turning remorseful. apologies were filed. in a room which was incinerated. links to the partners were not investigated, but youth was not given as a cause. youths got out, blinded mollusks poured into the streets tore open a cafe and gorged on patrons, impaled by dispatched limousines, hairs wrapped around the bumper, dragged back to the ocean, miles, miles, what was left. sea turtles could not be reached for comment


organic purple cloaks self-animate and emote for each other, crying down their hollow cuffs, crying ephemera, "Ephemera!"

the watched dog's tooth clean against the spine of the dictionary


uncircumcised mariachi band flailing away in an elevator or perhaps on a ski lift where the buildings and cables have vanished. songs of gurgle, songs of relentless purifying flame. for no one

false dream

 I remember being pushed in a lake
I was canoeing with Jake the Snake Roberts
earlier having had been pushed too far
on a treadmill to the brink of discomposure
in an actual cafe where I purchased all of their scones
I was alone there was a traffic cone
from the right side of it came a bear
wearing a police car flasher like a Shriner's cap.
I fell from the treadmill into a pile of scones
Jake the Snake Roberts gave the bear a high five.
I remember I was alone on the lake
I was canoeing and very much discomposed
earlier having had flashed a police car wearing a Shriner's cap
right where I fell alone into traffic.
Disco pushed out of the speaker cones in the cafe
The snake I bear on the right side,
the actual snake chased the ink snake
to the brink of a lake
the bear wearing ear rings gave me a high five
Here is what I remember, sure, one more push
Jake the police bear was alone in a cafe
I pushed a pile of canoes to the brink
of a shrine and disco was alone on the right side.
the speaker gave me a pile of ashes
and pushed me into traffic
and I was very much like a snake
earlier having had been actually chased
to a shrine by all of their members in robes
I was on a lake of embers and pus
a car fell into the canoe
no, a bear fell into the ice
and then I was one

m

the antichrist is the daughter of irrationality and sensationalism. she is the opposite of The Other, which is not The Self but Certainty. Jesus Two is The Other, faith is anything but certain. opposites are incomplete without each other, which is why we stopped having black people and white people. good can never triumph over evil, but The Self can triumph over good, evil, Certainty, The Other, faith, irrationality and sensationalism. the opposite of The Self is Death. The Self is incomplete without Death. together, The Self and Death can triumph over the aforementioned things.
opposites cannot mate, or rather, they can mate and create imaginary things. for example, The Self and Death mated and bred History whose brother is Time. Time built a house and called it God. God is not a person, God is a building, God is not the father of Jesus or Jesus Two, God did not begat anyone, God is Time's house. to be clear, Time did not begat Jesus or Jesus Two either; Jesus and Jesus Two are real, Time cannot make things real. Jesus was the product of faith plus The Self. as was Jesus Two, but by his lifetime, The Self was little more than an exhibit behind a pane of glass, and Death a nervous wreck, like the hand not amputated tying a shoe.
desire passion plot, these are sisters and brothers, still in play, although loosely contained, down feathers in a tattered pillowcase. what are people? what are people when they are asleep?
desire passion plot blood
how do vampires survive when there is no blood? they adapt, they evolve; some of them also craved other things.
desire passion plot blood gravity
some vampires eat gravity, they have black holes in their teeth and they eat your gravity. you don't belong to this planet anymore. you don't belong to Time, or to God, you don't belong to Bobbin Ramsdale or to History or your mother. you don't belong to yourself.

dream sequences

What happened? Someone painted the bridge pink; all the cars were white with streamers, clunky cans  and 'Just Married' signs, 100 honeymoon cars. A whale tried to cross the bridge but it didn't have legs to walk on. After a while it yelled something and then turned into a giant pickle. The whale was blocking all traffic, the pickle just one lane so cars started crossing again. On the other side was a giant photocopying machine. It was like maybe the photocopying machine had whooping cough, pertussis, but pulsating light was coming out instead of sound. Honeymoon cars were lapped up by an enormous strobe light tongue and pulled into a mouth that didn't look like a mouth; it looked like a photocopying machine. The lid came down on them and flat black cars fell off the side into a pile. Beyond that, the sun was setting beautifully.
Really? No, that was a dream.
* * * * *
I'm smothering a Cocker spaniel with two conjoined pillows which have arm-loops on the side to make them novelty items, decorated to look like pale Teutonic breasts, embroidered areolas, stained-on veins and sequin nipples. There is also a pouch inside which secretes a sticky white fluid. There is no reason to kill the Cocker spaniel, it is a fine dog, there are just so many of them.
We are in an inflatable raft in the middle of half a cantaloupe floating on a sea of ejaculate. Then I realize that our raft is an inflatable woman and we are sitting in the blowjob receptacle. Then I notice that the sun is a penis head. The cantaloupe is the Earth. It has been cut in half, everything destroyed. All that remains is the sea of ejaculate, the blow-up doll, the Cocker spaniels and me wearing the novelty tits.
The sea thrashes all around us. Sperm by sperm, the sea swims into the sky, violently colliding with the urethra of the sun. Then the Earth is dry. The Cocker spaniels jump off the blow-up doll and begin consuming the flesh of the cantaloupe. I kill some, maybe three or four, but there are so many. Oh, I forgot to mention that they are weirdly grapefruit-sized dogs.
Despairingly, I climb the rind of the Earth, perhaps to throw my body into the void at the top. The terrain changes as I climb. At the rim I discover long flowing hair all around the perimeter. I climb down, the hair is like rope to one my size. It becomes known that I am climbing on pubic hair. At the nadir of the outside of the cantaloupe is a vagina the size of my body. It begins to laugh at me. Its labia undulate with laughter. Instinctively, I make the decision, I make the wrong decision, to pass through the Earth's vagina, to discover, I suppose, what lies beyond. However, when I am halfway in, I somehow bump my head on the clitoris and the whole thing contracts and crushes me.
Really? No, that was a dream.
* * * * *

I have a carnivorous plant on each side of my head instead of ears. When you talk to me, they snap hungrily at your tongue. You back away and continue talking. From that distance, your words turn into white powder before they reach me so i have no idea what you are saying, cannot even read your lips through the cymatic cloud. I have very old stones in my head instead of eyes. They are magnetic but not for metal. They shine when you lie and that is when I feed. I have two throats instead of one, and I rub them together in order to speak. When I lie, my heart stops beating and that is when I can be killed so I never lie. We sleep together on a plane of cracked white clay. It is 270 miles between each tree and there is only wind to drink. When your leg touches mine in the night, I bruise immediately and warm milk begins to fill my body. Where your hair brushes my shoulder and chest I am burned and scarred. Your body is hot obsidian and when I make love it I am tanned to leather. My skin  begins to shrink as my organs are swelling. For a moment there is equilibrium and then my insides burst out, to be blown by the white wind for my ears to enjoy the meal. Beneath your obsidian skin, there is a thin layer of gold, then a thicker layer of plasma, and in the center are several maybe 14 small golden suns. They rearrange themselves and that is how you function. Through our love-making, I have managed to extinguish one. Gold becomes brown, black, ash stuck in mucous, disintegrated, absorbed, processed with a belch. Your womb is a volcano and its children are projectiles. Your children decimated the face of the moon and they eliminated all the trees near our bed. Your suns shine for no one and I am proud, even in dying, to have destroyed one. With your flat smooth body you press my remains into the ground; my color fades to white and you are gone.
* * * * *
10 tears collected in a blue-tinted contact lens, cupped in a press-on artificial fingernail, sitting on a used tea bag inside an avocado shell on the corner of a large oak desk in an office whose walls run with invisible blood. When the lightning strikes you can see it, and signs of struggle. She does have a soul somehow, she might end up in heaven. She is but a servant, like Jesus and Jesus Two. The sons of God died, the antichrist has a soul. These people are faith made flesh animated by a soul and flesh can die. Jesus was resurrected, Bobbin might go to heaven; these are the conditions of people.
The desk is warped. Not now, but one day it will be. The accumulation of salt water, the desk is going to remain in the exact same spot until it is no longer a desk and no soul-bearing passenger will have jurisdiction by then. Zap! And the desk is alone in the office. The office is alone in the building, the building alone on the block, the block alone in the city and the city floats in solitude in the pure white flash of the twinkling of an eye. In a pure white rush, down a hill, around a bend towards some source of gravity go a city and hellpless molecules of faith. Their faith is too small. What it is that they believe in and what there is to believe in, out there; the antichrist is a rash, humanity is susceptible skin. Somewhere  out there is a cancerous growth, somewhere out there is the erotic breath of a lover - heat for the back of our neck. Between  there and here, then and now is protocol, the religious trudging across oblivion.
The city is gone before the office, the forests are gone before the oak furniture. Heaven is gone before Bobbin or Jesus Two. A red-haired man, a very small man, 3 or 4 inches tall with an ax spits into his palms for grip and swings at the leg of the desk, what is left of it. His mirror image does the same. The simultaneous strike of the ax blades, like the mandibles of an ant; soon almost a thousand nearly identical red-haired axmen are working on the desk. Each has a tangible mirror image. A cloud of lumberjacks, the desk is nothing, the axmen are gone. The oak has been hacked to powder but there remains the assortment of metal knobs, screws and decorative filigree, a constellation if astrology was still observed. A pinch, a pipe, a satisfying puff of smoke and pass. "We're here because we dream. We dreamed bigger. We tried to remember everything, stored vacuum-packed in our DNA. What is called history is remembering, which is slavery. Free people's history includes events that were never remembered and those that cannot be remembered because they never happened, and dreams. We listened to dreams."
Alan, wake up.

forces

horses

porous, abnormal,

remorseless.

Osiris and Horus play footsie in the funnel cloud

the skinny part.

Martha Stewart stands in as the Lord's gynecologist,

shaves her bald with a library card.

o lord.

witchcraft

witch-hunting buncha nuts

you stink like one who swallows own shoe

a high-top in the night (piu)

pierced by a blood-soaked floating rib

sauce all on your bib

outside motors humpin' eardrums

rods'n'cones

roses'n'scones

rows of unicorn corpses with:

papal DNA under their eyelids (yes, really! look.)

mythical horses chopped down during intercourse

products of divorces

unicorns in court

cuss for custody

but give up

and die

unicorn orphans

jazzed b/c endorphins

gagged on dorsal fins

playing grab-ass with dolphins.

a merman's bestie

healthy amnesia keeps it all in the yesterdee

powurr

I need to disagree slightly with Patti Smith

people don’t have the power, people are the power.

like:

puppies are cute, puppies don’t have the cuteness.

what if puppies got their cute game together in a united front and wanted to rise up… how does a puppy get its hands on cuteness?

for one thing, puppies aren’t cute to other puppies.

puppies don’t even know what cuteness really means.

once you get hold of some cuteness, what are you supposed to do with it and who would you be doing it to, in a rise-up situation?

i think the only thing is to not be puppies, and then there is no cuteness.

to not be puppies the way we know puppies, to be puppies that aren’t cute. 

because cuteness is not the puppies’ game or realm or concept.

puppies have no cuteness, puppies are cute.

~

when i was a substitute teacher, there was a girl in my class once who was going through a notebook page after page writing her name in big cursive letters and then throwing the pages away. i feel like that notebook!
"do whatever i want" people make me really nervous.
"do whatever i want" people are always looking around for a blank notebook and i am always trying to fall between the desk and the wall.

what i was daydreaming about during the meditation was that

 space has 3 dimensions and they say time is the 4th but that time should get three also. 

'now' is like the single point. a line is made of infinite points, like Buddhist existence is supposed to be many consecutive nows, my professor said it is like cinema, many individual photographs sequenced to feel like real time and motion... that would be the second dimension of time...

and depth... 

then my head got really loud and i put the words away but it was still unpleasantly loud and then i got sleepy, i guess because it was unpleasant, and my vision got blurry and my head was still loud.

then when she was talking about people bringing things to class, hunger for example, i thought that maybe my head is always loud and that is why i have been so tired

so i was thinking that it all piles up, everything i have ever experienced is layered and compressed like prehistoric vegetation is packed into a diamond so that part of now and part of whatever we are calling the line/cinema idea is deep with all the nows and lines that never disappear... reality is hard like a diamond, but a diamond can be cut by an expert.

or, maybe this is still the second dimension of time, the plane

the third would be alternate realities and/or the future

maybe the future because maybe alternate realities would just be a different shape. maybe they look the same like Warhol's soup cans, "that looks like and is me but i am more me than that is."

so the 3rd dimension of time is the future, because it is the same but... or it is different but adjacent, the future cant be floating around apropos of nothing, it has to share a diamond line/border with our two dimensional time plane somewhere...

but then it can be whatever shape 

but all of the shapes have to correspond and form a box, the planes have to close.

is the box hollow?

what is outside the box? someone else's box...

i'm not a physicist, i just play one in this blog.

Blisters

when i focus
on a cop
and it is
time for school
you bet

in a pool there
is not room
for your suit,
burkini,
give me a bellybutton

cruising for more shadow
to the neck of a burning street -
i want more sugar on this flap
of skin i want
more eyeshadow
i want you to walk me
across the room
to the armless chair
so...

talk about how
skin-z-freniac i
can be when
i don't breathe
bloated whale
crushing ankles
who never sin

it probably seems like
i wasn't listening
but i had an ear infection
and you have a terrible voice
to listen to
because it is made of styrofoam
clap them bubbles
bull's balls in bowls