eight twenty five two thousand fourteen
i am an airplain fifteen hundred hours and forty five minutes across soon i'll be in a city by a gland a "recyclable" stamp on my forehead a pretty fox-animal blowing sweet warm wind up the back of my legs i am a digital sailor i am a lost beast i am a misplaced saint to a towering inferno that is feeding on the guts of a sacred monument whose signs were left by the deceased and never deciphered by a living person a dead tongue i am the palm of a goodbye-waving hand i am the fist of a millionaire clutching a throbbing pencil aching to burst policy onto a document. i am permanent transient blowing away at the behest of almost any mouth concealing a knife or cache of laser pills. it could be said that i am a rubric but more accurately i am the phenomenon of light filtered through diamonds, a pile of small diamonds. the amount of time required to produce a diamond and stereoscopic sensory flow. but 2-dimensional now feels more like, whether it is or not, was/will wow overlay, looks like seeing, like looking with relaxed eyes, not flexed grip at light not heavy but tight like reality is and loose like memory is... loose or insubstantial? full like sensation is, whether was or will, compelling and glisteny made of animals and desserts molded to resemble them. mad at Mars for tarrying in Cancer. mad at the salesman with the alternative pitch and the glad goose you introduced yourself to before boarding the plane. planing the board in shop class
eight twenty six two thousand fourteen sixteen hundred hours and two minutes in one plain are plan or pain in error laps in ire deep grabbing strokes hand-loads of aether, remember?
pull tire why is the cigarette bent? chemical danger in tubes at least get it straight. someone would hide face in the exaggerated flap of a 28' moth only good for exposing the deprived roots of an ornate agreement. and a dog would lead them out to the smell of gangrenous double-talk. cross streets and meaty early handshakes that seem metallic; hands intrusive paws resembling religious weapons, smiles that caw a reverberant caw across an empty urban shaft.
an echo that may be eventuality's mocking sneer bouncing off each tile each tooth like an antique piano under the cold eye of a seasoned archer PING strings pop and it is time to drink again to history, a long draw all the way, windingly, to the bottom of the shadow in the flask.
nakedly, in a glass nest a hard angular set-up for you. a place of worship if people still do that or is the glare of the mind on the back of the eye too blinding? not so much irreverence but lack of time... not so much hurriedness but an imposition of flow... not so much a lack of cool but a distortion
time place and a need for meaning when there is no need for meaning or a substituting of meaning in the place of time. if meaning could slow down or fly when you're having fun, if time could get you through a poetry reading wouldn't we all have finished school a lot sooner?
learning about changing or... being taught how to stay the same... by a corpse with a mouthpiece, a necktie and a stiff paddle. FWAP FWAP FWAP if that isn't motivation then dig a hole in the ocean and stay dry.
