huxk
Ωyou odd if that was id
a violet wafy, hinging on a weird floatilla
a Ísß favorite sun
in the onion bun
a way over heat
candid repeat
Ç¥korroes, o'klok
¯¿¯ maybe your hat is missing
guns
¨Á¨ˆÁˇ‰‰‰‰
smoley face
i
$›>NYCE
nyce people with eyes that claws
people with claws that eyes don't want
below the surface of the mouth
phone hand yes?
from dream land
did you have to answer?
∆˙ÔÓÒ
hut
hot krongle
©®¥
Ø
|»\«|»/«|
|»/«|»\«|
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Sunday, August 31, 2014
music 4 airports
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
an almond is a lot more like a rock than a mouse is
the sun bakes
my turkey black
my friend
in a thick sweater
electric knives
in a locked cabinet
and giblets giblets giblets giblets giblets
z. when i go out
z. drowsy
z. my toes are cold
i. because i am going to die
p. too
when i sit down
in a wooden box
when they pour wine over my head
look at the bumps all over my body
do you think i am healthier for you?
what did your father say?
pieces of an orchid
cut into flexible segments
vibrating in hands.z.hands.z.hands.z.
an orchestra
or a corked corpuscle
a blunderbuss full of blouse buttons
heavens forbid we've ice in our culottes
on such a warm day
a shrinking nimbus
a shark with an alcoholic brother
doing time for eating
the ring off a decomposing finger
in the sun
everyone was watching
my turkey black
my friend
in a thick sweater
electric knives
in a locked cabinet
and giblets giblets giblets giblets giblets
z. when i go out
z. drowsy
z. my toes are cold
i. because i am going to die
p. too
when i sit down
in a wooden box
when they pour wine over my head
look at the bumps all over my body
do you think i am healthier for you?
what did your father say?
pieces of an orchid
cut into flexible segments
vibrating in hands.z.hands.z.hands.z.
an orchestra
or a corked corpuscle
a blunderbuss full of blouse buttons
a piglet picking up pitchforks with a pitchfork
a friend
and a rude woman golfer's divotsheavens forbid we've ice in our culottes
on such a warm day
a shrinking nimbus
a shark with an alcoholic brother
doing time for eating
the ring off a decomposing finger
in the sun
everyone was watching
Sunday, April 13, 2014
E.E. Cummings
from No Thanks 1935
23
he does not have to feel because he thinks
(the thoughts of others,be it understood)
he does not have to think because he knows
(that anything bad is which you think good)
because he knows,he cannot understand
(why Jones don't pay me what he knows he owes)
because he cannot understand,he drinks
(and he drinks and he drinks and he drinks and)
not bald. (Coughs.) Two pale slippery small eyes
balanced upon one broken babypout
(pretty teeth wander into which and out
of) Live, dost Thou contain a marvel than
this death named Smith less strange?
23
he does not have to feel because he thinks
(the thoughts of others,be it understood)
he does not have to think because he knows
(that anything bad is which you think good)
because he knows,he cannot understand
(why Jones don't pay me what he knows he owes)
because he cannot understand,he drinks
(and he drinks and he drinks and he drinks and)
not bald. (Coughs.) Two pale slippery small eyes
balanced upon one broken babypout
(pretty teeth wander into which and out
of) Live, dost Thou contain a marvel than
this death named Smith less strange?
Married and lies
afraid; aggressive and:American
Monday, March 17, 2014
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
stuff about time
Who cares what the hand of
fate is doing?
For while in it, the fingers
are invisible but felt ghosts
Whispering and pinching on
necks
Prodding the habitual
clusters in the brains
Slamming doors in the night
The arm of fate lying heavy
and dead
As a bag of sand
Across my calloused hymen
These are things I will never
get to remember
Branches of my self pruned
So that I may grow strong in
a line
With a twist or two of free
will for aesthetic sensibility
Yes, the hand of fate is the
extremity of a gardener
Perhaps the clippings of you
constitute dreams and death?
Moderate minister to get new colors courage
Accumulating a range of living actual laters
Strings to now vascular karmic hermitage
Open the broad side the edge the crack in the
pillow
And wedge your hair in transmit via drainage
What time did in you
this road goes under the ocean
between Oakland California and Aukland New Zeland
and all roads are one road-time
in a far field...
where your car can't go-
when your shoes fall apart
you are out of time
space is antagonistic to
industrialized rubber?
time is right here always
but we don't have to be
time is a fire and
intelligence is its fuel
keep time
keep time
keep it
keep it
keep
keep...
keep it where?
in a space?
out of time and into the space
where everyone keeps their time
shards of time
lodged in discarded hearts
evidence of new hearts
made of local mud and plastic
and call the geo-genesis "Roots"
progress
regress
egress
digress
dysgress
congress
this road goes under the ocean
between Oakland California and Aukland New Zeland
and all roads are one road-time
in a far field...
where your car can't go-
when your shoes fall apart
you are out of time
space is antagonistic to
industrialized rubber?
time is right here always
but we don't have to be
time is a fire and
intelligence is its fuel
keep time
keep time
keep it
keep it
keep
keep...
keep it where?
in a space?
out of time and into the space
where everyone keeps their time
shards of time
lodged in discarded hearts
evidence of new hearts
made of local mud and plastic
and call the geo-genesis "Roots"
progress
regress
egress
digress
dysgress
congress
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)