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satanicdoctor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFUzvbkEvRk

Jul 7, 2012 at 1:49am

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idiot saint.

March 29, 2012 at 8:38pm



“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.”

—William Blake

Requited peace
And beauty haunt this place.

There is another one
Just like it, between
The Pacific and the Atlantic
—A little island of hoarse tranquility,

The crack of bugs and
The sift of grass, echo
Violently across the thicket across the colors
Separating—firmament—with acquiescent lines
That blind

But it is not the same,
No—not the same. The figures
Figures of dark inflections
—The voice of a thing in the dark—
A bit of cowering in that voice,
Throaty, and amountless, so that
In your dreams, for you are dreaming now,
In the night of this, the voice
Breathes, as if it had no choice. It
—Immediately disappears into
Chasms. At the first blink of the day,
You remember nothing of the voice,
And carry on.

And, you see the beauty—again—
On this little island of the X. And fathoms
Cooperate with fathoms, if you

Just saw the jangle of the cocoanuts,
And the carpet of the impassive sea . . .

I do not like to use
The word Beauty.
It is the only thing that implies
What we already know concretely—
What use is it???? If such an island
As that which, by the calculations
Of our pretty GOD tears apart all apart the supple stasis
—Of my vision, nightly, bleeds
The soft milk from my eye
In saturated white, until the Bulb
Is transparent, and the iris starved
I could get my car

And drive to the place
Of requited peace, of
Peace in knowing that peace
Would come, in time,
And in knowing this,
I knew peace also.

I approach the Beast
Who grunts, and spits
Fire—and I set my sword
Within him. Defeated, he staggers off
In a puzzle of movement

ARGUMENT: There is a place where pure beauty is where life is and where the peace the peace that one had sacrificed for the sake of the WORLD just for being alive, in that WORLD—is reciprocated—and, given back to that person: just by being alive: one celebrates the plenty of the EARTH just by being alive and the EARTH is grateful and in its turn allows the unnamable to be named—and—you find out, that—Christ—the answer dwells in the beauty of yur living . . . had always been there, in yur living.

There is another place just like it, between two oceans, it is in neither ocean, it is a small bit of rock, it is an island that is loud with the sound of flora, and fauna—of insects, and trees—and, yet, there is something daunting in the sound, something freaky, and, yet, the sunset redeems the sound, which hence bleeds into the freaky, fractured light of the sky, becoming a tranquil drone . . .
But it is not the same place and there
Is no such peace there—at least—any
Such peace as would be humanly recognizable
Hahaha it is recognizable but at a distance and
Myself and some vague other we find that
We are expected to lend peace—by way of
Keeping intact whatever peace might still
Resemble and retain immensely in the fantasy of
Inadequate metaphors—we find out
That we are to lend peace the same
Basic elements of something that is
To be seen by the human eye and the
Human eye only and at a distance only
Hmmmmm perhaps I am too spiritually
Farsighted: I am too spiritually farsighted:
I discover this—that is—what I had written
Nine words back, and by now what I had
Just written has been written many many
Many more words back from that
Particular number and and and—
So, yeah—so yeah. I discover this
And find out that by the time I make
The discovery—well, shit—I have already
Traveled long and hard in my searching for
It from the old, adolescent platitudes, fueled
By a thrusting fire forward from what I thought
To be an explosive injustice—and—what seemed
More staggering at the time, that time of my youth—
What seemed more staggering was this eerie suspicion
Of being aware of a fucking joke, existing—like an ether—
Around you, clinging to you, balking from an expression
Of its name from its own lips to you each day so that even
If you were to decide to turn back, it would not matter—as
It is that in my case, I have arrived—have arrived, already,
Before you, I have won, I have arrived at either the wrong
Place or the right place which strewn platitudes like so
Much confetti could not ever satisfy much less with
A location that only now I realize cannot be come
Upon and that peace that peace it hangs in the
Air around my want. It warms me—now—it
Warms, it warms with the heat of a distant,
Absurdist fact: this is the fact: it is the fact

That I am too close to the vision of that peace
For it to be useful to me—I am as I said, too
Spiritually farsighted—and I find out inevitably
And as tho almost to confirm the needling of this
My own infinite sadness that this peace is no sort of
Peace to rightly feel without knowing it—as well—as
Something marred: something that is marred—forever—
By a long, habitual stirring in the mind for that mind to
Address personal troubles, and, well, dude: they are my
Own gaddamned troubles, dude, so, yeah, don’t bother
To fucking help me . . . I said fuck off, you!!!! So, then—
Now that that is out of the way—I address certain
Troubles I guess and also I throw up my hands. I
Address them . . . I address each mistake that, really,
Was only a mistake because I have been too weak in
My youth my youth which floated on and on by ways
Of a private, lurking logic appareled yes appareled
In all the flourish of ceremony hahaha and well you
Know I might as well take an account of most failures
Out of the number that I have weaved thru . . . without
Permanent injury. I have been unable to quell what
Is still an inadequate seism—even now—I feel the
Quake of passions and have been unable—as well—
To mature, to get over my own selfishness enuff
To refuse an easy opportunity to benefit myself
And uhm you know I have been oblivious—as
Well—too oblivious, regarding the effect of
My decisions in general. In other words,
The effect of his own giant choices,
On others—others who are close
Or closer to me, or a me—choices,
The effect of giant choices speak
And persuade him to block out
What he would be doing to
Those whom I care for in
Making this an obliviousness

To all that is a reality and a handicap,
A handicap that is so severe as to raise
Questions, amongst friends: something
That could be accurately classified as an
Affliction is realized, in me—and—I see
The man, the former owner of a house—
Some house, somewhere—the man is
In the house. The man, he is in the
Basement of the house, now:
Right now: he is scanning over
Each one of his own troubles and
Each one of them is different from
Mine and what is fascinating is that
Each one deviates from what I would
Expect to make sense in terms of my
Own private appraisal of this man who,
Indeed, had once lived like a monster
In his house, his own house—really—you
Know it is not so much that I ruminate on
All the different types of troubles that the
One may have, and abruptly envision this
WORLD as diverse: it is more that the way

In which things are diverse is and will
Always seem a little surprising, to me,
So, in turn, it will be offputting—to be

Honest—it is very much offputting: when
It happens, it makes me uncomfortable,
And, yet: well, yeah: it happens frequently

—And, well—it is fucking offputting, ok????
That’s all I’m gonna say. Really, I cannot
Stress this point enuff—that’s all I’m gonna

Say—because, well, yeah, I guess this feeling
Of discomfort is what keeps me going, and it
Is what keeps me moving forward and away





From suffering and the suffering it manages
To emerge with the majesty of bubbles and
The bubbles emerge from the lagoon

Anticipating elaboration on a joke out
Of many of the immortal joker who
Then might hear himself laughing

At his own humor, and he would hear
In the rasp of the sound of his laugh
A cadence resembling coughing
Crows coughing and so yeah so

Yeah the damned murky water tempts
From the deeps an obscured, and—as yet
Unnamed chaos—a second coming of the

Mass beneath, from the surface of a bizarre
Lagoon where water lingers and grows stagnant:
And, then, one would expect to feel that stiffening
Of small hairs on the neck, seemingly by obligation
But in reality an instinctual response to feelings of

Fear: then: the mass beneath—a hideous,
Radioactive monster—comes from out the
Depths of bizarre lagoon, once more—after

You had destroyed it—similar to a phoenix,
Really, in the nature of the cycle rather than
In physical resemblance resemblance in terms

Of both what a phoenix looks like and in how
It reanimates hahaha because destruction only
Feeds the monster, and fuller, again—these

Beastly troubles of mine—the troubles of the
WORLD. The thing is that how I react to something
Surprising—like all of what I just wrote, among other
Things—usually ends up being a much less surprising
And so then infinitely more appropriate reaction to the the
The spontaneity. Like most things, or, like nothing at
All, depending on whether or not you are able to find
Truth in the concept of entropy, well, perhaps,
Humanity as a species is contained—locked,
Almost—in a jail of a will. This will is a will to
Instate thru an adequate appropriation of tools,
Personal tools to be used for one and another to
Communicate their own, personal martyrdom
Sensations inspired to be used. A will is
Somewhere in the mind, and this will is
The feeling of a concentrated rush of
Desire for something new that makes
More sense and in more ways than what
Had made sense before what had just been
And even what is, what is and all of it all of
This will be and is happily promulgated
Throughout—nonetheless—what the
Other had just done is beyond
Surprising: it is a consciously
Occurring spontaneity that makes
Itself out to be unconscious and also
Naturally occurring. It happens for a moment,
And finishes itself—completely—in a space of time, and,
Well, the space of time, the space of time is between two points,
And the points, the points if you must know are in a pair, however—
This pair of locations—since any point that you should care to chart
On a graph is a location—these two points they are so close
Together that they might as well be fused: in this
Rapidity is the surprise, really, since I am
Barely able to discern what had just
Happened to me you we him anyway and


So yeah so something far
Within skews out interesting
Voltage: more timid, yielding,
Active perfections, indeed,
That promptly shrivel up
In the exposure—and—I
Disregard the event whilst
New confusions ring out old
Confusions, confusions I thought
I had cleared up already and well
Well well each surprise that that
Other responds to that other with-
-Is a strikingly imaginative
Difference, and, yet, ends
Up being more predictable
Than what had caused the
Reaction—and so on—and,
Then, I feel pretty barren—I
Guess—more, it is my own
Imagination that feels
Barren, and limited,
Because—afterwards—I
Was not able to react to a
Shocking deviation, in a
Way equally shocking,
And, yet, how that
Other reacts to me
Is blander still, and,
Well, I suppose you
Could say that the
Troubles of the other—
Well—you see, the troubles
Of that other will always have some new prolepsis in their backpocket: the latest surprise, just for you: so, then—the one—existing at present and strictly in relation to another, is waiting, and will most likely continue to wait until the one begins to hurriedly stock up on what courage he can—as tho in preparation for war—and, the one—well, what about him???? Well, uh, he is kind of pitiful to be honest, which, in a way, is comical, because his cause is so very grand. This nervous, shaking, thinner one—out of the two—of which, the one is one part and the other, the other part, are—both him and that other—views of him (who?) that are, indeed, legitimate perceptions of an opposite pole, that—tho they violently contrast—are both equally legitimate, because they are both representations of a private, nestled sensibility and both the other and the one see the sensibility as true because, indeed, sensibilities—most of the time—are true, and, yet, are true only because they are privatized, and relate strongly to that self that is behind whatever actions the one or perhaps the other might devote themselves to push into an explosion, that—unfortunately—manipulates whatever personal sensibility I might choose to have, for either. A WORLD of truth exists in the mind of that one, though, because that one is the embodiment of what the other is, while thinking himself to be himself—and—the other, he is who neither of them are. Moving on! I want to whip out provocation like a dangerous knife and quickly from the ass of jeans enjoin a greater abstraction to the knife and and and I will be dedicated instinctually to a difference in the magic between me and the troubles of that other, who, now, right now, observes his past: it is an incompletion: his past is incomplete and hellish and yet stoked to life by troubles troubles that he observes with a poised, contemplative brooding—and, I find: his brooding, well, it is somewhat like mine: it is of one who looks and looks and continues to look at an old, dusty collection of something quaint and easy on the eyes, something that once—perhaps—he had enjoyed collecting an amount of—when he was younger, and, yet—even then, he was already at a point in life that before he knew it had hauled him far out past that youth of his and and and also he enjoyed looking at them, he really enjoyed looking at the one thing that he had collected an amount of for periods of time when he was younger. This is a phenomenon, like most other hobbies—it is a phenomenon, because, it is always an aim in itself: zero work is involved in a hobby, I reckon—I mean, I guess it depends on the hobby—however, overall, personal interests are always voluntary. Moreover, they are spasms of an opinion regarding something known amongst certain circles, perhaps—as a good—indeed, as a good—as constructive—moreover, as healthy, mostly, he wants to plumb enjoyable feelings immediately, feelings like that are good I guess and among them are things like admiration and awe and overall a sense of value in ownership, such as an ownership one might have of baseball cards: stuff amassed in a phalanx of black attachés: sadly, they get left behind, when the owner—whoever he was, that beautiful fool—loses interest, and decides casually and without forethought to banish a few things to the basement: things that would at least have to appear to him as things with purposes no longer tolerated as purposes if the respective item could not under scrutiny be linked much less be linked off the cuff and in under two minutes to whatever use of which that item would purport to be a correct embodiment and even the things that were taking up a little too much space, he guessed, would have to go. So, in order for him the original owner to really consider taking anything anywhere . . . well, yeah, well, fuck, these, in reality—loose—and, yet, to the owner carefully and also prudently mediated rules successfully extricated from the unfull parts of a complex dialogue in his head would have to and did sort themselves out in his head in quite literally a splitsecond and it was a splitsecond argument and the argument was located in his mind and his mind in sensing a conflict of interest between the left and right hemispheres would begin to suddenly wonder how wise it is—you know—how wise it is, leaving shit all over the floor and all over the place, sometimes it is so bad that he swears he feels an epic weight weigh down on all his brief, and—after awhile—discarded passions. The discarded passions are on the floor, then—and—all of that, taken together with his own fears of inadequacy that never allay—not even somewhat—all of this, well, fuck it, he slowly feels all of this: crunching, crunching, crunching on his SOUL. Ha! Hm. He unconsciously transposes from this wrong place—perhaps—perhaps to somewhere where he cannot feel the crunch in his chest that in six months the doctors would identify as a heart murmur and he does not yet know that this will eventually lead to heart disease and yet he harnesses the pain, really: he transposes the feel of the crunch to inanimate things . . . all of this fucking shit . . . everywhere . . . in a mess, on the floor, in his own, damned house: his house is a confinement. The whole damned house is getting sucked into a black hole, he thinks—imagine it—it were as tho finally the owner and the angsty emptiness in him had become so massive in him as to make it seem like all of that stupid shit on the floor could implode everything—could split the beams of houses to splinters. Eventually, he allows the junk to pile up. He is always way too lazy, and will do it later. Even more junk accumulates . . . you were always kind of a packrat, you fucking slob!!!!! This is a purging of junk, this poem: one hemisphere of the brain is all for it, and, so, then, the other hemisphere is not at all for it. Willed by an unconscious need to break thru the clutter the man inevitably grabs two boxes for whatever he can find first . . . what is this? He asks this question with no real awe or admiration or whatever in his voice however there aren’t many men who don’t care, at least a little, about a past that once was their reality, and—in this case—this man who once owned the house, was, indeed, amused—after all, his SOUL is not a clod: he thinks: holy shit . . . heheheh . . . jeez, where did these come from???? He smiles, and, well, the smile is crooked: it is crooked, yes, because his attention is divided between various points of focus: stimuli: he is not focused on his jaw—enuff—to even it out, and, so, then, as a result, the stiff upper lip finally relaxes its stiffness (this man had taken so long to cultivate stiffness) and the muscles in his jaw go lax—enuff—to turn it all crooked, and, he views those old baseball cards—huh—forgot I still had these, really, he says, to himself, I suppose I’ll just stock them up in the basement for now and—I guess—sell them, at some point? Seems logical. So, yeah, the years pass . . . eventually the owner of all of the baseball cards in question goes off to live somewhere else, yeah, so, someone buys the house—some dude. On one of his first days there in the house this dude journeys for the first time downstairs to his new basement. He is still busy with moving, and is kind of stressed—tho—he puts discomfort in the back of his mind, for now—the man, the new owner of the house—we are speaking of him, this time—had been unpacking the remaining boxes and luggage, and, shit, there’s still boxes left to unpack upstairs, he kept thinking. For all intensive purposes, he had planned to unpack them—days ago—even tho he did not write down anywhere to do this and even tho he almost forgets the chore—completely—still, he ends up not forgetting to do that shit: he is not forgetful, and, well—we—that is, all of us, I think, possess good humor enuff to find solace in knowing that at least this man, this man at forty with no wife and no life, at least, we know him to keep—if not his appointments with others—then, at least, those appointments he makes with himself. So then the man so yeah he decides to get an early start—decides to wake up at seven—looks thru the window at his front yard, which—he notices—is saturated in the hard rains of a yesterday a yesterday that has already slipped his mind. His own concept of time seemed to be working against him: time seemed to him enclosed in a veil of mist: he thinks to himself: I feel like my brain is wearing sunglasses—wait, no, more like, I feel as tho my brain were constantly exposed to the elements . . . or something. An image flashed thru his head, then: a moment of rain, heard soft—then, hard—against his bedroom window, during the night. This image relaxed him a bit, it is, indeed, a relaxing image, for you—and, he realized that he had been clenching his ass—because, he wasn’t anymore—and things felt different around that area, he supposed. So, the man, he goes straight to the basement, straight to work, without having breakfast, ambitious fellow—he hasn’t had time to go out and get groceries yet, anyway, and, in point of fact, does not regularly eat breakfast—so, then, it was no matter—he was in no rush, was he now?????? No words, all action: just do the deed. So, he gets started: he ends up finding fifteen volumes of something like soggy baseball cards, and some stamps. Strange. Weeks after that, in quite a different state—and after examining more comprehensively the contents of what apparently the previous owner of this house had left for him to have—the man realizes, then, that, before the storm, and, unknowingly—and, for a straight three days—he had been sitting on a treasure trove: and, yet, ah, shit, he is too late, you see: cumulatively, the man, this man, who bought the house from its previous owner is now of the opinion—tho, most of his opinions, like mine—indeed—are things even now unable to divine a consistency for very long before creating something wrong about themselves . . . anyways: the man in his forties with no wife and no life is of the present opinion that all of what the owner had left behind, when taken together, would have snagged him upwards of $80,000 . . . had it not as was mentioned rained quite hard the night before—flooding the basement—and, effectively destroying the goods, which, again, he only discovered after somesuch destruction: the boxes when the man discovered them, were labeled—miscellaneous—hah! Pretty funny, how things work out, people are so frail . . . moving on, or, rather, back, way back to the beginning of all this—that is—the part in the story, when I talked about how I scanned my own troubles as like one who might scan the sopping dregs of a lost fortune with an elegant, poised brooding . . . wet cardboard, fixed in his hands: moving on: it is unlikely that I will simultaneously know and understand—while doing the scanning—that, in addressing them—them, being my troubles—by shamelessly bringing all the nastiness of my troubles to the forefront—and, in any way, at all—in addressing my problems consciously I would be revealing to myself how useless it would be to find a solution, since all this ends up being an internal pattern of give and take that approaches something, like this: that is, a sort of brutality, in dwelling on such things and yet being unable to change them: I can’t get over it: it is a kind of brutal, senseless masochism—heh—to be honest, I can never even be sure—after attaining a solution—that what I had solved would end up actually being beneficial, to me, in the longrun: it would be—instead—a sick, ailing peace, an ailing peace that folds, innocently, innocuously—like, for example, this paper napkin, this napkin daintily/innocently positioned on yur lap—folding over each emotion: it is like wind: it is elusive as a wind that is a tiding of change: prodigious feelings—they will change, yet again—and, tho the metaphor is done with, I’ll just add this: that is, I am adding, at present, a similar, unrealized peace to the peace that by this time I assume we already have garnered and taken advantage of, and, emotion—shit—it folds like an evil fucking paper napkin over every feeling, but barely. It is an evil quelling that I can only ably use to detach myself from life: personal troubles might arise, yes, and do arise, and, yet, I would only and too simply detach from them. Doing this—ultimately—would, indeed, detach all that I am from all of life, since, in this totality, in the stating of a series of random/peculiar/haunting/related ultimatums, in this and this only is an honest feeling of hardship: any totality is a hardship, really, which proves that any hardship I have gone thru is pretty much one out of many that provoke to string dirtiness thru the dripping darkness of his home—that is—my home, my solitary home, which, as I think of it—now—for the first time, manages to assuage the pain and the solitude—living alone in a whitewashed room. A red lightbulb is fixed at the center of the ceiling of the room and turns on without a switch to shed light on the red room that in being any sort of enclosure will intensify the pain of the solitude of being without a home for the room to be in, and, this intensity is a more dangerous product of the pain—that is—of hardship: that is, the fantastic oblivion of a dreamless sleep before waking up in the wrong place and the place is wrong because it is known only as a result, that is, the result of a peculiar/haunting/related ultimatum, spoken as a challenge and so then put to the test, a test that whoever spoke, in the first place, failed . . . I crash . . . and, I fall upwards from where I would find the sense in it—that is—in life, once gravity turns around—and we—everybody—flies off the planet, into the sun: that’s it: what peace I have received so far upon arriving at this wrong place with a companion—who I am only now mentioning again and who will seemingly disappear from focus until I mention him again, again, and, yet, I will only do this so that I can properly destroy him—anyways—what peace I have received at this wrong place, an island, a wrong and sinister island, is—I have come to realize—naught. Void. Phooey. It is nothing, but a pleasant—tho temporary—salve. Troubles exist, yu see, and, then, new ones do: for example, there is this trouble I have about repeating myself: yu see, when I do truly decide to make something into an idea, I commit myself utterly to an effort towards finding something in something that I have already rummaged thru to look for, and found: something, indeed, that I had had in the giant bag—before coming to this wicked place—this wrong place. I now rummage, yet again: I rummage, like a delirious maniac, thru the big, giant bag: I pluck with ease some kinda scary new idea, I guess, and—deliriously—I stand squat in the center of my own balance, for the first time. With my feet apart and my head tilting upwards, I outstretch my left arm and wield meaning like a magnificent sword speckled on the handle with white diamonds and rubies of such a density of color—scarlet color—as to possess, if only one could so regard the transparent shine of the angles of the white diamonds, or the deep reds and deep greens of rubies that are too much a part of this image of a sword that I am not even describing fully, fuck, well, then . . . one might, considering this logic of rubies and diamonds and whatnot, well, one might just throw up their hands—if they are bold—and, you know, give up: give up what might have been possessed: one feels the need to go sit at a stump in the forest and contemplate shit: if the one wishes, he could then regard and continue to regard everything and all that is before him—with amazement—because for so long he had not contemplated a thing but in a language of figurative abstractions . . . so has it been laid out like a wrinkled, soiled sheet over the bed you wake up in. This garbage is for the reader, in words: the pleasurably odd landscape of a mind that is glutted with sensations of reality, which—now that I think about it—are more like outbursts of a clarity that is only clear because it deviates a lot and for the first time and in the most unexpected way from your/my/his own organic set of principles, organically sprung from the marasmus: there is barrenness here—in this wrong place—I feel it, as well, comrade: a perfectly barren thought exists, and that thought is the only tool I have to search for meaning, which, actually, is a thought that has not necessarily lost the ability to be clear—but, instead—no ability was ever there, at all. To be clear, however, I would suppose that this barren landscape is a relatively good example of pathos: it is easy to imagine that one would appreciate the tragedy of the struggle a struggle to mimic the feeling of clarity, in words, because, quite literally, that is the extent of yur abilities—that is—my abilities, and, well, shit, it’s kind of strange how there are so many sentences out there that unknowingly contain useless words, words that shouldn’t have made the cut: sometimes: well: at least, in terms of my own, personal quest for knowledge, I find it strange. But, what is this clarity, and what shall it become, with time????? You are afraid. You (I’m sticking with you, this time around) go somewhere deep and deep and way too deep within, because, well, uhm—any emotion, demonstrated—no, no, no: let us say, any emotive power is powerful because it is a mixture of differences, and so then toys around with the possibility that it is both the means and ends, and, this makes me think that, well, most hybrid things consume themselves while being able to produce—from nothing—a successfully communicated stubbornness: an aversion, indeed, to this disproportionate landscape of the mind . . . that tho I write it down will dwell still in the unity of something magical that gives us all in words what is blessed upon that other, in myself—myself—who cannot take into account his own awareness and, so, then, cannot digest an emotion of power—so that, I see the potential in tapping it, in tapping the emotion, and, yet—I cannot tap it—as it is not in me that the emotion of power sees the accord of itself but, rather—for some reason—it is able to deconstruct the unity I would have possessed. Nonetheless. I cannot tap it, and, it goes way down more than it should within, and gets stuck . . . left to starve and die beneath the pressure of the guts of that more surprising other, in me: ah, comrade: you initiate the demise of what has already been made clear, and—suddenly—the landscape of the mind becomes an impatient dissecting by me of that figurative corps of shadow, and emotion—in my bowels—this time. It is a dissecting of that which has unknowingly wasted a reality that is without proper scale or any perceivable arc. Awareness would then possess and so then know as full the power of a deepness resembling in scarlet and white and green a color that one might be compelled to phrase out and phrase eloquently—in words—as the blear of a disconnect as passionate as a shrouding of the conceit: a manifold passion of the self, and, the multiple tubes of that self that are confined beautifully and wrongly within some kinda weird idea are what one would define as some sorta magnificent sword: a weapon that I shall offer to the sky: the beautiful idea, made object: this idea is an idea, that, if I were to get beyond the problem of repeating myself would still never exist as a physical form—enuff—to be solemnly, tastefully eschewed—by me—to the dominant sky. It is an idea that I grab out from a great, big bag, and sacrifice. Beforehand, I keep it somewhere safe and yet hidden. Things such as this bag, this package—where I keep all of my ideas—should not be tucked away behind the bushes, and left there: they would grow, yes. However, whatever they grow into will always be a terrible, terrible obfuscation of the bloom from whatever seed of clarity that had been, before the seed was an idea. This implies safety, I guess—safety that is filled all the way to the top of the glass of an imaginative solipsism. I commit myself to an effort and the effort is in trying over and over again to fathom what I had written before, which means that the content is still preoccupied with some statement I had already made and which, most likely, needs fixing: the frequency with which my mind forces me to recollect each problem and/or each flaw of self or mind or of content or style—well—such frequency, rapidity, in itself, would present possible problems: I do not solve them: so, then—that is—now, they linger: they linger in the back of the mind and spoil. However: solitude, quietude, restfulness: most of what is there, that is, in this wrong place, is good, and is the good stuff: it is the right stuff, partly. I suppose I should be thankful for any experience of peace at all, and, well, I suppose I am happy with this nice brand of peace that I have ended up with. I just wish I didn’t have to live in this place—this wrong island—in order to feel somesuch peace: don't worry, KATIE: and, well, truly: I am not trying to be too much of a stupid wiener, yu know: for example: I will not hand to you like dollars an obtuse remark that for no seeming reason other than perhaps to annoy is stated in a voice that curls up and out the throat in a lilt like some kinda chipper tho disappointingly optimistic inflection. To clarify: I will not hand with my hand such a remark—as was just elaborated upon—to anyone, and, in such a way I will not hand like strange dollars remarks to yu, since, indeed, yu are one out of that theoretical anyone. Especially yu—out of anyone—would know and thoroughly know that optimistic remarks are strange dollars!!!! Especially yu would know, that—each and every second—I spout out and desperately a fresh one out of the many shapes of my optimism—anyways—in the hopes that whoever listens, might fight me: I do it in spite of myself: I do it, I try to be happy around other people, you see, and, because they know me . . . and, because they understand that I possess somewhere within a darker, danker malignancy . . . well, then, whatever happiness I try to spread to others ultimately typifies to those others an urgent need to get real, and, shit, I knew, I just knew that those two words would be on yur mind—get real—are, indeed, on yur mind, constantly. What is on my mind constantly is what I just said, because it doesn’t relate the original idea back to an image of hands as a form of communication—even tho this piece is so dense that yu probably have forgotten all about that, by now. Then again, I’ve been editing this shit for so long that I now consider each subject that I bring up as being malformed/scattered in relation to the whole, no matter what part of the piece I happen to be editing, at the time. This is due to the fact that the way I am editing this is, itself, scattered: in that, I edit different areas at different times, and this gives to the idea of an emotional formlessness that pursues variable meanings all the way out from the end of concrete ideas to the primordial beginning of abstractions and well yeah so you know and I know that you could take this awareness for what it is—if yu wanted—or dismiss everything here as irremediably worn out by my own sadistic compulsion to insert nonsense. In point of strange fact I find myself inserting nonsense, yes, but, usually, at that point when things are most seemingly perfect, to me: to clarify, again, but regarding something different: perfection is not in my work, it is rather a matter of what I force myself to be satisfied with. This lack of a connection between ideas is a flaw of content in this particular piece—however—sometimes a lack of connection can be good, if the two thoughts violently contrast: moving on: I am moving on however I am moving on without a link between what I have just said, about what I said: the statement on the verge of being written now starts with a profanity: shit, well, I'd say that I do not share with others what no one would want me to share with them, and I share what I gauge to be what other people enjoy receiving, and, yet, all positive thinking: thinking, regarding shit, this shit that is on the floor is merely the mask of a parable unearthed and found to be new, to be new and something organized, and, it is organized, these are organized thoughts, upbeat thinking that is sustained, and, yet, you do not like it, because all this crap, right here, all this crap on the fucking floor cannot be one image—together—it is not meant to be the image for what I believe to be my own strict and also unrelenting optimism. No image of anything or anyone could ride the wave of a single emotion, for very long, much less if that emotion were sustained solely on upbeat thinking, which, really, is the type of thinking that feeds the muse, whether yu wish to throw aside the romantic ideal of suffering for art, or not: wow, that would be mad fucking hard: that is, a story without a conflict: to focus on the utter reality of circumstances, rather than explain how those circumstances came to pass, and how that passing had and has so far affected ghostly people who, at present, inhabit the given circumstance, as tho for a time. This, indeed, is true, as it is that it would not be a circumstance if it was not fleeting: kind of like a period of something, but, more on that, later: really, it is composing a paradise out of words: the story of a paradise that is, yet, captivating: whoa, whoa: that would be mad fucking hard: could one remain upbeat, and, even at the worst of times look not to the GOD that the WORLD knows, but to the GOD that nestles inna corner, freezing its ass off, waiting to be discovered—and, eventually—taken someplace warm, to be cared for????? You see, this declared optimism, repeated in different words for the feeling—declarations, which I am outlining for you at present—such a large and vocal optimism, such a wealth in the scribe of feelings, of happiness, and all that traverses that shade between what I had never, in this piece, highlighted as an opposite pole to an alien, disproportionate happiness borders on an emancipated, popping indulgence that pops and snaps and crackles in the receiving ear—that is—when the ecstasy of being is shared with those who do not have it in them to feel, most of the time. Yes, it is shared by a given person: a person who is ecstatic and yet is in no way selfish in sharing whatever good news he feels obligated to share. This is only because—in most cases—that person who is indulgent in his ecstasy wants everyone else to feel that way . . . or perhaps optimism is the lifeblood of the personality of someone, anyone, and I know that when people have discarded those notions, those fanciful notions, those notions of hope and of eternity in hope . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness and to suddenly uncover the fact that what was endless was merely a feeling out of many on the strata, which, indeed, is an element in life that does not so much dictate the placement of emotional levels as it does level each arbitrary hue . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness is to level it out of arbitrariness enuff to keep the hue unaware at least of whatever impracticalities might emerge from the bold move. Think of it as something no longer a color: a hue, instead: a single endlessness of color. Heh. This hypothesis had to me at first partial merit—to me, at least, and, at first, mostly likely, this particular idea would not be considered by me as an option without peevish feelings, rising up: the feeling that I am being indulgent in my execution—that is—whenever I decide to indulge my happiness I would at least be able, then, to feel that way about it. If I attempted to put to practice my words, in life—in an attempt to be happy—I would at first feel peevish, and, perhaps, continue to feel that way, and, perhaps, nothing would come of it, and I would continue to feel fucking peevish as hell and I would consequently give up on accomplishing anything, at all—thinking, instead, to engage in a shapeless acting upon of a given, generic circumstance of arriving wrongly at the wrong island which, to my chagrin, would end up being an execution anyway: this would happen, possibly, and if it did would prove the existence of that idea of endlessness, regarding the layered mind of one who senses what he feels. However, we know that in life one will end up engaging—maybe, without even knowing it—in an unsuccessful execution of this rule. This works, indeed, but sporadically, and, most of the time, properly—without results—besides in the spirit of the experience of trying, which, to me, is a newer execution of life—since it is that we are talking about life and how it is executed—a newer, fresher execution, an execution that I dispel thru words: the words, here they are: they elaborate upon the leftovers of an optimism that must be there and in a succinct way, a way that must be succinct since the situation is fraught enuff, already: the situation, if yu haven’t already figured it out, has to do with arriving at the wrong place, and, yet, being content with where yu are: I reflected on this, after writing it down, and, suddenly, a difference of opinion—between myself, and all the rotten WORLD—became apparent to me. I guess it had something to do with what I perceived when I perceived all of this shit, on the floor: I knew then finally and with regret how happiness seemed and seems still to be an indulgent thing, and therein lies the difference—as it was that I did not learn anything—even as I struggled to prove to myself that I did learn something, or have, since the beginning of this ARGUMENT. At least, when one is in that wrong place, they can see it as wrong—or do they???? So, then, this piece is wrong, because, well, shit, I haven’t learned anything from it, at least, not yet, however, optimism, when expressed in the place where the one had been before leaving to come here, leaving, yes, only to fucking arrive completely afterwards at a place confined within a strange island barely described with details, at all—however—regarding optimism, raw feeling is there, is there and is enuff of itself to be there—so that the feeling can be pictured in heads, even if the island remains a possibility: an image to be reached, no, an image to be striven towards: an enigmatic, throbbing happiness that occurs and occurs all for the sake that something good might be found in situations—otherwise—why would you be happy to begin with?????? Whoever bothers to be optimistic about something that is wrong is really just conniving lostness itself beyond any ability to be found, or—rather—it is apprehended: what is wrong is apprehended, yes, like a criminal of the mind. Hah! Yu could relate anything to the mind and have it resonate, which is fascinating: in this case, I am that Pollyanna of the mind: I am the harbinger of all good news ever to be communicated by one to another, and, while one lifts the feelings of that other up by expressing whatever happiness is communicated between them by that one, that one who follows forward from the response of the other to an answer hopefully continuing a pattern initiated previously—well—while one lifts the feelings of that other up, that other, well, fuck it, he has gone off somewhere deep into this metaphor—he who had come along for the ride and is now regretting it. However, he says nothing, and crossing his arms hunches against a surface a surface to be defined at a later period, fuck it—a period—rather than a time, or a moment, since, indeed, somesuch period implies more than a moment. Moreover, a period implies that those collected moments, however much more an amount of themselves they may be—stand out, somehow, from the others, whether in the fashion by which time shifts thru the—so far—endless thrall of seconds shuffling like chump change between the giant hands of homeless GODS for liquor—the good stuff—this time, LARRY, let’s get the good stuff, gaddamn, isn’t it HALLOWEEN or something, LARRY???? Anyway, the period in question could be what I just said, which I now forget, and will not bother to repeat. It could be that. Or, indeed—and this is more important a function of a period—that is, what stands out could be what is contained within the very seconds I shall lift from that other: I shall rear that stress over onto my bony back and so then feel in me and madly an impressionable kind of doubt that is quite impressionable because it is so easily seduced by the equivocal reasons for a thing to happen, and, this thing inspires pessimism that—paradoxically—is selfish, because it makes others feel bad, even tho yu are the one who is suffering. Pessimism is an affliction of the SOUL I guess—you see???? So, uh, yeah, hope is there, as it is always there—telling people this information is not necessarily helpful. First of all, everything is always there, in front of you: the WORLD, however, is somewhere vague and liminal, snared in a pull towards the anticipated feeling: never the feeling felt at the time, instead, my own futurity becomes known to me, and, well, I disregard the other who had accompanied me to this wrong island—this possible island—I remove him from all of this because he is not me and I do not like him very much: anyways: I scope out my future while trying not to be seen by it, as if my future were something conscious . . . which makes sense, as it is that I will be conscious during my future, since my future is an abstraction yet to become a reality of conscious frames: tallies, tallies of the ultimate period that sum up together into a consciousness that now builds further out of nothing, since, well, shit, everything is already huddled together against the cold of a VOID that in reality is a continuance, and all of it is together in a lump sum, and, I look in secrecy at the lump sum of my future: I am like a PEEPINGTOM who regards thru the window across the way his own, silly self, this time, but himself as someone who looks different from him. He feels—nonetheless—a furious mutuality between himself and his future, and carefully studies his future, only to find that in studying it his future becomes what he is experiencing at present. So, then, because he is the audience to his own life, an extra layer is introduced, which means pretty much that nothing has changed: he is merely embodying his awareness. As I expand on this metaphor I realize that I am unsure as to whether my future is really who I am looking at: perhaps it is the man who is looking: ah, shit, this doesn’t really work, does it: he sees himself like an audience would the actor: someone, someone in an apartment across the way who yet feels his vitality as much as he feels the vitality of that someone—who—as he extends his vision to encapsulate what is beyond his window—much as what is behind it—regards with bizarre feelings this human who slowly undresses, unfocused, wrapped all casual in the heat of the mundane: the beautifully mindless, daily functioning: good, human work. He, that is, me—not sure why I keep switching pronouns—observes my futurity, lasciviously. Like a dog!!!! Indeed, what will happen in my life seems to me as like some heaving though peremptory importance professed by an oracle with white eyes. Dismay, pessimism, and doubt hide out until the aftermath—because—tho, one may know his future and yet they do not know how they will feel about it, and, by the time the shock of a brief happening invades, that feeling is made apparent in yur consciousness. A need is emerging. I switch tenses often in the first draft, ah, so what???? It speaks to my own concept of time, I guess, fractured language is all I know, so, then, a need must emerge, a need, the need to be happy with lukewarm representations of a philosophy without strong examples. So, then, people either get pissed and ask you what you are talking about, or absently smile, or awkwardly smile—or smile, insincerely, and all of these are just ways to feign interest. There are even people who will wig out completely after you mutter something—anything positive. Just so you know—and, this is going way back in the piece—I believe that any sort of response one could make, in terms of whatever had been said before, must come completely after rather than immediately after, since, really, time is an object that we are unable to see, and, no object is able to be immediate—unless, yur being creative with it—which is a different and ultimately longer story: I will tell the story: the story is about meaning—and—the meaning is then chafed, completely, after I bring it up, since no lamentation is there for what I am unable to uncover. Why is no lamentation there???? By all accounts any change is lamentable, since something must always be lost in the transition. So, the meaning escapes—as I am unable to explain myself—ah, shit, well, at least I’m calling myself out on it—tho, it is kind of cheap to make up for flaws in logic, simply by saying they are there, and pointing them out. What does that do, and, what purpose does it serve???? If you, reader, can answer this question, then you have figured out why awareness, at a larger scale—at a human scale—is important. This discovery, eventually, will lead back to a reason for why things change, and, then, everything is a consummate circle of relations, and, indeed, this will make you happy, at first—positive reinforcement, and whatnot—but, you know what, I’m gonna cut this idea short, because I want to get back to that type of person who goes nuts when yu—that is, me—tries/try to be positive/optimistic. You see, whoever goes nuts will often stop going nuts at an imbalanced time. When this happens, it seems like the whole thing was an act that that person was not devoted enuff to to wrap up. People are insincere, I guess, but, mostly, just really indifferent, indifferent and preoccupied, and, that final straw on the camel's back ends up breaking its spine—and—the situation of the camel is lamentable because the camel is a metaphor and this metaphor did not even want to be a part of all of this. In fact, it isn’t even that powerful a symbol because it is a cliché that I guess I was trying to reinvent and so then make seem new while at the same time formulating formulations that are merely implications—oh, all this weight that I myself must now bear in suddenly being without an other!—because, of course, the camel is aware of itself, and yet it is fixed, is static, is twodimensional: merely, awareness is there for the sake that I might stoke the fire of my own, and—at present—diminishing optimism, regarding awareness and regarding how important it actually is to such a mind as mine. I will now take the aforesaid doubt in diminishing embers and stoke the embers mercilessly into a brave, intractable flame that flickers. Flickering Flame. I have just done this, ah, too bad, yu missed it—it was crazy!!!! The flame I stoked was crazy and also very big!!!!! Huh? Wait, what the fuck am I saying? I’ll just continue, like I always do, sadly: Moreover, it is crucial for yu to recognize that whatever physical being I bring up will inevitably become conscious of its existence, upon induction into the charade: this grandiloquent satire on the good sense—logic—Christ, you know, I wonder: what has logic ever done for me?????? I mean, get real: at some point—I think—yur sense of generosity towards and patience with logic is cut in half, just like the blue wire, except, you weren't sposed to cut the blue wire . . . so the bomb explodes!!!! Boom. I could map out the entirety of yur development as a human, or as merely a natural being, and compare and contrast both of these with how I myself function, and, uhm, shit . . . all of that stuff there . . . no, wait, is it here????? Anyway, it is stuff that I hadn't rightly gotten to, yet—probably—I would realize and with a grimace a grimace that bears degraded, yellowing teeth to the immaculate WORLD—where everybody is degrading, and everybody knows that they are degrading—I would grimace hard, and suppose this: that, as a sort of denial/rejection of defense mechanisms a person might force her/himself to notice a degradation or two in themselves, as a way to rectify—or—rather, to clarify the idea of degradation as a seeming transience that in reality is concrete—it just passes thru the self too quickly to be noticed. However, the idea, the idea more than anything else remains, as it is the only thing that remains despite the clouded pride of this clouded, prideful optimism. The idea remains as like some figurative stone—thundering down throats and into stomachs—there it sits, releasing from a terrifically dangerous core a rough contagion: transmitting from that core sour and slightly indecent feelings, to you: a discomfiting sort of plague that once had been quite fresh and quite effective in destroying all sense of self—and, thus—all sense of optimism. Optimism, as a topic, is probably starting to get old, I guess, I’ll keep trying to explain it, but, fuck, the fucking explanation is plagued with doubt, and suffers—and—the stone, the figurative stone, well, the stone is a doubt out of them—out of what???? Anyways: it is a stone that has yet to be digested, and—hopefully—expelled, thru the proper anatomical orifice. Hah! It is only by the good work of an inflating and deflating bosom that you are able to live—so, then—yu stop breathing, and become obnoxious. That life, that is, the life of an unnamable specter . . . I am using the specter as an example, you see—and, at present—the unnamable specters featureless and howling for the good works, they have yet to be finished—which is why it is foolish to bully other people a lot—and harshly. When it starts to hurt, they know, for sure, that, for a little while, for just a little while, someone else—and it could be anyone, even though most likely anyone will always have a reason to be pissed off at what is unnamable in their life, since that name is something with no need to be pulled up to the HEAVENS by underwear by the bully with tattoos of things you would expect to be tattooed on the biceps of one who consistently shaves his head, as a matter of course—for just a little while that idiot would be king. I am sure he made this choice a long time ago, in order to perpetuate a style of toughness: toughness: the impenetrable hardness of brick, and, the mind of the specter—the conceit of the bully—that mind, well, it is a brick. It is a brick because it is solid and hard and, ultimately, useless, unless there is an amount of them—stacked and meshed between hardened cement into the form of a building, this building with all of this shit in it: yes: all of this is actually shitty crap that is on the floor of each room in a building that is a large, ungainly affair—inspiring fear, in the way it looms over whoever observes it. The building is a bully: it is a bully because it is upsetting: I watch it loom like something permanent and dastardly and suffer out the vision until coming to the conclusion, that—yeah—yu can still be optimistic—I can still be optimistic—even as I observe life and all evils contained and shaking with power, in it, that is—within life—I am within life without knowing the opposite of that: this is not necessarily DEATH: I have no need to defend myself, because I see no self to defend. In this way I am able to remain without a foil—or, rather—an opposite, and, so, then, as a gawky, aimless fool. I am a fool who is chained by his own passions and nailed like a thing on the side of a house—bacon, perhaps: nailed to the side of a house, and, it is as vacant a thing as a totality: without contradictions to what in reality is an exhibited selfishness that I daily feel in distributing my optimism to countless innocents in the attempt to cure that emotional jaundice. It is as much in others as it is in me powerfully. I myself feel it, powerfully. It is the yellowing of a mind in autumn. The physical vessel in which a mind sits becomes something else, because it does not devote the diminishing space it has left to antagonism, and, so, then, is evermore real—and, well, shit—my mind is not a ghost!!!! The ghost is no bully: it learned early on how to be situated inside of yur locker, comfortably—after some howling and featureless and bareheaded specter shoved yu in there like something less than human—as tho the victimizer, by the poetics of a grand, ironic delusion imaged itself somewhere in the ghostly corridors of it’s own, halfhearted reasoning as a power a power more than yurs could be—anyways—the line of reasoning here is that someone, anyone, is always able to feel even more like complete shit than they already do. Everyday, I wait, and watch for you to smile: I say these things to yu as tho they would be the final things I said before death cuts me off with a remark. It is a remark on a feeblest existence out of those others who bully and think it all there: that is, they do not see the yellowing in the same way I do, and, so, the yellowing is not there, for them: it is they who yellow the WORLD and grow strong, sustained by the food of a belief that is felt in them, and, yet, because they are ghosts, they are detached from the feeling, which, in turn, yellows, having no proper area in which to incubate and, finally, crack open, like a shell, and, I say things, I say things and continue to say them, and, usually, the subject is what all this shit on the floor is doing there. I watch you—you fiend—in the mirror, alone, watching for it, and, it never comes but in drops of meaning on the maculate page. Finally, finally the time comes when you can't take it anymore or whatever, and I look in the mirror at yu, that is, me, and behold merely a yellowing of time that shades like a disease across a stupid face and I peer at that face and I know it as mine and yet the value in remaining as but a face to behold is obscurely squared in one single, predominant expression of optimism in knowing that the face will always be there—in front of you—will always be there and will always turn: as like a leaf, as like a spontaneous metaphor for a reality that is eternally degrading—and, thus—as with all eternal things, will exist like a generality among specifics, that is, as like an awareness aware that it is not fully aware but in knowing this very fact of truncation, truncation, that, to me, is deliberate—and—to others, it is a yellowing of the passions enuff to underwhelm the meaning in that fucking face I peer at thru eyesockets and my eyesockets are dank bulbs that recede as tho frightened by what they see and they have yet to see, and absorb—thru reflection and/or refraction—both in an ocular and spiritual sense—all that frightens them. They are sockets that recede into a malformed skull: there are two small indentations on either side of my skull, at the temples. It were as tho I had gotten stuck on my way out the nice and pearly orifice and so then had to be extricated by way of forceps clamped against both sides of my head—and—that's where we left off I think. No, no, never you mind, that wasn't where I had located the previous and foggy idea before pursuing tangents, tangents that I will go back to and read over again in an attempt to connect it all back to itself in the most interesting/outlandish way possible, which is basically what I do, in order to portray a WORLD of disparities as a WORLD of intense connections that for the most part are not recognized, because they are too intensely wrought from the spontaneous, which is a factor in life that in itself is intense and, so, then, is hard to dissect, because feelings get in the way. So, instead, yu choose to be blindly optimistic, and ride on the form of a motion until more is needed to detail a conflict of the self, between what meaning out of life that that self is able to garner; that, and, more importantly, what it wishes it could garner, since whatever it could wish to have—to that self—ends up making more sense as something beneficial that could happen, at least in the yellowing context of the life of that self, looking in a mirror. Oh yeah!!!! I forgot, you grimaced upon realizing that humanity has more of an obsession with grim happenings(?), and, indeed, are sadly less involved in attaining their own sense of peace, requited peace that you feel—enuff—for the grimace to feel kind of false as soon as you shape it across the curt, pink rail of ur upper lip and the slightly fuller, darker rail of yur lower lip, which, tho it is flat as a rail is quite versatile—and—it can convey many different things, which are things that one would probably want to communicate to other people, at some point. You have given all that you can and, still, yu are received halfheartedly, by the very people you have aided in the past, and sometimes have aided, multiple times—when yu are received by those people with all the buzz and fanfare of unappetizing handouts—yu realize/accept that these are things that exist, these handouts, these are unappetizing handouts that must exist, exist to stroke the ego properly—without any major losses. This seems charitable, and, yet, you hoard all of what you treasure, in secrecy—and, like some large, disfigured rodent you scurry from the malignant crevice into public view, unabashed. It is like more nuts after you've already had three handfuls, and, you say to the guy—well—it was generous, it was lovely, but, to be honest, I really, really, really, really don't want nuts anymore. All of it is right in front of me, lain down like a picnic of useful dregs to use for various jobs around the house. It is all right there—yup—it is all in front of this goddamn, misshapen face: the arched brow, this lugging pace of a NEANDERTHAL—this emotional intelligence of a NEANDERTHAL—all of this, right in front of my face, haunted subtly at angles by bizarre tho confusing deformities. I still manage to look normally at all of this, in front of me, looking at me looking at it, indeed, and, well, all this shit that I got needs to rest there, in that spot, for a moment, it wants to rest that part of its relevance that is most relevant—but—it argues each part as equally relevant, which is true, but, I do not want all of this here for very long, because I want it somewhere else, so that I can look at all of it and paint meaningful pictures of what I see when I look. However, for now, it lies motionless and neutral as DEATH on the Spartan floor of my apartment. What all of this in front of me is is lain down like a picnic in the park—when I turned the key, and opened the door—it was there—all of this, right there, equidistant from all the rooms, so as to allow for easy access. All of this arranged pleasantly, in order, as though by somebody nice, nice. By somebody who is enraptured by the idea of that chaos out there, still yet to arrange back into a specific yet infinitely altering pattern of things, things, organized so very well that they blend in with everything else, outside of what is organized: it could be anything, no matter how garish or bulky or impractical. This happens when I try to blend all of this that is before me in with everything else and this ruins that limited sense of an order able to be wangled out. This is all right, of course, however, solitude, quietude, restfulness, are merely means to seduce one to approach, further, some harrowing prospect about one's own, tender flaws, or, in the lesser case, there are the flaws of others to speak of—flaws to defend and/or make fun of—therefore starting the process of a child into a wreck of selfhatred and percussive migraines that—more often than not— split my head clear in half, and in those cases I show my friends and family this brain of mine—split in half—and they scream with applause at the display of this remarkable ability, this ability to fissure what I once had as one thing: I am eight and three quarter years old and my brain is spilling out thru a rift and it is a deadly hole—in itself—in my poor, little head. Mommy!!!! I once yelled this very loudly: repeated this, but louder, and louder, and, she came—once—in the middle of the night. And, so, she began to sing in a frail voice various obscure lullabies and some of them were happy and some of them were kind of grim, but I liked that. She left—and—just my luck—my nightlight—the lightbulb went out in my nightlight. But, I did not want to wake up mommy again—so—I just sat there, in complete darkness, perspiring: by the end of the night I ended up being more afraid of what would come than what ended up coming, which, in general, is something that does not satisfy—in fact—I do indeed think that I lost my fear of the dark not because I grew out of it but simply because no physical harm—let alone, DEATH—nor any permutation of the aforesaid has ever come to pass—while in the dark—nothing bad has ever been the result of what ultimately is a youthful fear more powerful than mature fear because it is the first experience of fear and this fear is simply manifested in the dome and the dome only and only early on in a special way: anyway, back to my split skull: I brought my split skull to showandtell. ROLO brought a toy dinosaur and GRETCHEN brought her rock collection and I could tell that everyone was bored and and and when TEACHER called on me I went up to the front of the classroom, making sure to convey a tentative tho eager attitude that did not too much reveal how proud I was of my split skull: seemingly bewildered, almost, as I made my way past each desk—each face looking on, with disgust—some with big, old glasses that make you look all creepy and judgmental. I stood, proudly, and showed them my head, because, it was split in half—obviously—I thought It'd be a superrad idea to show people how brains work—and stuff—and, everyone was confused, and, this confusion made everyone silent, and, the silence lasted for about two seconds, and, then, everyone laughed and pointed with small, chubby fingers at me—as tho I were not human, but—instead—pure, uncut, unadulterated amusement. I existed only for other people then and have ever since existed for other people without once questioning motives that I am sure I do not have or even wish to have, if only because I am set in my ways. I do not mind this. I do not ridicule or support—well—sometimes, I ridicule. I hate people because most of them are idiots who, when speaking passionately—or, of sad things—emote just a little too much, at least, once that person realizes that they are receiving attention—and—what ends up happening is something that is as long and drawn out as an infinite nothing: the infinite nothing is directed at me: it is that other of myself that I have alluded to who speaking overly passionately wishes to show me his own infinity of mind, and feeling. I cannot understand this, as it is that I have a limited emotional stratum: extreme depression and extreme happiness—basically—and, I say that knowing that most people tend to think of bad things as happenings that should not, really, happen to them—it doesn't make sense, to them—simply because they do not wish to instate in a mind more narrow and deceiving a fresher credence to expand that mind, more narrow in being made to deceive a vessel that such credence had made strong and lush. However, things that are impossible to feel must be dealt with, at some point, as well, by the one out there who could have been excited to life were it not for a spirit of mere, mere, irregular chance, shifting the focus towards a meaning of bronze—this meaning that is not of reality—instead, and read carefully now, even tho there is no reason to—or—perhaps there is, perhaps I am about to divulge personal information, since—I guess—all this is, is a CRISIS LYRIC—the crisis being all that fucking shit on the floor, in a brick building of autumn and of misery—perhaps—I am about to divulge personal information. I already have—actually—whether you, reader, have noticed, or not: to explain any more about such things would be to repeat myself—as it is—my life, and the events that result and have resulted from its heedless direction are not big enuff to give me new ideas, anymores, perhaps, I will explain to you that I think about what meaning means: any meaning, which bleeds out a lot and into the fractured light of the multicolored sky, for the sake that you may hear a drone, a sounding character of movement that will acquiesce to this our sculpted environment—this, our titular metaphor, to come—this, our impending island of a self of wrong peace. Now, see if that drone is, if you can hear it, tranquil. Now, take that meaning and cut it down a few pegs: the meaning you have chosen believes itself and wrongly as such hot fucking shit!!!! It wields power in its hands, and, it uses it like something that you would usually use to crack open some skull—that is—the skull of a man without a past, or a future, an indentation on both sides of all . . . I am without a name or any discernible complexion, and this is why I look in the mirror so often at a person who is not me—and—he is a bully that feeds on the specific marks of my personality, until they are—wholly—without features: he wears a suit and a tie the day before his DEATH—and—it is known, to some, that a man who has his skull bashed in—and—who now lies perished and so then finally as the part of all the other inadequate shit that is on the floor could experience while he was alive brief yet utterly agonizing bouts of remorse, remorse for things that he had not yet done. So, then, a man as this would become uncomfortable when approached by those friends of his to whom he had done wrong, in his head, however, like shit and/or crap on the floor, stupid crap and/or shit that I wag my hands at, and backhandedly comment about to others in order to make those others aware of such wastefulness—well—such wrongness as the man thought he had committed was not but wrongness in his head, his head ached with a clutter of theoretical instances of inflicted pain upon people, by him—that is, this man, that is, me: an increasing generality who eventually will turn into something less than human, that is, if I am to become an idea—which is what I desire—and, yet, the idea is focused on for too long, since, well, the man does not like to be put under a fucking microscope—much less, put himself under one—understandable, yeah, understandable, anyways, if he is to become an idea, well, then—it must be a good idea—so that his elastic sense of morality strengthens into something more real than he is because it is a flaw, because morality should be a rigid, sour devotion to scruples that one has thought extensively about and has organized, properly. The thing is, the man, this man of sorts, he does end up doing—in real life—all those horrible things that he had imagined doing to others: imagined in his head, that is, and that first, as it is that one does not imagine with their elbow, or leg, or shoulder—heh—but, yeah, yu know all that already. I say it for myself, because I myself am not sure, and am in awe at the sweet assurance others possess in speaking of where, exactly, the human imagination is located . . . in the midst of doing awful things, he thinks, it is not him—no, not him—not him, who is doing all of this—to him—in point of fact, the act still has yet to be carried out, in full, he thinks: well: it is another who does them, these awful things: it is a bully of autumn existing in a reality severely wanting—without fullness—and, yet, apparently (and this should be noted as what I originally wanted to say) once he assumed that he would do them—he does them—and that while in the midst of an agony, feeding upon the good food of his mistaken sin, sin that is accomplished, anyway—and—without pleasure, the pleasure he would have felt, well, shit, it went somewhere deep within the yieldy center of this allegory . . . as it is that all this is a giant way to say something else that will only be made clear when the mallet makes contact with his head—the head of this horrible man—busting blood and power from the wound. Someone else, someone who is not the man, indeed, one who is just good—enuff—to wrangle, to wrangle and so quell to ashes all the hellish, powerful things—just for reality—well, he is a reality, much as the reality of the powerful things of life that sometimes pick up a proverbial sort of transmission signal from what seems to be the right place, and the right place is right because it is come upon—finally—tho we don't know where the place is, or even why. This place, this island between two oceans and in neither one—this place where, as I have heard, colors pretend to get all sucked in and display the imperative light of the sun in a squirming coil that coils out and drags out all the elements of the scene, presented above—just for yu—and, it is given a poetic, frilly finesse that skews that reality handed to yu—like dollars—and all the elements drag out over the sky by the will of an almost animal magnetism: the sound of flora and fauna, and of the wind, and, the light of the imperative, gigantic sun: you watch it like I watch myself, in the mirror, waiting: the sun, nestling in the eerie blazes, produces light out of an aggregate of hydrogen—blessed magma—spreading light for lifetimes across the brave, blue planet—or, it does this for as long as is deemed necessary by those hellish and powerful monstrosities of doubt that linger like tar in my chest and also they are like an unsolvable riddle, or—also—it is like a pill that has been stuck in yur throat for five hours, without budging—indeed—it does not budge from that awkward, evil angle ever even tho you have been dealing with this particular problem for five hours, and—after having a gagging fit—yu had felt like yu were gonna die—you feel this now as well as just then—a few words ago. I am seemingly content with the sun, content with its preemptive/belated functions of traveling light, and, most of all—content—regarding how rapidly those functions practice and improve together, until the light is all wires and flame, and, the day becomes a saturation of overwhelming feelings, inspired by the weather—and—the weather, it is an entity or, rather, a fact of life that remains unconscious of its affect on, well, what it affects: we speak in whispers of the weather however anyway despite what it does and do not have feelings of optimism regarding it: a downy exposure softens the scenes I have not mentioned with a film. The film goes out over all things that eyes need to see without words—without wanting words for it—and, what we see is limited to what the light of stars can achieve in illuminating, because, once we do know where a thing is—and, what the color of it is—well, then, we will inevitably have to assign yet another meaning to that thing, a meaning that is good enuff. It is not the same as what power there was before we had arrived at the supreme chance—requited—and, yet, without the ends—the ends that we needed—and, which, indeed, always satisfy—when they persist. They soon become what is needed to satisfy, while all else dissolves into a collective of subordinates—mediocre subordinates—and, suddenly, the metaphor finds itself popping up from the fucking bushes—again—to warn me of a possible threat. An armed retinue of violent objectives comes close . . . at this point in life, I believe there to be no way for me to thrust thru layers without leaving a mark on each form of my visible reality a gash a gash that splinters into smaller, more manageable wounds. I am the thief of fire. I groan at and am frustrated with the sinecures of this WOLRD—bound clerics of the SOUL—who, together, support intense and mostly wrong forms of a degeneration—that is, a degeneration of the self—by relating their SOUL to common externalities in the attempt to view them as abnormal. I guess—you know—that, well, there are things right enuff to make a monopoly out of—and, so—the sinecures, the subordinates, the low men, they instigate degenerate, wrong crimes against the self and all that the self represents: self: that is, as a word considered, now, by me, as being the word for a type of being most familiar to this my random blinking, breathing vessel, in which the self is contained like a mind. It is most influenced by optimism—obviously—because it revolves predominantly around the nucleus of one’s EGO and the EGO in turn is mostly concerned with actions that benefit the psyche and in being carried out will simultaneously charge emotion into an experience, that—as a result—continues on, as a previous action fulfilled: this fulfillment will with time summon up in that vessel ambitious feelings. These feelings—in turn—will stir up ideas that streamline on a form of endless motion, consumptive because they require intensity and intensity is one of the more consuming aspects of a life—and—life is a word with equal connotative/denotative power and and and this power stands for—as much as it stands to reject—everything and all that the word rebels against, weakly, and without results. Usurper. One day I'll grasp the sole conceit of an immortal being: any sort of responsive intelligence will do, any sort that yet does not live without also losing it, eventually: losing life, that is, or, perhaps, perhaps, its mind. I know that my mind is telling me that it wants goo. It wants a kind of supernatural goo to be carefully peeled off of this pair of sneakers: peeled off, like the sojourn, delicate piece of trash that it is, and, once—awhile back—it was not trash, and was fresh, and was fresh gum in some motherfucker's frayed pocket. The motherfucker in question sneers confusedly against an oblivion that nonetheless was clearly wrought and was the only clear thing in the mind of some motherfucker with an orange beard and he is also a sneering idiot. The sneering idiot chewed the goo into a mush before knowing that it would be beneficial to me. His ability to accomplish this is based in the fact that he had been focusing, beforehand, on how best to manipulate his own bowels. This focus on this, it clarified the oblivion he also and every day focuses and focused on since it is that focus is also a kind of absence a kind of oblivion that clarifies. The shift of his bowels: I will not tell you what shifting indicates, because, I think you already know—however—you are a being of gentle coyness, disciplined—early on—to know and simultaneously forget a given reflex, which makes it seem elusive—which is how it should be. This motherfucker, well, yeah, he decides to expel shit and the shit comes out in a consecutively occurring series of brown spheres of nearly immaculate, beautiful shit—without texture—expelled and that right soon from out the sensitive butthole of a motherfucker, some motherfucker: basically, a delicate opening within that he exposes, upon squatting to oblige the deeps of his toilet—which, is a throne of porcelain—and, it is edged at the bottom with the stains of some leaking yellowness—and—his beautiful, fat ass, the ass of a motherfucker, well, hidden somewhere within— protected, almost: a happy, winking rosebud: a small dark wrinkled mouth of a hole that puckers with each flex. The anus is somewhat like a secret within us: hmm: the anus: an anatomical necessity: an organic center, ringed with a pinkness enveloped of course by immense pale blemished globes that comprise the lordly cheeks of his fat fucking ass, the ass of a motherfucker, some motherfucker. This is a distraction of subjects. There is a tall man who breathes heavily in the waiting room, waiting—indeed—for the doctor to emerge with a diagnosis, and, so, then, he approaches the tall man, walks toward him, right now, utilizing a manner of his that he feels is communicative of friendliness and a mutual trust in one anothers’ ability to function as—at the very least—predictable associates: droll and calming in speech and gesture without a sort of insincerity that one might sense in the other that seems indicative of something withheld, something like an inflated penitence both may have towards their own, contrived array of accomplishments, contrived, that is, out of fortitude, and, of course, luck, but a luck that goes missing in the worst spots, only to abruptly lift me up—as it is that I am always talking about myself—like some sort of bright grace that thru yur own spineless capitulation ends up being the last straw: a final descent into anguish—by this time—a thing matured and evermore senseless in choosing somebody to victimize. Apply this to yourself: there is conceit in it: that is, in believing your own self as a force to be reckoned with. Laughable. In any case, folks lose track—or something—I am not even following what I am writing anymore, and, yet, it fits—also—it is inane and grandiose—and, yet—feels profoundly to me like it was ordained, commissioned, something needful that others besides the creator recognized, as such—and, yet—I fuck it up, because I say I fuck it up too much: the ARGUMENT brims over the top with shouting and yet barely fills up dry throats with the air of a voice that is the voice of an idiot saint broken down to mumbles by laughably trite, forced idiosyncrasies that—literally—obliterate whatever meaning I had originally tried, considerably, to express. So it is that I have gone on a tangent—more importantly—I have created a labyrinth, I have asked the question, and I myself will wonder about it and finally understand that all the words within this one long paragraph could follow thru, tenfold—if I let them—I could image this rhetorical paradise properly within frames, these condensed frames scattering thru an intermediate intelligence. I could imagine that, still—taken together—this is enuff of something that you or anyone would want to snug all cozy against a tree with and in the shade of the tree you feel safe. You hunker down against the textured base of the tree, thinking about inspiration. I consider my inspiration but mostly I consider my perspiration and upon considering that I move on to lassitude and begin to weigh these two things for awhile before stopping, because—well—you fall asleep: you nap like someone who wants to sleep for an extended period of time. You long for a nap before any sort of reconcilement of all this with something external that would end up being a detraction, if included: this: this is a small stage of blackness that has happened and slips still further into dreaming—now—you begin to know this idea and do not accept this idea of safety—and peace—given to the wrong place, and that in itself is a place where time is just too long and too precarious, which, indeed, is a problem. It becomes more of a problem with more ground that is covered. We search. We search in all ways and travel out there as well as back in here and still I see no island, no liminal bit of rock and brush between two oceans—and—it is in neither ocean—and—in the night, while you are sleeping, a voice whispers to you, the voice of a thing in the dark: it invades, it invades your dreams begrudgingly, as if it had no choice—as if it must haunt you. As soon as you are awake, the voice is meshed back into oblivion. You forget the voice completely in opening your eyes to silence. You wake up, and carry on with the day.

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charnel house.

March 29, 2012 at 6:33pm

There's a whole WORLD in this room. It goes
and goes, receiving the colors of a small,
chipped heaven. Or from hell some letters

To be thrown away, as bills. But: the way it
goes is how it is recieved, the room; it is

received, my thoughts are, with colors of



a florid psyche's chance at half-grace, at

a shade made whole, a synecdoche of pith

and charged with utterance: colors of the



cosmos, of the dark macho down the street,

coming, coming up to give it heaven, give

the muse my heaven and my hell, however,



still to send me letters from its grave,

indecipherable grave, scrawled with omens:

chip heaven more, the colossal illusion



says; chip the fine print of a dumb letter,

from volcanic expostulations of urgency:

the letter from her ghost, the ghost of


who she was: the girl once in my hell:
dark girl, arms at present roung her macho;

round that culled heaven, whispered back



to me as grace; that passage of the sailing
sight: that shining of the croaked life out,

that why, that ultimate, colossal why,


that letter of pain, of pain: a charnel-house,

filled with hell, the hell of sweat and rosy


that charnel-house filled w/
hookers hanging on the door,

and the door, in big letters,
giving me colors, shades,

chipped shades of heaven, the
heaven I really, realy don't

ever wanna learn from, just
make a voice out of, by the

time I can't reason rhyme out
of reason, just leave reason

as reason itself, half-created,
a macho of a point with her

now, he who grasps the street
with his hands and crumples it;

he who is with her, this girl
of a heaven learned, once learned,

once known, now never known,
again, again, so it goes on,

the fire's fueled up, the old
memory crumples in the hands

of some farcical GOD, not of
my design, not of my shade, my

gnarled angel: she who swears
not on my time of rhyme or

rhythmically goes of into some
port in air but rather goes,

goes on, and on, until I stop,
and thus she dies in heaven,

dies for all of heaven, all
of a falling innocence, all of

repetitions, lights, forgotten
elements, chaotic shit, burnt

fuckin elements; burning. Chip
it off the shoulder, you, you

belly of confusion's going on,
you utter malignancy, utter

majesty of my tender, living
guts; give you up, go walk

down the street, dammit; leave
me behind holding, cradling

my heavens that bite hostilely
at my elbow, wanting out, out

of going, out of shit, shit, shit,
all the shit of life, beautiful

and delicate as colors given
for the sake of shades, given

chipping deliberations as to
what comes after the feeling,

unanticipated, but, nobly,
going on, gone, out of this

WORLD in that room I look
out onto the street from,

seeing her, seeing macho,
seeing the street crumple

and disperse by the hands
of a dark character, a needed

malignant spook snickering in
my ears the music of a hapless

heaven's drought upon the
finding out of this the

port in air as no such port
but rather chaos, it is a

choas, chaos, falling short,
yes, of the seeming, not

seeming enough, critical,
nonsensical, and nonetheless

a withered reaction to the
macho outside of this my

head's WORLD, the WORLD of
my bad head in the room,

making synchronicity out
of horror, horror, horror.

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doors, opening doors.

March 25, 2012 at 1:35pm


Passion is a severe attachment. You could say,

Perhaps, that passion sweeps. It sweeps away
The blank dark,
And teaches us to pray, that is,
How to rage against the wind a lark.

With winsomeness, the day is blank as well . . .
And all that is my hell
Is but a prayer I forgot to make,
As night can tell-
-What left one clouded. What can . . . what can one take

From this panic of a missingness?
And will this bliss
Revolt me, give me wings to clip
And with one kiss
Dissolve my parrying flight on wind a whip?

Here is what I say: that passion can
Attach us truants to one fine demand:
Yes, one asking of of us-
-So that we hear the day, the night; the span
Of light across the wind. We trust

Ourselves to choose as fine a way to please
The day, before it darkens all the trees
With hushing hues:
The missingness of souls: the many keys
We see and understand, and yet refuse

To use to open up the locks.
And so malignant nights we pray to rocks,
To stones, that passion's morning will-
-Come again, as casual flocks
Of pigeons in a lark loft on the chill

Of ready wind: partake the kiss, pure prayer:
A litany of blankness for the spare
Feeling to chuck and dash apart;
Create what's missing for the soul to care
For, in searching through for. Art

Is laden feeling. It follows
Whatever paths it wants: wallows
Not in deep despair, no---that's to clip its wings;
Rather, knowing passion's fall, closed
Off to those who understand no things

Is like the fall of night: a blankness blank
As the wind; and yet I thank
Each day for being more existence for-
-Me to exist in. And the dank
Night heightens winds of what's in store

For me to figure, one day figure, one
Day a key, a kiss to get winds spun-
-Out to find in that a fine control of difference
Between the night and day: to jump the gun:
A havoc: chaos, made epistle since

The World made winds a way to choose
Between what pettiness, what feuds-
-You or I relent to in our love:
Our passion, our attachment is confused
By night, by darkness like a glove

To hide the hand, the hand of grimmest cause
For why we are attached: we pause
Before the day begins,
And make it night, again; we make us lost
In our---slow as wading terrapin---

Attachments, our own passions, rhythmic, lofted
By the, a, yes, higher wind: a coffin-
-Of wind to trap us in a seeming glide,
When all it is is what our hell locks in,
Unshown in us, no matter

What the keys provide.

No matter what the kiss provides: no matter
What abnormalnesses in us shatter
Tragically that former vision, each to each,
Of who the other was. The chatter
In our heads, unseen, makes one a leech

That feeds: as like wind feeds on the flight
Of sentimental birds. We do not fight,
At least, not yet,
And still I see us soon as charging swift our tight,
Wounded visions of ourselves---I bet---
With bitter judgments, rigidly; and out of spite

We'll ruin and detach, and severely
Be no more but passionless and dumb, clearly
Dumb, and meaningless as wings that fly
On airlessness, dearly
Departed one: my inner eye

Sees this, and knows no key: there is no door
To open, and yet we share not all.
And ambiguous undulations of the birds, poor
Birds of meaning on the airless wind they call:
They tell us to try anyway: perhaps the core

Of who each of us is will become, yes,
Something else, and then we both can share-
-In our attachments, passions, bony, bare.

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begin

March 23, 2012 at 2:03am

Heaven is black tonight.
The thunder
tolling in a
flash like
some weapon rendered
of nature's hell,
cryptic,
goes off haranguing in the
background. Silently-
-the big light lasts trailing
Like a thing out of hell; drums out
against blackness;
lasts, sharply in the danger-
-of a motive not
dismissed, and, yet,
still very much not
visible. Though in the faraway,
the light-
-looms brutal, obvious, as a kinda
deafening. This day it
drowns like gutter-fodder in a crummy-
-flash. This day, it
lives in my heart like
an apocalypse, desperately
wanted by the sky,
denied---the feel is
there, though: this thinking
on the nature of
emotions' endgame . . .
nature's last thoughts,
regarding the storm of living and
reverie: deceit,
undoing, thin words spoken
at the back of the
mind about a peace, stolen:
again, a thwarted feeling,
transmuted-
-with a battered panache to this,
the rapping metaphor,
this the storm's strum.

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the dachshund at the steinway. (pome a day challenge)

March 23, 2012 at 0:18am


Madame sits at the STEINWAY talking
Quietly to it as her fingers run across
The keys with a gentle, tinkling grace.

It is the grace of one who has made happiness
Her exile so as to fit more room in for
Her music; a music for meandering minds,

Yes, but meandering too much, beyond minds;
And, at last she puts her latest phrase
Of notes outside with the retentive

Dachshund, yapping his own little
Notes from patio, paws against the
Sliding door. Forever the child

Of her passions, lady X with a shaking
Of her cuffs in falbalas stretches and
Gets up, goes out of sight. We hear

Strange noises, a coughing out of
Angst. We float to a spot where the
Woman can be viewed, observed, rather,

And find, she has spilled her drink
On the weathered white shag next to
A wooden cabinet with deckings, arty

Frieze; a gift from uncle, Andrew Jackson
Something. She takes a brief gander
At the spot of wine as it soaks into

The rug. She is half who made her,
Half of uncle. Her other half is some
Devil of music: tinkling notes and

Yaps yapping. Insipid canine, she
Thinks, always a distraction, she
Thinks---taking a finger running

Across the enamel of her teeth to
Wipe off residuum from brunch,
Alone, about ten minutes ago.

Sloppy Joe on bun, it was; and,---
Sweet potato fries, with mayo
For dipping. So, she looks at the

Cabinet only to find that it has
Turned into a spacious, liminal,
Uncharted span of heaven, filled

With uncles, filled with uncles
Offering her wine but wine which never
Grew within the belly of a grape. Come,

Bacchus!, she murmurs, trailing a finger
Across the glued wainscoting, as she walks
Into a small retro-kitch kitchen. Some

Of her time for the rest of the day is
Spent forgetting about heaven, all of heaven;
About good, and evil, even beyond what either

Is. She is half who made her, evil in the
Eyes of those who made her. The spot of wine
Grows up, becomes a figure, drawls in tinklings

On the STEINWAY, waiting, waiting, waiting,
Yes, for her to coo into the night badly,
Then yell, anticipating beforehand, then

Yell into the heavens fraught with
Nightfall before lady X can think to
Anticipate anything at all, instead

Opting to be, to be in the night, just
Be, and close herself off, become the
Furniture she desires to have, be in

The Olympus of her hated happiness, while,
Listening, the dachshund blessed with
Human hands pushes open with might the

Sliding doors, tells her to quit yapping,
Takes her place on the piano-bench to
Thunk the WORLD out of a STEINWAY,

Made humanely in the image of music,
All music; the music of lady X, stained
With wine. The stain becomes a dog

Soon attenuated, gone for days without
Brunch, running his fingers of a mutant-
Metaphor far across terrific glass, and we

Are left to grieve for a thing no longer
To be observed, a figure of wine no
Longer to be observed, digested,

Hit with swirls and made like Hermes
From the genius of one mortal, one
Comrade of a tinkling thunk in the night,

One night: one night, logic will stain
No such gifts: and no such furniture
Will be for the taking by some constipated

Heaven: no gifts: for example, cabinets,
Cabinets that make all happiness an exile
For this Lady X, this madame who fears the

Phrases of a thinking gone unsaid, lost:
For the occult to sway forth with stains
With of done Olympus and of STEINWAYS

And of dachshunds plagued with
Yapping hands, the hands of summoning
Happiness out of exile, gone unheard.

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Mar 17, 2012 at 2:51pm

 

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