Dreary gray-
scale afternoon dreaming—
walking the city park's
grubby perimeter, wondering
of just what
sort of squalid
desecration and decay
are our fiercest newnesses made?
Some things, I'm sure,
are beyond
good and evil, but lots
of things
are not.
And there's plenty
of detritus
and rainy day junk
hanging around
here, rising to clutter
foreground
and block both concepts.
And which
is more important?
The things, or those spaces
they each take up?
Huge, mythical owls
roosting in dark trees
may very well be
not what they seem—
but I'm pretty
sure all of these shit-shiny
pigeons
gumming up the sidewalk are.
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
AMERICAN SUPERHERO
When I was younger, I always
would look
up and imagine—what
it would
feel like—to swoop
brawny and
broad winged and darkly
confident
wheels through empty
blue space,
with perfect faith
in the invisible gusts
of midwestern wind—so
fulsome they're practically
solid with the vitalizing musk
of sweet forest trees—
gliding there in silence
for as long as I wished. But
now that I'm pretty much
all grown up,
I more often look up
and wonder
whether or not
any majestic old hawks
ever fall
asleep at night
and dream
of deelevating down here
to earth, walking and
shoving into some overly
warm little car
with a shirt
and tie on—and, very slowly,
going to work.
would look
up and imagine—what
it would
feel like—to swoop
brawny and
broad winged and darkly
confident
wheels through empty
blue space,
with perfect faith
in the invisible gusts
of midwestern wind—so
fulsome they're practically
solid with the vitalizing musk
of sweet forest trees—
gliding there in silence
for as long as I wished. But
now that I'm pretty much
all grown up,
I more often look up
and wonder
whether or not
any majestic old hawks
ever fall
asleep at night
and dream
of deelevating down here
to earth, walking and
shoving into some overly
warm little car
with a shirt
and tie on—and, very slowly,
going to work.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
POST MODERN DANCE SCENARIO
Stride for stride,
you
and I
just go
walking
sometimes—
past paper mache
trees and
shoebox buildings,
often silent
for indefinite-
ly
long stretches of time;
though
not exactly.
Not really,
since—
mutual intent
and fealty
and faith
that every routine
will eventually
eat its own tail,
and an
unwavering confidence
in the indefinite,
and yet—
in the truth
that must exist
in the direction
of every single,
individual step—that
itself—
does all
the talking.
you
and I
just go
walking
sometimes—
past paper mache
trees and
shoebox buildings,
often silent
for indefinite-
ly
long stretches of time;
though
not exactly.
Not really,
since—
mutual intent
and fealty
and faith
that every routine
will eventually
eat its own tail,
and an
unwavering confidence
in the indefinite,
and yet—
in the truth
that must exist
in the direction
of every single,
individual step—that
itself—
does all
the talking.
Monday, August 28, 2017
LUKEWARM
It's true, I suppose; the best
things in life—are free.
Free, as in: cheap. Almost totally
worthless. And, as in: running
at light speed—heedless and probably
laughing—away from me.
The worst stuff, on the other hand,
usually feels really expensive;
all those gruesome weather systems
and under-performing bodily organs,
all the thick, crusty, old prejudices and
jam-packed modern expressways—
those things all move so slow
and feel so solid to me, and heavy
for their size. But then, I suppose
there's always—the death
of all of those things to consider.
And when they occur, those deaths
don't feel cheap, but they never
feel expensive either. But then, that's
the trouble with driving right
down-the-center, with pure freezing cold
and blazing heat mixing together;
the results are too perfect. Gentle speeds,
normal pressures—the wide middle lane
is so luxurious, so easy to travel,
that no one ever thinks of turning
around. No one ever even considers
interrupting the strange feeling
of no longer feeling either extreme,
never thinks of hitting reverse, of pulling
a u-turn, and coming back
where they came from—even though
of course they could, of course they could.
things in life—are free.
Free, as in: cheap. Almost totally
worthless. And, as in: running
at light speed—heedless and probably
laughing—away from me.
The worst stuff, on the other hand,
usually feels really expensive;
all those gruesome weather systems
and under-performing bodily organs,
all the thick, crusty, old prejudices and
jam-packed modern expressways—
those things all move so slow
and feel so solid to me, and heavy
for their size. But then, I suppose
there's always—the death
of all of those things to consider.
And when they occur, those deaths
don't feel cheap, but they never
feel expensive either. But then, that's
the trouble with driving right
down-the-center, with pure freezing cold
and blazing heat mixing together;
the results are too perfect. Gentle speeds,
normal pressures—the wide middle lane
is so luxurious, so easy to travel,
that no one ever thinks of turning
around. No one ever even considers
interrupting the strange feeling
of no longer feeling either extreme,
never thinks of hitting reverse, of pulling
a u-turn, and coming back
where they came from—even though
of course they could, of course they could.
Friday, August 25, 2017
DEATH WISH
Some thirty five feet
above this old sun-
blinded street—
a lean gray squirrel
bounding
across an electrical wire,
and me—down here realizing
I've never been
that sure
of anything
in my life.
Except maybe
one thing,
which, apparently—he's
never heard of.
above this old sun-
blinded street—
a lean gray squirrel
bounding
across an electrical wire,
and me—down here realizing
I've never been
that sure
of anything
in my life.
Except maybe
one thing,
which, apparently—he's
never heard of.
BREAKTHROUGH
The poem I deleted
before I wrote this one
was like the furtive intricate
folds of a rose petal—
complex in its frailty
and perfumed with allusion,
and it contained sterling answers
to all the most pressing
metaphysical questions.
But personally, now that its
destruction is finished,
I actually feel better.
I mean, I feel
superior—not to mention,
much more accomplished
than I ever did before.
Who says you can never
destroy information?
before I wrote this one
was like the furtive intricate
folds of a rose petal—
complex in its frailty
and perfumed with allusion,
and it contained sterling answers
to all the most pressing
metaphysical questions.
But personally, now that its
destruction is finished,
I actually feel better.
I mean, I feel
superior—not to mention,
much more accomplished
than I ever did before.
Who says you can never
destroy information?
Thursday, August 24, 2017
MESSAGE NOT SENT
Common grackles,
with most of their intelligent
crests of iridescent
blue consumed by stolid black,
and the starlings, gold flecked
but still greedy, it seems
from their quibbles,
for more and more light—
make for some ragged but
fitting company—prying worms
and raiding berries
under mangy catalpas.
I feel greedy too—shivering
in their shade
but feverish,
not for the simple
frivolous truth—but
for some slippery,
cornerless,
grubby certainty.
Hang dignity. And all
the hopeless symbols:
don't kiss me or smile. Don't wait,
and don't call.
Don't promise to send any
funereal flowers—I just want, somehow,
to know what you think of me
right now.
with most of their intelligent
crests of iridescent
blue consumed by stolid black,
and the starlings, gold flecked
but still greedy, it seems
from their quibbles,
for more and more light—
make for some ragged but
fitting company—prying worms
and raiding berries
under mangy catalpas.
I feel greedy too—shivering
in their shade
but feverish,
not for the simple
frivolous truth—but
for some slippery,
cornerless,
grubby certainty.
Hang dignity. And all
the hopeless symbols:
don't kiss me or smile. Don't wait,
and don't call.
Don't promise to send any
funereal flowers—I just want, somehow,
to know what you think of me
right now.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
INTENTIONAL FALLACY
A mostly pretty magnificent head
is never found—in the
clouds;
it's down
in the empty park grass, supine
on the ground,
presently
feeling gainfully defensive,
thinking—
is this the very best
daydreaming
can offer? It isn't
very relaxing
at all
to stare at those
shiftless
cumulus tumors
malingering up there;
so profuse
and indiscriminate, so rude-
ly unintentional, and so distastefully
unlimited
by the things people think
that they are
that they don't
have any respect for their own
boundaries—little wonder
that they're
barely able to keep
themselves together.
is never found—in the
clouds;
it's down
in the empty park grass, supine
on the ground,
presently
feeling gainfully defensive,
thinking—
is this the very best
daydreaming
can offer? It isn't
very relaxing
at all
to stare at those
shiftless
cumulus tumors
malingering up there;
so profuse
and indiscriminate, so rude-
ly unintentional, and so distastefully
unlimited
by the things people think
that they are
that they don't
have any respect for their own
boundaries—little wonder
that they're
barely able to keep
themselves together.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
BAZOOKA JOE
Remember when you were
a kid, and you
really believed it
when they promised you—that
pumping some ordinary
air into your shoe soles
would somehow
grant you the power to
jump a little higher?
When you figured that
in order justify reading the comics
you had to chew the bubble gum?
It's time to stop living
inside of those sorts of comfy
parentheses now.
It's time to stop pretending,
that, one day,
you'll know how
to perfectly remember tomorrow
from the day after—
like it was yesterday.
Recall how—you couldn't just swallow
that toothache, just like
you can't outgrow
all of your shells
from inside them. Step confidently
barefoot—out onto hot pavement,
sinking sand, prickly
grass; take off your sun-
glasses, dude, and look
around you—something is amiss
when the wrappers
are more valuable
then whatever the hell
fleshy stale
crap that they're wrapping.
a kid, and you
really believed it
when they promised you—that
pumping some ordinary
air into your shoe soles
would somehow
grant you the power to
jump a little higher?
When you figured that
in order justify reading the comics
you had to chew the bubble gum?
It's time to stop living
inside of those sorts of comfy
parentheses now.
It's time to stop pretending,
that, one day,
you'll know how
to perfectly remember tomorrow
from the day after—
like it was yesterday.
Recall how—you couldn't just swallow
that toothache, just like
you can't outgrow
all of your shells
from inside them. Step confidently
barefoot—out onto hot pavement,
sinking sand, prickly
grass; take off your sun-
glasses, dude, and look
around you—something is amiss
when the wrappers
are more valuable
then whatever the hell
fleshy stale
crap that they're wrapping.
Monday, August 21, 2017
FABLE WITH SELF-EVIDENT MORAL
The manifest image today
is that
of the moon—
a bedraggled old thing, hard and
barren as bone,
but which is really made
of words,
bumbling in front of
and temporarily bunging-up
the colossal pouring forth
of the sun—its light,
the radiant invisible
source of
pure language.
For a time, all brilliance
wavers and wanes—
and we're left with
only
our dim understanding,
a belief
in the brute force of description;
but eventually, the last remaining
wispy sliver of light
waxes and shudders and
pours once again
warmly forth—
along with
our faith (graciously not
our belief)
in the undying
unspoken
apprehension of metaphor.
is that
of the moon—
a bedraggled old thing, hard and
barren as bone,
but which is really made
of words,
bumbling in front of
and temporarily bunging-up
the colossal pouring forth
of the sun—its light,
the radiant invisible
source of
pure language.
For a time, all brilliance
wavers and wanes—
and we're left with
only
our dim understanding,
a belief
in the brute force of description;
but eventually, the last remaining
wispy sliver of light
waxes and shudders and
pours once again
warmly forth—
along with
our faith (graciously not
our belief)
in the undying
unspoken
apprehension of metaphor.
Friday, August 18, 2017
IT'S NOT WHETHER YOU WIN OR LOSE
Hate
to break it to you, son
but Baseball
isn't real.
It's a game.
Games are fake.
Sure—a baseball itself
is a thing,
in so much as
you can hold it,
one could hit you
in the face.
And the boys in white cotton,
and the men in black and blue;
all the hot dogs and bubble gum,
all the leather and tobacco
and resin and wood—
those items
are all out there, too.
But the really,
really important stuff? RBI's,
pop flies, sac bunts?
Come
to think of it: home runs—
they just don't exist;
it's a wonder
we can even
discuss this.
Foul and fair
territory
are imaginary,
leagues
are abstractions,
salaries—theoretical.
Even the baselines,
connecting home
to first and third,
which we all think
we see clearly,
are like
the line
on a map
in a schoolbook of yours
separating, say,
Canada from America
and America from Mexico—
quixotic collective fantasies,
only
painted-on.
to break it to you, son
but Baseball
isn't real.
It's a game.
Games are fake.
Sure—a baseball itself
is a thing,
in so much as
you can hold it,
one could hit you
in the face.
And the boys in white cotton,
and the men in black and blue;
all the hot dogs and bubble gum,
all the leather and tobacco
and resin and wood—
those items
are all out there, too.
But the really,
really important stuff? RBI's,
pop flies, sac bunts?
Come
to think of it: home runs—
they just don't exist;
it's a wonder
we can even
discuss this.
Foul and fair
territory
are imaginary,
leagues
are abstractions,
salaries—theoretical.
Even the baselines,
connecting home
to first and third,
which we all think
we see clearly,
are like
the line
on a map
in a schoolbook of yours
separating, say,
Canada from America
and America from Mexico—
quixotic collective fantasies,
only
painted-on.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
INDEX
If feelings
were stones
littering huge
ancient cliffs—and
words were
the cumbersome antlers
of ferocious
dead animals—then
the first poem
on earth
was a hatchet,
chipped and chiseled
from rough
chalky flint—
and this
more recent example
is the polished
obsidian tip
of an arrow,
aimed straight
at some modern heart—which is,
basically,
a sack
full of stones.
were stones
littering huge
ancient cliffs—and
words were
the cumbersome antlers
of ferocious
dead animals—then
the first poem
on earth
was a hatchet,
chipped and chiseled
from rough
chalky flint—
and this
more recent example
is the polished
obsidian tip
of an arrow,
aimed straight
at some modern heart—which is,
basically,
a sack
full of stones.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
AFFORDANCES
This poem is my poor, honest
excuse for an airport,
since I doubt I'll ever get around
to building you a real one;
stubby runways
of instruction—in digital code, some
short bits of information, to which
I only hope
you'll give me a break
and apply a little energy. Basically:
keep flying towards the light
at constant angle A. Then, just
trust me—you'll make
it someday.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
FUNDAMENTALIST
Confession—still usually makes me
feel like a deity
to swoop in
from outside
of her own
furiously honed ontology
and to smash—
the occasional floozy
brown spider
who scuttles alone
down the edge of
my basement hallway molding—
like I'm silently teaching
the whole universe
some ineffable lesson. But gradually,
spider by spider,
it's seeming
slightly more radical—
to learn
instead of
to teach the lessons, to pivot
on that
retributive foot
and leave unseen, to become
truly invincible
right here
on the earth,
as an indispensable
broker—not of mercy, but
nonchalance.
feel like a deity
to swoop in
from outside
of her own
furiously honed ontology
and to smash—
the occasional floozy
brown spider
who scuttles alone
down the edge of
my basement hallway molding—
like I'm silently teaching
the whole universe
some ineffable lesson. But gradually,
spider by spider,
it's seeming
slightly more radical—
to learn
instead of
to teach the lessons, to pivot
on that
retributive foot
and leave unseen, to become
truly invincible
right here
on the earth,
as an indispensable
broker—not of mercy, but
nonchalance.
Monday, August 14, 2017
QUALITY CONTROL
Don't worry—real white
looks nothing like a glass
of ice cold milk,
nothing like a bleached
square of toilet paper,
nothing like some freshly
washed bed sheets,
or that special kind of
toothpaste you use;
real white
is something so pure
and true,
it would never let you
just go rubbing up against it
like that.
Real white is so good,
and so right,
it is not even like
the thin, soft light
by which you first recognized
your own face in the mirror.
In fact, real white,
real rightness,
real innocence, and the like—
those things
are much less
like light
and considerably
more like—Einstein's
equations describing it, or
like the time it takes
a cloud to rain
itself clear out of existence.
White is not even a feeling; it's
the feeling of
whichever feeling that was
slowly dissipating
once you understood—it was doing
nothing for you.
looks nothing like a glass
of ice cold milk,
nothing like a bleached
square of toilet paper,
nothing like some freshly
washed bed sheets,
or that special kind of
toothpaste you use;
real white
is something so pure
and true,
it would never let you
just go rubbing up against it
like that.
Real white is so good,
and so right,
it is not even like
the thin, soft light
by which you first recognized
your own face in the mirror.
In fact, real white,
real rightness,
real innocence, and the like—
those things
are much less
like light
and considerably
more like—Einstein's
equations describing it, or
like the time it takes
a cloud to rain
itself clear out of existence.
White is not even a feeling; it's
the feeling of
whichever feeling that was
slowly dissipating
once you understood—it was doing
nothing for you.
Friday, August 11, 2017
ON AND ON AND ON
Passion comes on loud
and sloppy and sudden, is something
that just happens—
like a six-
year-old kid's birthday party—
or the mumps.
But, at its quietest, love
comes across
much more like
fidelity—
not at all
grandstanding,
simple and slender
as a promise
when it's whispered,
something you
don't touch, but catch sidelong
glimpses of,
too steadfast
and unremarkable
to be a miracle;
like July fireflies
in the much more considerable
moments between flashes: no glitter—
or dusty dented attic boxes
a little too full of
Christmas ornaments to bother opening: no glamour.
It sounds like beautiful antique wind chimes
hung up in the distant
window of a closed shop,
smells like exotic garden flowers blooming—
at two o'clock in the morning,
when everyone's in bed and sleeping.
and sloppy and sudden, is something
that just happens—
like a six-
year-old kid's birthday party—
or the mumps.
But, at its quietest, love
comes across
much more like
fidelity—
not at all
grandstanding,
simple and slender
as a promise
when it's whispered,
something you
don't touch, but catch sidelong
glimpses of,
too steadfast
and unremarkable
to be a miracle;
like July fireflies
in the much more considerable
moments between flashes: no glitter—
or dusty dented attic boxes
a little too full of
Christmas ornaments to bother opening: no glamour.
It sounds like beautiful antique wind chimes
hung up in the distant
window of a closed shop,
smells like exotic garden flowers blooming—
at two o'clock in the morning,
when everyone's in bed and sleeping.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
LET'S PRETEND
Imagine your
relief—when you're
finally dead,
and you end
up in
heaven—a place
of infinite
harmony
and order
to which
no one can
possibly object,
where there's
no such thing
as danger—
so you don't ever
have to be
brave.
relief—when you're
finally dead,
and you end
up in
heaven—a place
of infinite
harmony
and order
to which
no one can
possibly object,
where there's
no such thing
as danger—
so you don't ever
have to be
brave.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
TELEOLOGICAL ARGUMENT
On a quest to completely
disown all my preferences,
I set to work
inventing a brand new piano—
with no sharps and
flats, no black
and no
white keys, to play fantastic
modern melodies
which would neatly upset
all expectations—
and huge heroic chords
unencumbered by such
baroque constructs
as good notes
and bad ones—
but once the thing was built,
and I finally
laid my hands on it
and discharged my first
ecumenical message,
the tone just didn't strike me
as functional
at all. The good
and the bad
were still calling out to me,
like small moans
on a breeze
from someplace
far away.
disown all my preferences,
I set to work
inventing a brand new piano—
with no sharps and
flats, no black
and no
white keys, to play fantastic
modern melodies
which would neatly upset
all expectations—
and huge heroic chords
unencumbered by such
baroque constructs
as good notes
and bad ones—
but once the thing was built,
and I finally
laid my hands on it
and discharged my first
ecumenical message,
the tone just didn't strike me
as functional
at all. The good
and the bad
were still calling out to me,
like small moans
on a breeze
from someplace
far away.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
POP SONG
Verses start
with some jottings,
notes
toward the real thing,
drawings
of something
I can't map
my mind
onto.
I guess it's all
true—
mountains are mountains,
huge
and secular;
they don't represent
distance
or fortitude—
only themselves, only
the background.
And water
is water—in an ocean,
in a toilet,
locked deep
inside a strawberry.
Speaking of which,
Love might be
well represented by
a leaf,
a grass blade,
or a grain of beach sand—
each humble,
potentially irritating
to the skin
and hardly ever
discussed
as a thing
all by itself. Which is exactly
the point,
since—when
the chorus
gets here, it'll be ripe
for how
all things
are interdependent—like ripples on the
placid reflections
of everything
else in this
lake of a universe,
and how
chord changes
now, are
a total illusion,
and how everyone—
everybody
everywhere
is exactly one,
is precisely
the same thing—especially
me.
with some jottings,
notes
toward the real thing,
drawings
of something
I can't map
my mind
onto.
I guess it's all
true—
mountains are mountains,
huge
and secular;
they don't represent
distance
or fortitude—
only themselves, only
the background.
And water
is water—in an ocean,
in a toilet,
locked deep
inside a strawberry.
Speaking of which,
Love might be
well represented by
a leaf,
a grass blade,
or a grain of beach sand—
each humble,
potentially irritating
to the skin
and hardly ever
discussed
as a thing
all by itself. Which is exactly
the point,
since—when
the chorus
gets here, it'll be ripe
for how
all things
are interdependent—like ripples on the
placid reflections
of everything
else in this
lake of a universe,
and how
chord changes
now, are
a total illusion,
and how everyone—
everybody
everywhere
is exactly one,
is precisely
the same thing—especially
me.
Monday, August 7, 2017
GRASS IS GREENER
Meanwhile, on the other side
of the hill—
the problem was
that the problem itself had vanished
since they didn't know which
questions
to ask anymore.
Instead of transparent, things were
clear. Instead of unfathomable shadows,
the whole world was filled
with an intensely blinding
luminosity. It was as if
the light was coming
from inside of everything, instead of
shining out from a star—as if it was time
itself that stood still
so the topography of the bluegreen
earth could
all the more easily bend
and curve around it,
until—there no longer was
any "hill"
or any "until"—
or, for that matter, any such
thing
as a "was."
of the hill—
the problem was
that the problem itself had vanished
since they didn't know which
questions
to ask anymore.
Instead of transparent, things were
clear. Instead of unfathomable shadows,
the whole world was filled
with an intensely blinding
luminosity. It was as if
the light was coming
from inside of everything, instead of
shining out from a star—as if it was time
itself that stood still
so the topography of the bluegreen
earth could
all the more easily bend
and curve around it,
until—there no longer was
any "hill"
or any "until"—
or, for that matter, any such
thing
as a "was."
Friday, August 4, 2017
WHAT A NIGHTMARE
Suddenly, your dream is
not a dream
any longer;
the prophetic image
that forms—is no image
in itself,
but a cold, empty glass
through which
many other images become focused;
and you see
it now—
this whole world
was made
for them,
for the swallowed,
the poisoned,
for the drowned,
and the bent-
low—
all the dead
live on
as
information—
permanent,
as words
and shapes and
colors and numbers,
as theory—
as imaginary
multiples
of fishes
and cloned
chunks of
old bread loaf—
impervious
as forever,
right here,
in the heads
of the temporarily-
living.
not a dream
any longer;
the prophetic image
that forms—is no image
in itself,
but a cold, empty glass
through which
many other images become focused;
and you see
it now—
this whole world
was made
for them,
for the swallowed,
the poisoned,
for the drowned,
and the bent-
low—
all the dead
live on
as
information—
permanent,
as words
and shapes and
colors and numbers,
as theory—
as imaginary
multiples
of fishes
and cloned
chunks of
old bread loaf—
impervious
as forever,
right here,
in the heads
of the temporarily-
living.
Thursday, August 3, 2017
CONFESSION IN CHEVRON
Correction—
there's no such thing
as good days;
only these
fluke electro-
magnetically galvanized ones—
where the black waves
of anger
come evenly
spaced
across the blank-white
forever of obsolescence,
and they
all line-up straight—and nicely
face a more upright
direction.
there's no such thing
as good days;
only these
fluke electro-
magnetically galvanized ones—
where the black waves
of anger
come evenly
spaced
across the blank-white
forever of obsolescence,
and they
all line-up straight—and nicely
face a more upright
direction.
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
Like apprentice sooth-
sayers, we usually go looking
into every little
anemic puddle
until we see
the truth—not
in any of our
warped reflections, but
in what
we've been doing:
closing our eyes,
to lies,
and to
evil—and tragedy
and violence,
and grief
and seeing
absolutely nothing—might be
a relief;
or it might signal
the most consummate
torment
of hell.
But after
a while, opening them
and seeing
those familiar
demons again—that
is the most
exhilarating
kind
of salvation.
sayers, we usually go looking
into every little
anemic puddle
until we see
the truth—not
in any of our
warped reflections, but
in what
we've been doing:
closing our eyes,
to lies,
and to
evil—and tragedy
and violence,
and grief
and seeing
absolutely nothing—might be
a relief;
or it might signal
the most consummate
torment
of hell.
But after
a while, opening them
and seeing
those familiar
demons again—that
is the most
exhilarating
kind
of salvation.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
SPLASHY
To the poor-
in-spirit, still trafficking
everyday, still hustling
the street to shovel
and channel away the slush
of the mundane—your motorcade
is just plain
inconvenient. I mean,
It's a stalemate, it's disintegration.
It's a sheer waste
of resources. It must be
difficult for you
to hear this—but
the past and and future
don't share the same
lane very easily. And anyway, your life
was never this deliberate
a procession;
if anything it was a shambling,
idiotic river,
an impossible spectacle
which ended
right where it began: in a font
of babbling words—a coy misapprehension, which
yet always seemed to surge,
acidic and inverted, backward
down the throats
of every present moment
and down, without
gravity, toward
the bladder—and its pitch black
ocean of unlistenable music.
in-spirit, still trafficking
everyday, still hustling
the street to shovel
and channel away the slush
of the mundane—your motorcade
is just plain
inconvenient. I mean,
It's a stalemate, it's disintegration.
It's a sheer waste
of resources. It must be
difficult for you
to hear this—but
the past and and future
don't share the same
lane very easily. And anyway, your life
was never this deliberate
a procession;
if anything it was a shambling,
idiotic river,
an impossible spectacle
which ended
right where it began: in a font
of babbling words—a coy misapprehension, which
yet always seemed to surge,
acidic and inverted, backward
down the throats
of every present moment
and down, without
gravity, toward
the bladder—and its pitch black
ocean of unlistenable music.
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